Trained not to be a pet
Is there anything more comforting than a wet nose stuck in your face as you bounce out of a dream? The enthusiastic wet nose of a dog who has finally discovered where you’ve been hiding for what must seem like a lifetime in the time-confused brain of the canine. I for one welcome my toothy overlord. That’s why we choose to live with a dog, for those moments that others find yucky and that we accept as signs of true love.
Hence, my confusion after meeting the new dog that shares the life of my brother-in-law. His new partner, his stalwart companion, his hound. Actually, his retriever, for the proud black beast, the lucky one, is a Labrador retriever with a higher calling. This dog retrieves.
Nothing else, it seems. The dog is on the job any time the master partner is around. Sit. Stay. Come. Turn to the right when I lift my arm. Turn to the left when I lift my (other) arm. Fetch. Wait for the second whistle.
No snuffling. No licking. No enthusiasm for new people. When you sit and lean against me and I move, remain sitting at a Tower of Pisa angle. You are at my command. Go to your kennel. No “in the livingroom at my feet” for you, you dog. You are my slave partner. What I say goes around here.
I don’t mind that a dog is obedient. The idea that when you call, the dog comes is really cool. But for a dog to never snuffle or lick or take pleasure from a new face is awful, and not in the sense of a Farley Mowat “full of awe” either. I pet my dog, and my dog pets me. Why not that one?
