While the three levels seem clearly defined on paper, in practice there are rarely such crisp distinctions; many of us drift between all three, though we will spend a majority of our time operating at one level or another. For many readers, there will be a shock of joyful, excited recognition when reading about the third level—“I’ve been there!” It is the magic of connection that we experience with animals, the moments that we cannot explain or perhaps even understand, moments that only another animal person can comprehend with a knowing nod, moments that keep us coming back for more. But we may not understand that these elusive moments of connection can be more than just fleeting experience, ephemeral and unpredictable as a rainbow. The third level is not a moment but a philosophy, a way of life, an awareness of what we can create every day, in ways large and small. We can, if we direct ourselves to follow the less-traveled trail, find our way more often to this most blessed place of deep connection where the dance of two is possible.
The dance is not a result of specific techniques. It springs from a life lived according to the philosophy crafted by your heart, a philosophy that informs all you do. This cannot be achieved by bringing your awareness and effort only to those moments you call “training.” The dog is a dog, twenty-four hours a day. His world is shaped by what you say and do, not just in training sessions but in every waking moment he is with you. Incapable of dishonesty in his own communications, a master of observation, the dog not only notices what you do, but he believes what you do to be an accurate reflection of the relationship between you. The relationship—the pivotal point on which all else turns—is built (or undermined) in every interaction. There are those who recoil from this, saying “That’s too much work!” In so saying, they admit they have no desire to put so much effort and time into a relationship with a “mere” dog. But for those who have the desire, those who would dance with a dog as their partner, this reality is a welcome opportunity to use every moment with awareness and purpose.
“Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught,” Oscar Wilde wrote. No one can teach you how to dance with a dog. There are no recipes or shortcuts, no magic knotted leashes that ease the way. What this book offers are the cautionary tales of common failings and misunderstandings between man and dog. They are offered so that you need not make the same mistakes, or having already made them, you may reassure yourself that many other travelers on this road have also stumbled. The philosophy offered here is mine, but it points the way to a very real place where a dog will meet you gladly. Perhaps you can use this book to help you find your way to dance, joyfully and with heart.
4
THE QUALITY OF CONNECTION
To know someone here or there with whom you can feel there is
understanding in spite of distances or thoughts unexpressed—
that can make of this earth a garden.
GOETHE
WHEN WE ENTER INTO A RELATIONSHIP WITH A DOG or any other being, we are seeking a connection or, perhaps more accurately, what we feel as a result of this connection: comfort, love, acceptance, peace, joy. What we are seeking and striving for is a quality of connection that is—hopefully—a mutually pleasurable state, a dance of two spirits moving in agreement. Though we may be unable to articulate precisely what we seek, we recognize it when it happens. Simply stated, it feels good when it is right, and it does not feel good when things are wrong. And when it is right, it’s delightfully, incredibly, inexpressibly right. And when it’s wrong, it can be terribly, unbearably wrong. What drives us crazy at times is that even when the connection is powerful and good, we may not know just how that moment was achieved or what magical ingredients helped to create it or, sadly, why it just as mysteriously dissolves into the mundane or routine.
Because this kind of profound connection is elusive (whether we seek it with other people or with animals), we may not understand that it is not a goal or “thing” but rather a process, and a dynamic one at that. Despite the messages from advertisers that assure us that with their product (their car, soap, beer, dog food, jeans) we will be able to have the fulfilling relationships we seek, the truth is there is no particular formula by which a powerful connection may be summoned or created. In our restless searching through books and videos and seminars, we are asking for the recipe that can help us create what we know exists. Such a relationship between us and our animals is possible, though not necessarily easy, certainly not automatic. We’ve tasted it, or we’ve seen it or perhaps we’ve even just read about it—and we want more. We want a road map to There, because we’ve been there or we know others who have, and we know it’s where we want to go.
None of us deliberately sets out to create a relationship filled with conflict, frustration or disappointment. But the deep connection we seek may be missing, especially if we mistake the technicalities of dog behavior, training theories and techniques for a relationship. To find what we are seeking, we need to begin at the beginning, examining the foundation on which the entire relationship will turn: the quality of the connection itself.
Rather mechanical in nature, dog training has long been devoid of words like quality. Open most dog books and you’ll not find this word in the index. This may be due in part because in using a word like quality in the context of the dog/human relationship, we step out into murky waters. If we ask “What is quality?” we are now in deep waters indeed. Philosophers have struggled to answer this for literally thousands of years, and the jury is still out on any definitive answer because like most things that deeply matter and powerfully inform our lives, quality will not yield to a simple definition. In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig addresses the question of quality itself, a tricky concept that proves difficult to unravel and define though he tackles it from endless angles and theoretical stances. One of my favorite ideas from Pirsig’s book is this: “Quality is not a thing. It is an event.”
In other words, quality is something that happens, the result of a coming together. Pirsig poses the thought that while a sunset may be beautiful, that beauty is an event of quality within the beholder. Though splendid, the colors of the sunset are not what move us. If that were true, then each time the sun set, all of us would be moved as we are but infrequently. It is what we bring to the observation of that sunset that moves us as it does. I cannot remember with precision too many sunsets, though I have seen countless ones in my lifetime. I can remember only vaguely the pleasure of flooding my mind with such unexpected colors combined in a way unique to that time and place. I can more clearly remember one particular sun setting over the distant trees, the night breeze chilling me as it dried the sweat raised in digging my dog’s grave. That sunset moved me as the one before it or after it could not. On that evening, the setting of the day was more than just a routine moment that signaled mundane shifts such as the need to feed the horses or begin the evening meal. And it was more than my casual attention that was brought to the brilliant but brief display that all too soon disappeared, leaving only the darkness.
A CREATION OF CHOICE
Each time we interact with a dog or any other being, we have an opportunity to create an event of quality, or not. Our relationships with our dogs are dynamic, responsive to and informed by every choice we make. Each of our actions, whether intentional or inadvertent, will move us in only a few possible directions—away from or toward greater intensity of connection, or we do not move at all and remain still.
If quality is indeed an event, then in every moment, we have a choice. Relationships are not mechanical processes, though training itself is very often considered to be. Bob Bailey, a professional animal trainer who has used scientifically established principles of training to train over 140 different species, states it plainly, “Training is a mechanical skill.” The problem arises when we mistake the skill of training for the relationship itself. It is possible to have extremely good technical training skills and very little sense of rel
ationship; conversely, as millions of dog owners demonstrate daily, it is also possible to have little or no technical training skill and still have a profoundly moving relationship with an animal. Though training can be mechanical, I think it is unfortunate at best that many trainers try to reduce it to that level. We are not mixing chemicals that will react predictably; we are dealing with the intersection of two live, unique beings. We are dealing with something that is dynamic. To view training as purely mechanical is to say that the results are predictable, like gravity pulling a thrown stone to earth. But as any experienced animal person will tell you, animals are not entirely predictable, no more than we are.
If we view our dogs as organisms that will respond in certain ways provided we apply the appropriate and timely stimuli, we are stuck in a very mechanical perspective that does not allow for (because it cannot explain) the mysterious and wonderful possibilities of a deep connection. Though we enjoy the things that Newtonian physics makes possible—our automobiles, planes, bridges, homes—we must turn elsewhere to understand nonthings or processes, such as our own bodies and relationships. Whether we are trying to understand the rich interwoven biological and ecological systems that make up the planet, or to unravel the mysteries of the body/mind connection or move into deeper levels of understanding in our relationships with others, the rigid, mechanistic views based on Newtonian physics fail us. Our world is not one of simple cause and effect, but one of dynamic interactions, right down to the cells within our bodies. As Candace Pert points out in her book Molecules of Emotion, our thoughts create definable physiological shifts in our bodies; the biochemistry of the cells help to inform the shape of our thoughts. It is a seamless integration of information, so that it is impossible to say where the beginning or end of it all may lie. A relationship is also—at its core—a seamless integration of information. By the very act of choosing to be in a relationship—even casually—with another being, we open ourselves to the dynamic process of both putting forth and receiving information.
To fully embrace the idea that quality is a dynamic event that we can choose to create is both a heavy burden of responsibility and one of the greatest of all freedoms. We can push away this responsibility with a mental shrug, saying, “Well, that’s the way it is” as if life and our interactions with others are some kind of emotional weather over which we have no control or influence. Even worse, we may throw up our hands and, relative to another’s behavior, say, “That’s just the way they are!” as if we have no influence on the behavior of those around us. Both responses are as common in the dog/human relationship as in our human interactions. Either way, we are not accepting the responsibility for creating our world and are fooling ourselves that we can somehow stand apart from our life and our relationships with others. Though dog training often focuses on the dog’s behavior, it is almost impossible to separate the dog from the dog/human relationship, which in turn means that we, as part of the relationship, have responsibilities and choices to make about our own behavior. The event of quality is one that we can actively choose, every day, each time we are with our dogs.
SUNSETS IN DISNEYLAND
Pirsig’s second book, Lila: An Inquiry into Morals, takes the concept of quality a little further, defining two basic types of quality: static and dynamic. Static quality is predictable, replicable and most often involves people and things, not people and other living beings. Disneyland is an example of static quality. Deliberately set in climates that offer a high percentage of good weather, Disney’s attractions are carefully controlled to make sure that to the highest degree possible, all visitors have the same experience, at least in terms of what is presented; no one can control the internal response of any visitor. I disliked Disneyland very much but could not articulate why I found it so flat, almost sterile. Years later, when I read Pirsig’s Lila, I understood that what I objected to was precisely the static quality of the experience.
There is a tremendous attraction for many people in such static or fixed-quality experiences, as evidenced by the success of Disney and other venues, because there is value in static quality. You would have a hard time convincing the average person to pay an admittance fee to a park where they might or might not see Mickey Mouse, where there might or might not be a parade on Main Street, where rides might or might not be open. It is the static quality of the offered experience that is the attraction. People feel safe when they know what to expect, when they can reasonably predict the experience.
Static quality can be enjoyable, it can please us and make us feel good, but it has its limits. Rarely does it quicken our souls. We often accept the merely static because it requires less energy from us, requires less of us. Within the context of a relationship, an expectation or desire for static, predictable experiences can deaden us to the complex beauty of another being; at worst, such expectations are truly destructive since they do not honor or enhance the connection. For some, a dog is not a living, breathing being with needs and expectations, but something they can “have” when they want to interact with a dog. Like any living thing, dogs do not loan themselves to moments of static quality. They are not appliances or furnishings or instruments that await your need of them. A fine stereo system can provide us with superb-quality music anytime we push a button; you cannot turn a dog on or off like a radio depending on your desire at the moment, ignoring it the rest of the time. But God knows, people try.
Every dog trainer in the world can relate stories of clients who want a dog and are seeking advice as to what kind of dog they should consider. Questioned, the client reports in all sincerity that they want a dog who would happily stay home alone for eight to ten or more hours a day, never destroy anything, perfectly control his bladder and bowels, be delighted to see them and need little more than a walk around the block before settling down to keep them company. They ask, “What kind of dog should I get?” The correct answer is “A stuffed one.” For a while, the AKC had a TV commercial that posed a similar situation and answer. There might be a market, I suppose, for a canine version of escort services. You could, for instance, pick up the phone and ask for a beautiful blonde (Golden Retriever) to accompany you to a picnic in the park. Need a four-footed playmate for the kids one afternoon? Request Nanny the Newfoundland, who doubles as a lifeguard. Feeling vulnerable while your spouse is away on a trip? Rent Gunther the Guard Dog—he’s delivered, of course, only for the few hours that you actually need his services. Like any professional escort, these dogs would be impeccably groomed, well mannered and pleasant, guaranteed to provide “a quality dog/human interaction.” Once done with your need for a dog, you could return him to the Dogs on Demand office and go about your day. All the delight of a dog’s companionship but none of the responsibility. But also none of the soulful moments of dynamic authenticity. This sterile, static approach to dogs is not as far-fetched as it seems. In her book The Animal Attraction, Dr. Jonica Newby reports that in Tokyo, dogs can be rented by the hour; outside of Beijing, dog lovers unable to keep dogs can visit a special “dog farm.” In both cases, it is more the pressures of urban life and society that make dog keeping an extraordinary luxury unavailable to many, not a shallow desire to avoid the complexities of a life shared with dogs.
Dynamic quality is unpredictable, and impossible to replicate. Quite possibly, it is the uniqueness of dynamic quality that makes it so intense or meaningful for us. Moments of dynamic quality occur seemingly at random: a spectacular sunset, a red fox walking out from the woods to stand gazing into your eyes, the fairyland of a tree freshly dusted in snow, the sudden arc of a meteor across the sky. These may be dramatic moments, but there are others less dramatic but equally powerful: the sound of a child softly singing to herself, the silky feel of a dog’s ear sliding between your fingers, the warm pressure of a body curled lovingly around your own, the sweet smell of rain in the spring.
Moments of dynamic quality, moments with the potential to move our very souls, are all around us. Though unpredictable, they require only one
thing from us in order for us to experience them: We must be available. Because it resides in your response, dynamic quality is everywhere you are, if you are open to the experience, willing to seek it out, interested and alert to what is happening within and beyond yourself. Sweepstakes promoters have it all wrong: In life, you must be present to win. If we are glued to the nightly news, we will not see the sunset. We also will not be available to see our dogs or anyone else we love. We must actively seek moments of dynamic quality by being open to and aware of them, by being present in the moment, by bringing ourselves to the world and through the world. Every moment of dynamic quality is possible because of this: You are there, and you are aware. Is the gaze of a red fox any less piercing if you are not there to connect with it? Perhaps. But what is possible when your eyes connect with fox eyes is possible only with you present and aware. Potential connections are all around us, yet we sometimes march through our days without bringing our awareness to each passing moment, moving in a preset lockstep that answers not to natural rhythms or even those of our own hearts, but to some artificial, externally generated beat that we agree to and abide by. This is not without price: We miss the moments of authentic connection, the dynamic moments. Dogs remind us that the only place that dynamic quality can occur is in the moment of now.
Bones Would Rain from the Sky Page 7
