Treat Dogs Like Dogs
I was so worried that my writing spirit had been sapped!
I really think I was just sick.
I'm still feeling a bit sluggish, but I went back to work today, and it was revitalizing.
There are a lot of things about which I wanted to write, but the most recent is about animals – specifically dogs (even more specifically, Dexter, my parents' dog).
As it turns out, he's a mischievous, obnoxious dog. He is handsome and often quite agreeable; rather often, he's obnoxious. The first thought that came to mind was that he must be pretty bored. All he really does all day is eat, excrete, and sleep. It makes perfect sense that he would pester anything he can find to pester: neighbors, owners, squirrels, etc.
I once saw a doggy at an airport; he was one of the drug-sniffing doggies. I saw the officer leading him around to random parcels. That dog was so dignified! He was 100% self-controlled (it seemed) and 100% focused. He sniffed here and there like a serious worker doing a serious job. I had a lot of respect for him. I got to thinking that, to a limited extent, many of the animals (dogs at least) are pretty similar to humans. They are more whole, more content, when they have something meaningful to do.
In C.S. Lewis' novel That Hideous Strength, he said, "We are now as we ought to be – between the angels who are our elder brothers and the beasts who are our jesters, servants, and playfellows."
I shall always be suspicious of that man, for he seemed to know things beyond mortal ken. In any case, I find there to be strong truth in that statement: "The beasts … are our jesters, servants, and playfellows." When they have nothing meaningful to do, they become mischievous.
I once knew a dog whom I intermittently hated, but I so wanted to care about him since his owners cared about him so much. He was poorly behaved but mostly just degenerate. When I wanted to dislike him, I instead tried to say, "God made you, and it was good."
It's curious to me that animals used to be proper servants: watch dogs, farming animals, and other creatures who made themselves useful. Nowadays, we call them "pets" – an epithet that indicates their use is merely to be fondled or caressed. I definitely admire the animals whose jobs are to provide companionship for aggrieved people. There is much honor in merely providing comforting company to hurting hearts. It seems, however, that, most often, animals are reduced to one more form of entertainment. I think we dishonor them most of the time.
I have another excerpt from C.S. Lewis. If you are at all familiar, much of his world in the Narnia series contains intelligent, communicative animals. Susan, upon returning to Narnia, tries to converse with a bear, but the bear attacks her:
For example, how do friendly dogs treat each other? They bark, they bite, they chase, they trample, and they tackle. At the end of their escapades, they all get along, and each one knows their rank. It seems that we often treat dogs like humans: trying to converse or convince, trying to reason, trying not to hurt their sensitive, little bodies. I understand being scared to hurt the tiny chihuahuas or what have you, but, even then, dogs are hardy, little beasts.
My parents have a doberman named Dexter. He's big. He's a blockhead. They took him to a serious trainer who, in not so few words, explained that you have to be rough with dogs. Did I tell you that Dexter is a big blockhead? He likes to get up in people's business. He likes to slobber. He's slowly getting over trying to nip. He likes to bark until he gets attention. Please understand that he's a rough beast; he could have been a killing machine. You may think that the following constitutes abuse since you like to treat dogs like prim, pampered floof-babies, but suspend that falsehood if only for a moment.
There was one time when Dexter was up in my face. I scolded him to no avail. I pushed him away, and he only took it as an invitation to pester me more. I then punched him full-knuckles in the nose. He didn't even respond! After a few more full-knuckle punches to the nose, he sneezed and sauntered away as if he got bored of me.
There was another time when he was eating out of the trash. Someone else was scolding him, and he ignored the individual completely. I then booted his bottom sideways into the nearby doorframe. He meandered away as if to say, "Ohhhhhhh, thaaaaaaat's what you meant."
I have been with Dexter what most floof-baby owners would consider violent, but – from what I gather from how dogs treat dogs – I've merely been communicative.
Imagine what it would be like if somebody babied you: "Oh, sweety, please don't do that. Little shnookums should stop. Aw, you dear, little thing, mommy said no. Oh, ok. I guess little sweety-pie can do what he wants. You are the sweetest little thing on the planet, but mommy doesn't like it when you do that." That's how we treat dogs.
Humans, on the other hand, would feel much more respected if someone approached us like adults: "Mr. Smith, what you did was unprofessional. We've already spoken about this once. If I have to talk with you again about this, I'm gonna have to fine you." Obviously, it's an uncomfortable situation. However – even though it's disciplinary – it offers much more dignity to the hypothetical Mr. Smith. That's how adults treat adults. Let's respect each other.
Dogs bark, bite, chase, trample, and tackle. If you have a floof-baby yipping-machine, I'm not sure what to recommend. If you have a dog, treat the poor beast like a dog. Offer him or her some dignity.
I really think I was just sick.
I'm still feeling a bit sluggish, but I went back to work today, and it was revitalizing.
There are a lot of things about which I wanted to write, but the most recent is about animals – specifically dogs (even more specifically, Dexter, my parents' dog).
As it turns out, he's a mischievous, obnoxious dog. He is handsome and often quite agreeable; rather often, he's obnoxious. The first thought that came to mind was that he must be pretty bored. All he really does all day is eat, excrete, and sleep. It makes perfect sense that he would pester anything he can find to pester: neighbors, owners, squirrels, etc.
I once saw a doggy at an airport; he was one of the drug-sniffing doggies. I saw the officer leading him around to random parcels. That dog was so dignified! He was 100% self-controlled (it seemed) and 100% focused. He sniffed here and there like a serious worker doing a serious job. I had a lot of respect for him. I got to thinking that, to a limited extent, many of the animals (dogs at least) are pretty similar to humans. They are more whole, more content, when they have something meaningful to do.
In C.S. Lewis' novel That Hideous Strength, he said, "We are now as we ought to be – between the angels who are our elder brothers and the beasts who are our jesters, servants, and playfellows."
I shall always be suspicious of that man, for he seemed to know things beyond mortal ken. In any case, I find there to be strong truth in that statement: "The beasts … are our jesters, servants, and playfellows." When they have nothing meaningful to do, they become mischievous.
I once knew a dog whom I intermittently hated, but I so wanted to care about him since his owners cared about him so much. He was poorly behaved but mostly just degenerate. When I wanted to dislike him, I instead tried to say, "God made you, and it was good."
It's curious to me that animals used to be proper servants: watch dogs, farming animals, and other creatures who made themselves useful. Nowadays, we call them "pets" – an epithet that indicates their use is merely to be fondled or caressed. I definitely admire the animals whose jobs are to provide companionship for aggrieved people. There is much honor in merely providing comforting company to hurting hearts. It seems, however, that, most often, animals are reduced to one more form of entertainment. I think we dishonor them most of the time.
I have another excerpt from C.S. Lewis. If you are at all familiar, much of his world in the Narnia series contains intelligent, communicative animals. Susan, upon returning to Narnia, tries to converse with a bear, but the bear attacks her:
Susan Pevensie: Why wouldn't he stop?I feel sorry for many animals. I think they warrant much more respect – and I mean animal respect, not human respect. We shouldn't be dressing them up in suits and calling them sir, but we definitely shouldn't be sticking them in handbags, calling them Mr. Mugglesworth, or treating them like disposable Tamagotchis.
Trumpkin: I suspect he was hungry.
Lucy Pevensie: Thanks.
Edmund Pevensie: He was wild.
Peter Pevensie: I don't think he could talk at all.
Trumpkin: You get treated like a dumb animal long enough, that's what you become. You may find Narnia a more savage place than you remember.
For example, how do friendly dogs treat each other? They bark, they bite, they chase, they trample, and they tackle. At the end of their escapades, they all get along, and each one knows their rank. It seems that we often treat dogs like humans: trying to converse or convince, trying to reason, trying not to hurt their sensitive, little bodies. I understand being scared to hurt the tiny chihuahuas or what have you, but, even then, dogs are hardy, little beasts.
My parents have a doberman named Dexter. He's big. He's a blockhead. They took him to a serious trainer who, in not so few words, explained that you have to be rough with dogs. Did I tell you that Dexter is a big blockhead? He likes to get up in people's business. He likes to slobber. He's slowly getting over trying to nip. He likes to bark until he gets attention. Please understand that he's a rough beast; he could have been a killing machine. You may think that the following constitutes abuse since you like to treat dogs like prim, pampered floof-babies, but suspend that falsehood if only for a moment.
There was one time when Dexter was up in my face. I scolded him to no avail. I pushed him away, and he only took it as an invitation to pester me more. I then punched him full-knuckles in the nose. He didn't even respond! After a few more full-knuckle punches to the nose, he sneezed and sauntered away as if he got bored of me.
There was another time when he was eating out of the trash. Someone else was scolding him, and he ignored the individual completely. I then booted his bottom sideways into the nearby doorframe. He meandered away as if to say, "Ohhhhhhh, thaaaaaaat's what you meant."
I have been with Dexter what most floof-baby owners would consider violent, but – from what I gather from how dogs treat dogs – I've merely been communicative.
Imagine what it would be like if somebody babied you: "Oh, sweety, please don't do that. Little shnookums should stop. Aw, you dear, little thing, mommy said no. Oh, ok. I guess little sweety-pie can do what he wants. You are the sweetest little thing on the planet, but mommy doesn't like it when you do that." That's how we treat dogs.
Humans, on the other hand, would feel much more respected if someone approached us like adults: "Mr. Smith, what you did was unprofessional. We've already spoken about this once. If I have to talk with you again about this, I'm gonna have to fine you." Obviously, it's an uncomfortable situation. However – even though it's disciplinary – it offers much more dignity to the hypothetical Mr. Smith. That's how adults treat adults. Let's respect each other.
Dogs bark, bite, chase, trample, and tackle. If you have a floof-baby yipping-machine, I'm not sure what to recommend. If you have a dog, treat the poor beast like a dog. Offer him or her some dignity.
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