Yesterday I went out for a bit of showshoeing with my dog, Payton. It was a joy for us both, since she had spent days in the kennel while we were away and it was a special time to go out. I noticed how she stopped to sniff each footprint in the snow. She followed the rabbit who had crossed the yard and rested under the shelter of our former Christmas tree before heading on to protection from the fox and hawk in the warrens to the east. Payton tracked the squirrel who jumped from the ground to the roof of the dog house which belonged to our long-gone beagles and which I relocated to the woods some years ago in the thought that some animal (if only pillbugs) might use it.
I wondered why she does this. She's not a hound, bred for hunting by scent. And she knows she's not going to get to chase the quarry. I suppose she does it for the same reason the joke says dogs do other things: "Because they can!"
When I consider the world from her point of view, I'm amazed at how different it is! The differences would seem to reflect our differing evolutionary origins. Visual acuity in dogs is 0.4 times that of people, 0.67 times that of horses, and twice that of cats. When it comes to smell, things are harder to measure, but dogs have around 220 million olfactory receptors, roughly 40 times the number found in humans. Her chemosensory world is much more alive than mine, particularly when it comes to smelling the volatile organic compounds that indicate "MEAT!"
A recent experiment documented that dogs could correctly diagnose (sniff out?) bladder cancer in urine samples 41% of the time, compared to an expected 14% if the results were random. Janice has noticed that every morning Payton smells our breath. We've decided it's her way of checking to see how we're doing. This rich sensory world also explains the embarrassing (for humans) habit dogs have of going immediately for the crotch of a newcomer in the household. It's just canine homeland security, checking the identity of the visitor!
In yesterday's reading, Barry Lopez says, "The quickest door...leads to the smallest room, by knowing the name each thing is called. The door that leads to the cathedral is marked by a hesitancy to speak at all, rather to encourage by example a sharpness of the senses. If one speaks it should only be to say, as well as one can, how wonderfully all this fits together...." I guess what I'm aiming to say is this: It's a deep privilege to share the world with another being whose experience of it is so different from my own!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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I, too, thought I would find my "Up Close and Personal" moment with my dogs, and had intentionally planned to set aside sundown, after I'd eaten and all my animals had been fed, for some time outside with my dogs, to focus on their "umwelt" (I highly recommend the book "A View from the Oak," by Herbert Kohl for more on sharing the world view of other creatures) and to share their world with them.
As usual, the animals had other ideas for me. I arrived home from work, and let the dogs out through the utility shed, so I could grab the seed for the wild bird feeders on our way out. The dogs ran out ahead of me, and, as usual, sent the song birds scattering from the feeders as we approached. The black-capped chickadees, among the smallest visitors, are also the boldest.
As I reached up for the highest feeder hanging from the lilac bough above my head, I realized that one bright little male was perched, bravely, only inches from my hand. He scolded me for not having noticed him - or, perhaps, for having let the feeder go empty in this raw chill - but he did no more than hope a fraction of an inch away. And he studied me with his bright little black eyes.
How, I wondered, large did my hand look, and how, more critically, did he know to trust my intent? Have these tiny birds identified me as the source of this food? Dismissing this as unlikely, and intentionally slowing my movements, I took down the feeder, filled it, and replaced it carefully. The bird watched me just as carefully and began chattering excitedly when the feeder was replaced.
I moved to the second feeder, hanging only about a yard away, expecting the bird to do no more than stay where he was or move further away. Instead, in one quick motion, he flew nearer. With as much interest, he watched me fill the second feeder as well.
Rapt now with interest, I quietly began to speak to the bird. I told him that this was the feeder that the squirrels regularly ransacked, and that, in order to get more of their fair share, he should tell the other birds to start with this one. He cocked his head, and appeared to be listening, and still, he never moved away from me.
We repeated this little dance all the way around my lovely, ancient lilac bush, which stands about 15 feet tall and is easily just as big around. When the last feeder had been filled, the little bird's chatter grew more excited and louder. I told him I was done, and shut the container of seed.
As I turned to move away, I heard them. The chickadee had been a scout, doing reconnaisance on my feeder operation, and his chatter apparently was the announcement of "all clear." The others returned from their hiding places before I'd taken two steps away. When I looked back, the little male took flight, and flew directly over my head and landed on a low branch of the oak. I had to pass him as I returned the seed to the shed, and once more, only two feet from me, he sat quietly and didn't move. I stopped and looked again at his bright little eyes.
It was not hard, in that moment, to accept that I was recognized as provider, and to imagine a mutual acknowledgment of both the giving and the receiving.
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