A Brief Discussion Of Dog-ness

I want to preface this post by saying that, on balance, I am generally a cat person.

What I mean by that is that as a pet, I prefer a cat; they're way more low-maintenance, much more self-sufficient, cleaner, less noisy most of the time, less messy virtually all of the time, and generally, as a pet, to me personally, preferable.

I want that clearly understood, before I get going.

Because I want to explain why I have the utmost respect and admiration for the canine, and such a discussion requires a bit of perspective.

As a pet, for myself, dogs are... Less preferable. They slobber, they want to lick me right after they lick their own butt, they want to sniff things I don't want them to sniff, poop in places I don't want them to, chew up my shoes, make lots and lots of noise, require constant attention, and generally are much, much more work.

But that doesn't change my basic admiration for the quality of dog-ness.

Let me back up a bit.

I am messed up. Everyone who knows me, is at least peripherally aware of this, and I make no pretense at normalcy. But a component of that that others may have noticed, even if they never really analyzed it, is that I have serious difficulty forming emotional attachments to things, people, pets, whatever, to the degree that other people do.

I am, in part, a cat person because I understand and share a degree of cat-ness.

For most people, I can be friendly, provided you're rubbing my metaphorical fur the right way, but if you drop off the face of the earth tomorrow, there won't be tears. 

Yes, I recognize that that makes me a horrible person.

But here's the thing.

Whether or not you admit it to yourself, you feel the same way. Maybe not to the same degree as I do, but it's there nonetheless.

That guy who does your dry cleaning? Your real, legitimate concern if he suddenly vanished would be a vague concern over how long it will take to get your clothes back.

You don't have any real attachment to that person; because you have limited slots for such things and that person's degree of ongoing proximity to you is such that their priority is quite low.

Cat-ness.

Cats don't care about you; they care quite a bit about the things you do for them. A cat can find a mouse or bird if they get hungry; they don't need you, you're just a convenience. You change litter boxes and open cans of food, and that's all they care about; you're a convenient labor-saving device for a cat. "This back won't pet itself, you know!"

Some of you are nodding.

But here's the thing.

As much as I like cat-ness as a quality for a pet to have, dog-ness is way more admirable.

Dogs love you.

They love everything.

Dogs love chasing small animals. Eating grass. Pooping. Barking. Running. Lying down. Chasing things. Chasing themselves. Bushes. Fences. Open places in fences they can go through. You.

Mostly you.

But dogs are nature's fanboys and fangirls; everything under the sun is the best thing ever.

They are fanatically loyal to their owners; dogs will do things you'd think beyond the physical - or intellectual - limits of a dog, to protect or rescue a human in danger; willingly give their lives in your defense; face off against any challenger (small yapyap dogs have faced up to grizzly bears for their owners. I wouldn't do that for most people.)

And they love their owners with fierce, unrelenting, unconditional devotion and loyalty.

I admire the hell out of that quality of dog-ness.

Which is what makes animal abuse such a horrible thing.

If you abuse a dog, that animal does not possess the mental capacity to interpret that in any way other than "this is happening because I am a bad dog."

When you abuse a cat, it'll never come near you again.

When you abuse a dog, it'll come back, even with fresh whip marks, and lick your hands and try to understand what it did wrong.

And that makes abusing a dog ten times more contemptible.

A dog is - dog-ness is - the eternal, unlimited hope for redemption. Even if you hospitalized your dog, that dog will come back, hoping you will be a better person this time. The dog may not understand that, but that's what it represents; that's what dog-ness means.

And if you fail that test, you are lower than any other.

I am not a dog person. Dogs are noisy, attention-whoring, slobbery train wrecks.

And I am unreservedly on their team.

More than once, dogs - particularly "rescue" dogs, but any dog - with nasty reputations or good reasons to hate and fear humans, have come right up to me and sniffed, and immediately accepted me.

Because, regardless of my preference, they can tell the one relevant point about me:

I would never, ever abuse a dog.

Full stop.

I think less of anyone who does, even by hearsay; if I see someone abusing a dog, I will stop it. They might not - in fact, are very very likely not - to enjoy how I go about that.

Dogs can tell.

I am not a dog person. But I admire the hell out of the quality of dog-ness.

Dogs represent a walking, (slobbering, butt-sniffing) opportunity for anyone to redeem themselves, just a bit. They're a target; they will love you, obey you, and remain loyal, even if you treat them wrong, which means that - to someone who would do such things - the temptation is always there.

Redemption exists in making a choice not to do that. Not to BE that.

And that's only one of many, but it's a path to a certain degree of redemption that wouldn't, couldn't, exist without dog-ness.

They trust you, love you, obey, follow, and honor you; deserve it.

Dogs are good for your soul.