Mirror Of My Mood

The signs are obvious that he and his time are all but used up. One sign is audible and visible from the place where the wood is being cut. In a barnyard enclosure across the way 11 puppies are gamboling, yapping and annoying their golden retriever dam. The bitch is young and gay, giving promise that she herself will be a reasonably good dog once she has lost her silliness. But she was bought and brought to the place like a slave bride (because of temperament, size and color) as a mate for the old red dog. The largest and reddest of the puppies is being considered as his father's replacement. This pup and the rest of the litter exist because I have been brooding about the dog I will have when Dain is gone, as he soon will be.

Because early winter prompts thoughts about the ending of things, because woodcutting releases the mind, because of the pups, it is an appropriate time to reflect on the fact that the red dog will not see another early winter, to reflect on how things have been between us, to reflect simply on men and dogs.

That partnership began with jackal-like beasts scavenging from Asian nomads. In time these hunters came to realize that scavengers could lead them to prey, flush it, sometimes hold it. They could stir up such a commotion that no intruder could approach a camp surreptitiously. So, little by little, the scavengers were brought in from the cold, their rations regularized, their young protected and petted. From this primitive arrangement and thousands of years of genetic topiary work have come the domestic dog, sight and scent hounds, catch dogs, hole dogs, water dogs, retrievers, pointers, guard dogs, sled dogs, cart dogs, guide dogs, messenger dogs, herd dogs. For room and board we have hired other beasts to perform chores: to carry heavy loads, catch small game, grow fat, lay eggs. However, in complexity and versatility, nothing comes close to equaling the services that we receive from dogs.

The working arrangements between dogs and men are remarkable, but perhaps less astonishing than the capacity for companionship that has evolved. Recently there have been serious attempts to penetrate the inner lives of other species, even to explain ourselves to them. There are dictionaries of wolf, monkey, whale and bird utterances. We have had some success in two-way verbal communication with dolphins and have developed a sign language that can be used between men and chimpanzees. Nevertheless, man-dolphin and man-chimp exchanges are shallow when compared to the capacity of dogs and men to exchange information, respond to each other's moods, know each other's inner feelings.

Dain and I have been good companions, a good example of what is possible. Part of our mutual vocabulary are the traditional man-dog words—sit, stay, come, heel, get it, no. Then there are elementary dog signs—the wagging tail, head in the lap, whine at the door and a variety of yips and barks. As he prowls outside, there is a particular barking response to a stranger passing by on the road, a stranger entering the lane, for people he knows, for those in cars and those on foot. There are certain barks for dogs, for cats and for creatures that are not people, dogs or cats. Dain does not bark in order to pass along specific information, but as an outward manifestation of inner feelings. However, the result is the same as if he were yelling words.

I am usually occupied with natural history projects and enthusiasms. As a rule these involve small mammals. Little by little, through observation, Dain has become a mammalogist's dog. He has learned that I am invariably seeking odd furred creatures and am much more pleased if they are alive and well than mauled, bitten or dead. As we poke about, he lets me know when he comes across an interesting beast, will try to hold it if he can or, if he fails, follow it. While waiting for me to come up he will call out a rough description (usually based on size and formidability) of what he has found—a mouse-type, squirrel-type, raccoon-type, fox-type or deer-type creature. He can be even more specific. During a year that I devoted to a field study of the coati mundi, Dain learned that this was the most prized animal. His coati bark became distinctive.

As time has passed, the vocabulary Dain and I share has become larger and more subtle. One of the first command words any dog should learn is "stay." It is a flat-out order to remain exactly where he is, if necessary until hell freezes over. Dain learned to stay as a pup. However, this blunt command is seldom used between us anymore, being replaced by others that express degrees of "stayness." If I am going to walk down a lane to negotiate with a stranger, I may tell Dain to "stay here," which means he should hang around at this end of the lane, not follow me, but he does not have to remain frozen or immobile. "Stay in the car" means he may not climb out the window, but is free to move from seat to seat. "Stay around" means he can move but not very far. If we approach a woodpile that may have a weasel in it, I may warn him to "stay back," the equivalent of proceed with caution.

Dain will heel through a field of sheep or a chicken yard. He will heel down a strange street, through a yapping gantlet of poodles and boxers. He will heel all day if so asked. At one time he was obsessed with this command. If the magic word was spoken in his hearing, even in a breakfast discussion of dog behavior, he would stop whatever he was doing and rush into position a pace behind. Since then he has grown more sensible about tones and context. And now the term is used infrequently.

From a variety of signs I know when Dain is excited, alarmed, content, fatigued, confused. But he knows all of this about me and more. He recognizes and responds to shades of my anger, joy, uncertainty, fear, triumph, pain, illness, elation, impatience, boredom, satisfaction. During one period we staged large, intemperate New Year's Eve celebrations. I would get up New Year's Day and take a walk in the mountains with anyone so inclined. Nine years ago no one went with me. The house was filled with ugly reminders of the night—dregs of food and drink, bodies sprawled here and there in ugly positions, making ugly sounds. I whistled up Dain, who felt as good as he ever did, and we started off through the fields, into the mountains.

It was one of those days that John O'Hara had in mind when he wrote that before Christmas suicide weather settles over Pennsylvania and hangs on until March. It was overcast and gloomy. I walked along in appropriate agony, mouth tasting terrible, stomach queasy, head throbbing, and mused on weakness of character and general jackassery.