As Always, It's All About Protein

When I look at my dog sleeping happily at my feet I don't wonder why he chooses to live with me rather than in the wild. He wouldn't survive a day in the wild, to be honest. He has absolutely no prey instinct, he refuses to be rained on, he hates cold, and he won't lie even on the floor without a pillow. He was born thoroughly domesticated, as dogs are these days.

The question of how wolves came be dogs has been pondered by researchers over and over again. Where were they domesticated, how, why? I've always figured that a couple of brave and friendly wolves were attracted by a fire and started spending nights sleeping by some of our ancestors, who started feeding them scraps. Then they started hunting together and hanging out 24/7, and before you know it the wolves were sleeping next to rather than near the humans, protecting the humans, helping out by pulling and carrying things for the humans, and a relationship that has lasted thousands of years was born. This is a happy story of codependency, but according to a story in yesterday's NY Times, it's bunk.

Using genetics, dogs have been traced back to one place of origin, a remote province of China. The disturbing thing is that this is one of those Chinese provinces where historically dogs are food, not pets. Thousands of years ago, once man had the ability to build cages and trap, wolves were caught and kept in pens, fattening up for the slaughter. Wolves came to live in proximity to humans not because wolves saw anything fortuitous in the relationship - what's good about being meat, after all - but because humans looked at wolves and saw lunch. Thus wolves began to be raised in captivity.

Travelers passing through this province then saw the wolves in cages, and instead of seeing lunch saw an animal that could be of some use for warmth, protection, hunting, hauling. They traded for these domesticated wolves and carried them off, dispersing them eventually throughout the known world. 10,000 or so years later you have Brody, shedding all over my pillow while he watches me type.

It's somewhat disturbing to rethink the whole human/canine relationship this way, but it also explains why, if wolves wanted to be domesticated, you never hear stories of humans camping and meeting some friendly wolves out in the wild. It also explains why dogs are so willing to be housebroken. It's not because they love us and want to please us, but because they don't want to be fileted.

The Birthday Party

Yesterday's NY Times Magazine ran a story about the trend toward treating pets with psychotropic medicines developed for humans: Prozac for separation anxiety, that kind of thing. The real argument boils down to whether or not one believes that animals have emotions similar to humans, and living with a dog and a cat it's easy for me to see that they do certainly feel what we feel - anger, pain, fear, confusion, joy. On the other hand, as I read the article I imagined facing some of the pet owners featured in the story, shaking them, and yelling, "Nitwit! You got a cattle dog! You can't leave it alone all day and expect to come home to an intact house! Your dog was bred to run all day! You don't need Prozac; you need to all go out for a run!" Then I remembered the events of Saturday night, and realized I have no room to talk.

Brody, my Brittany, will turn three on the 21st. His girlfriend, Lucy, turns nine on the 27th. Bella, who lives down the street, just turned one. So, we decided to have a birthday party for the three of them. Bella's human made a cake (complete with icing) comprised of dog-friendly ingredients. I thought this would mean cat food, cat feces, and deer poop, but it turned out to be a combination of wheat flour, shredded carrots, and peanut butter. Lucy's human brought birthday cards for Brody and Bella. I provided wine for the humans.

Lucy does not like female dogs. This is known. So, when Lucy trotted in to the party and immediately snapped at Bella, I at least wasn't surprised. Lucy then had to spend the remainder of the party leashed and in the down position. Bella is a small beagle, and when Brody meets smaller dogs he always tries to hump them, not sexually, but because he's generally so far away from alpha dog he approaches "zeta" status, and he enjoys the chance to pretend dominance. So, when Brody immediately tried to hump Bella, I wasn't surprised.

When Brody spent the entire party dragging Bella around by her hindquarters humping away, I was surprised. When Brody attempted to climb on whatever lap to which Bella had retreated in order to continue humping her, I was surprised. When Brody trapped Bella under the couch and humped the air next to said couch, I was surprised. When the only break from humping all night was to eat the cake in one bite and then eat everyone else's Frosty Paws, I was surprised. Bella finally spent the last half of the party in the safety of her human's arms, while Brody lay on the floor and stared lovingly at her. She is a cute beagle; at least he has taste.

If dogs are capable of learning the kinds of lessons humans can learn, then the party should have taught Bella that some people love you and some people hate you, and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm just hoping I remember the lesson of the night for humans: dogs don't know it's their birthday, and their idea of a party involves humping and snapping rather than cake and presents.

The whole thing was a nice excuse to sit on the porch drinking wine. Next time, we'll just leave the dogs at home.

Birds of Hillside Avenue

My yard's ecosystem causes a chain reaction at first light each day, which was around 5 this morning. Birds start chirping, which awakens my cat, who begins purring and batting at me, which awakens my dog, who begins leaping over me to play with the cat, which makes further sleep an impossibility, at least until I get out of bed, let the dog out, and feed them both. The birds chirp through all of this, oblivious.

This is my first spring living in a house in a semi-wooded area. I've got a lot of trees here, so also a lot of birds, deer, insects, chipmunks, squirrels (even an albino squirrel), weeds, you name it. Just a lot of nature. I'm much more used to pavement. Birds are, of course, everywhere, it just feels like my yard is their ground zero. I started noticing them a month ago, with the arrival of cardinals. Here's how much I know about birds: cardinals are the only species I can tell by sight. I borrowed a bird book from a neighbor, but by the time I begin flipping through it looking for a picture the bird I'm trying to identify is gone, so I'm not even sure how many species I've got hanging out here, awakening the household each morning.

This morning featured a deafening symphony or riot, depending on your point of view, which lasted for approximately an hour, at which point it began to rain and everything quieted down. This led me to wonder two things: why do birds chirp at dawn but not all day long, or at sunset? And what do birds to when it rains?

The answer to the first question follows common sense, something I wouldn't have attributed to birds. Obviously they don't sing at night because it's dark and they don't want predators to know where they are and attack when they can't see. They chirp at dawn to let their enemies know that they've survived the night and still retain their territory, and to let their friends know that they're available for some afternoon delight. By mid-day they're busy with other things, like nesting and feeding, which are solitary pursuits. Then they go to sleep, obviously much earlier than I and obviously needing much less rest than I, otherwise they wouldn't be awake at 5 AM.

When it rains, birds hide under branches and leaves, but even if there's no cover they're ok, because their feathers are water-resistant. All they have to do is shake and the water is gone. They can fly in the rain because they have a special membrane that repels water, a sort of natural pair of goggles.

So there you have it - all the question you didn't have about birds in the first place conveniently answered for you. I'm still left with the problem of being awakened in the middle of the night, though. A crazy cat person's posse would seem to be the only solution.

Crazy Cat People

During my senior year in college I lived across the street from a small faculty apartment duplex. One of those apartments was occupied by a Spanish professor who was in Spain, on sabbatical, that year. My room was in an old inn and so was large, with two closets, a private bathroom, and a private parking lot. I was in heaven. About a month into the fall semester I began to be awakened regularly to the sounds of cats fighting and mating. I don't mean a cat or two, I mean lots of cats, going at it all night. It took about a week, but I figured out the problem: the Spanish professor had left her bathroom window open, filled her bathtub with cat food, and left her place in the care of a campus-full of feral cats.

I had moved across the street from a crazy cat lady.

Crazy cat ladies appear to be a staple of every community. Crazy cat men must exist somewhere out there, but I've never seen or heard of one. The hoarding of cats appears to be an activity that skews female, as does the hoarding of animals in general. From what I can tell the affliction begins with the feeding of feral cats, progresses to a plethora of cats in the house, and goes on from there. Cats are but a gateway drug; the hoarding of cats often leads to the hoarding of dogs as well, and on from there to farm animals.

Someone I knew back in high school has become a crazy cat lady. She discovered a stray cat in her suburban back yard and began feeding it. Of course, in short order her yard was filled every night with around 30 cats, looking for food. She thought it was cute. Her neighbors disagreed. She finally trapped and released all the cats, but remains the neighborhood pariah.

The first municipal election that I followed, back in 1995, culminated in the Board of Health's condemnation of the Democratic mayoral candidate's house. The house was filled with over 50 cats, cat food, cat urine, cat feces. Yes, she lost the election, although I thought she should have embraced her weirdness and campaigned on the "Crazy Cat Lady for Mayor" platform. You never know, it might have helped.

I take my dog to run in a park every day, but for several months this spring I was unable to use the one park where he can run leash-free because a crazy cat couple had decided to leave bedding and food for a feral cat. Naturally that cat soon turned into several cats, which led to the appearance of more food and bedding. The end result wasn't just going to be an entire feral colony, but was also the fact that my dog wouldn't run but would instead eat the cat food, search for cat feces, and roll around in the cat bedding. Park officials threw away the cat stuff three times before the crazy cat couple finally gave up.

In short, crazy cat people are everywhere. It could be that it's something that lies dormant in each of us, waiting to be released. Plenty of us do hoard, if not cats then books, papers, figurines, photographs, whatever it is we stock away and call a "collection." What made me think of all this, on a fine spring day? I went through my basement yesterday looking for my pruning shears, and realized that I have boxes down there that I haven't opened in years. I don't even know what's in them, I'm just saving them. So, if you see me buying an inordinate amount of cat food, please slap me. Thank you.