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During the course of this book we have immersed ourselves deep into the detail of the canine genome. It tells us a great deal. We know that under the influence of artificial selection the wolf has been transformed by man into an animal with a vast range in size, colour, temperament and ability. We can even begin to follow these changes in molecular detail as we identify the genes, even the mutations themselves, which are responsible for size and coat-colour and other aspects of appearance. We have made a good start in identifying and developing tests for the genes responsible for many of the inherited disorders that plague pedigree dogs and which, given the will, could one day eliminate them altogether. We are beginning to explore the fascinating genetics behind canine behaviour. Why on earth do pointers ‘point’, for example? There must be a genetic explanation, probably quite a simple one, and one day we might discover the reason. All this is good, but to really understand why we love our dogs, we must look outside genetics.
Earlier in the book we saw how dogs and wolves were evaluated in behavioural testing and how they were certainly different from one another. These were rational tests on canines, but in this chapter I am going to explore a little further our reasons for loving these creatures. It has been suggested, not by dog lovers I am sure, that we have been manipulated by dogs.1 The idea is not new. One of Aesop’s fables, composed in second-century Greece, tells of a hungry wolf that after an unsuccessful day’s hunting came across his domestic cousin, a well-fed mastiff. What do you have to do to be fed so well?’ enquired the wolf. ‘Very little,’ replied the dog, ‘just drive away beggars, guard the house, show fondness to the master and be submissive to the family.’ The wolf considered what he had heard. Every day he risked his own life, he had to shelter from the worst of the weather and could never be sure of his next meal. ‘If that is all you have to do, I think I’ll give it a try. But tell me, what is that around your neck?’ ‘It’s my collar for attaching my chain.’ ‘Your chain? You mean you are not free to go where you like?’ ‘Sure, but face the facts, it’s only a small price to pay.’ At this, the wolf turned and trotted back to the freedom of the forest.
The parasite theory of canine love proposes that dogs have somehow managed to burrow deep into our unconscious, identify our weaknesses and exploit them, much as a virus might do. Could dogs be the ultimate parasite, spared having to find food or shelter in return for merely putting on a cheap show of ‘unconditional love’?2 Already I hear the gasps of disapproval at this outrageous suggestion, but it remains a formal possibility for the hardwired Darwinian. Aesop clearly had it in mind in his fable of the wolf and the mastiff.
Something as strong, deep and mysterious as the bond between man and wolf is almost certain to be rooted in the unconscious mind – unknown territory to most scientists, including and perhaps even especially geneticists, whose explanations for the evolution of this amazing psychic symbiosis are prosaic in the extreme. No amount of scavenging human rubbish tips would account for the devotion and love that bind man and dog. What Shaun Ellis experienced in the forests of Idaho is the reciprocal nature of the bond. In his view he survived being eaten only because the wolves had something to gain from him. He imagined they saw him as a means of understanding the humans that hunted them. The first cooperative interaction between wolves and humans that I imagined in Chapter 1 had clear mutual benefits to both species.
The same is true of any symbiosis, any working relationship between different species. In Africa the honey guide, a relative of the woodpecker, invites humans to follow it to the nest of wild bees that the bird has earlier located. The man digs the nest from the hollow trunk and throws the bird part of it as a reward. Both man and bird gain from the interaction. The coastal fishermen of Laguna in Brazil cast their nets across shoals of sardines driven into the shallows by dolphins. The nets confine the fish, the dolphins take their pick and the fishermen go home with a much bigger haul than otherwise. In these two cases, the honey guide and the dolphin act as if they sense the intention of the human.
Our relationship with first the wolf and now the dog far exceeds the limited mental overlap required to get at the honey or the sardines, but nonetheless extends from the same principle of mutual benefit. With our overwhelming self-importance we might assume that we were the sole initiators of the ‘domestication’ of the wolf, that we were the only ones capable of realising the benefits of hunting together. We probably thought of it first, since it does not seem to have dawned on the Neanderthals. But I’m inclined to think that we greatly underestimate the part the wolf played in forging this relationship. The ‘Great Awakening’ of the Upper Palaeolithic might have given us the self-awareness to make the inventive step that started the process leading to cooperative hunting, but without the wolf’s active participation nothing would have come of it. As it is, it must rank as one of the most important ingredients in ensuring first our survival and then our inexorable rise to our present dominance over all other creatures.
In one creation myth related by the psychoanalyst Patricia Dale-Green,3 a gulf opened between Adam and the beasts he had named. Among the animals stood a dog. When the separation was almost complete the dog leaped across the gulf and took its place by the side of man.
The mythical significance of the bond between man and dog greatly interested Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung and many other psychoanalysts. A common theme is that both humans and dogs feel a strong need for attachment, for close interactions with others. This should not surprise us when we consider that both species depend on mutual cooperation for survival. The psychologist Edward Rees saw the human–dog bond as an example of basic reciprocal attachment, and instinct based on nurture, care giving and emotional and physical closeness.
The influential English psychologist John Bowlby fundamentally disagreed with Freud’s view of instinct as learned behaviour in response to external influences, classically that of being fed. Bowlby developed the Jungian notion that instinct is part of an ancient archetype buried deep beneath our rational minds. Many of his patients’ problems stemmed from the very common difficulty they had in integrating their rational minds with the unconscious archetypes that really pulled the strings. Dogs help to bridge this gap for some people, while for others leading lives lacking in attachment to other humans, isolation can lead to the obsessive care given to their pets. The dog becomes the object of transference and caring for it to excess represents their attempt to care for themselves.
Both man and wolf also share very well-developed family structures which have evolved over millennia. It may not always feel like it, but human family bonds are extraordinarily strong. An interesting psychological experiment carried out a few years ago on a group of students asked them for their responses to three hypothetical situations in which they needed to sacrifice something for either friends or family. The three situations were in ascending order of sacrifice: 1) lending emotional support, 2) lending money, and 3) donating a kidney. The respondents preferred to give emotional support to friends before family, they were pretty neutral when it came to lending money, but family won hands down when it came to donating a kidney. Even among students, blood, it seems, is still thicker than water in extremis.
The loyalty of dogs, so often commented on by owners in Ulla’s interviews, stems directly from their unshakeable loyalty to the pack. The pack almost becomes a separate organism, rather like a beehive, whose survival is paramount even at the expense of individuals. In my imagined encounter near the Gate of Trajan in the first chapter, the alpha male threw himself at the enraged bull, mindless of his own safety in his desperation to save the she-wolf Lupa and preserve the integrity of the pack. In modern times, it is we who are objects of transference. We have become the pack. As we saw with the wolves of Longleat, the efforts to rebuild the social order within the pack after one of the pack members died were fraught with difficulties. Many dog trainers insist that humans must establish themselves as the dominant animal in the hybrid pack or there will be trouble. This insistence on dominance has led to much cruelty in training, but many people, including Paul Bradshaw, the author of In Defence of Dogs, reject the idea that cruelty is necessary.4
Both man and dog also share a highly developed ability for transference. The owners in Ulla’s interviews considered their pet dogs to be members of the family. Some even referred to their pets in human terms, saying ‘my baby’ for example.
Many psychoanalysts, including Freud, practised their art in the presence of a dog. Eleora Woloy is one professional who has written about her experiences in a little book called the Symbol of the Dog in the Human Psyche.5 The presence of her dog Tinsel, an old German Shepherd, relaxed her clients and helped them to reach into their unconscious minds. Tinsel could pick up signals of distress and would, without prompting, do something entirely appropriate. If a client was crying, Tinsel would lay her head on their lap.
Konrad Lorenz saw dogs as the mediators between humans and the natural world. Now that so many of us have severed our links with nature and experience only city life, the dog has become the last chance of retaining this most precious of connections.
Look deep into your dog’s eyes and see, reflected there, distant crocus meadows shimmering beneath the snowy peaks of Carpathia.