Dog Theory

Layla keeping an eye on things in usual husky fashion—photo by William E. Evans, ©2019

We catch lots of it—no doubt it comes from having a husky for a companion. Layla is our fourth, so anymore it doesn’t surprise us. 

Setting out late afternoon as the sun was already getting tangled in the trees, Layla and I heard the dog coming from thirty feet behind, snarling like it wanted nothing more than to chew her to pieces. Here we go again. What the hell, dude? We’re just out here before we lose the light, same as you.

To be expected, Layla went into top dog mode, that little high step, ears forward and tail in a tight curl. She had survived a year on the streets before Animal Control caught up with her, so she was an old hand at dealing with the neighborhood riffraff. The lady, mostly out of shape, rushed her precious pooch by—a black mutt half Layla’s size. She was screaming at the mutt, and the mutt didn’t give a hoot, wanting nothing more than a few rounds with Layla. We didn’t recognize either of them, and we know the dog walkers, so perhaps they were lost. One of us was glad once they’d hustled past.

…

Roof Dog lives down the street in the other direction. She’s this stocky tan mutt with a chip on her shoulder. I’ve never seen her get along and just be happy.

Roof Dog hates Layla and they’ve never gotten closer than passing on opposite sides of the street on the rare mornings Roof Dog gets a walk. See, that’s a common problem: dogs need exercise, and it even pisses off the sweet ones to see some leaf pile-inspecting husky where they can’t get at her, or worse yet, taking a dump, cleaned up or not; apparently, it’s the just the act that gets them. Though you couldn’t call Roof Dog sweet—she’s a nasty piece of work and Layla would be glad to teach her some respect.

House-bound dogs resent the ones parading past their window, and who could blame them? In Roof Dog’s case, it’s the roof edge she runs straight up to—one more step and she’d need a parachute. Another neighbor down the street reported the owners for neglect, but she’s gotten back to it recently. How the hell does the girl get up there?

“Lola! Sorry. So sorry, sorry,” her human apologies on odd days when he or his mate gets around to walking her. Lola’s got anger issues, but I’m sure they know that.

Why do I remember her name? Because they’re always screaming ‘Lola!’ at the roof, as she, in turn, is screaming at Layla three stories below. See, the three-story house has an easy launch pad on the back where the grade rises behind the carport. It wouldn’t take much, but they never have gotten around to fixing it. Actually, Lola is Roof Dog II; Roof Dog I lived there before Lola’s family moved in.

Maybe the first dog left notes?

It’s a great strategic position three stories in the air; way better than barking from behind a fence. You can hurl invectives like bricks, and the dogs passing by below have to put up with your guff. Layla has taken to ignoring her, which only pisses Roof Dog off even more. All that ruckus and she won’t even look up. Layla has her number.

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Then there’s Loki, the 4 ounces of fearless stupidity living at the other end of the street. Loki the Yorkie is well named. Lap dog from hell, he’s a shirt pocket dog and he knows it. Named for a devil’s sidekick.

“Loki's relation with the gods varies by source; Loki sometimes assists the gods and sometimes behaves maliciously towards them. Loki is a shape shifter and in separate incidents appears in the form of a salmon, a mare, a fly, and possibly an elderly woman named Þökk (Old Norse 'thanks').”

from the Wikipedia article on Loki

Þökk illustration from a 17th-century Icelandic manuscript by unknown artist

Folks say dogs don’t know their own size, but Loki does, and it just makes him crazy being so shrunk down small, especially when he encounters a real dog. His walker is a rather large man who can hold the annoying little creature in one hand and keep walking. For the first year we’d pass and he’d bend down to lecture Loki, “Loki, heal. Loki, be a good dog. Loki, HEAL!” like he really was dying to strangle the dog; I knew the feeling. Of late, he and I have made a truce; he carries the yapper—and Layla pretends to ignore the little cretin, whining the while. Given the chance, she’d settle things, no doubt is what she’s thinking.

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A long time ago, running at night on the bike trail, my year-old male husky and I were crossing over a creek bridge, and out of the dark this little white yapper ran right into his jaws, yapping then yelping. Mojo had the poor creature off the ground before I could sort it out. Sent the yapper’s owner looking for a vet. I felt sorry for the dog—having such a dumb walking companion to let him run free like that.

“Do you know of any vets? I’m from out of town.” And you turn your dog loose in the middle of Arlington?

We had lots of such encounters. It got so Maddie would let her larger brother handle the oncoming dog traffic —who she thoroughly dominated him in the house. Mojo wasn’t fixed, and far as the other dogs were concerned, that was the final bone to chew, so to speak.

…

There was the afternoon we walked Mojo and Maddie, approaching a neighbors’ confab including an oversized black Lab the size of Cujo. We learned later Cujo had a reputation. The lady holding the reel leash (worthless for controlling a hundred-pound-plus dog) was busy chatting and gesturing, gesticulating even, and I could see Cujo was sizing up to destroy one or the other of our dogs—you learn these things after a while. Unlike Loki, he had the size to back it up.

Being at the end of a twenty feet reel leash, Cujo had a good running start for slamming the poor woman to the pavement. She did a face plant before she let go, and Cujo came after Mojo. Mojo had a mane a lion would be proud of, so it was about all Cujo could get hold of before receiving my boot in his flank. Thick fur counts for something. So does a well-aimed boot and bellowing at the creature.

A loud, rath-of-god voice works wonders on most dogs—back up by the boot when necessary.

From that day forth until Cujo was called to Hell’s waiting room, his lady walker would go another direction when she saw us. She and her husband are nice enough, even if they do depart for Florida every winter—talk about Hell’s waiting room, it’s a fair comparison with much the same weather.

…

Years later, walking our street, another woman lost control of her American Bulldog named King—whose name fit him. American bulldogs aren’t like their smash-faced English kin with cigar stubs for legs; these guys are strong, beefy dogs. Hundred-forty pounds easy, King had been roaring imprecations from the living room picture window day after day when we passed, so he recognized Mojo from way back. Yet King wasn’t a puppy and his knees were killing him, so he attacked the guardrail between us instead, still bellowing how badly he wanted my male husky. And Mojo was willing—unlike Butz, he was always happy to engage in a kerfuffle. For the record, Butz was not fixed when we got him, and he lived out his life the same.

Heather, King’s lady, was a nice enough southern girl, and we talked sometimes when she was coming home from work, but only when King wasn’t around. Times when we saw each other, we’d agreed either she or I would turn and head the other way. She paid for knee surgery for that dog, which goes to show how attached some people are to their canine companions.

King eventually passed, and Heather moved away. To this day, I don’t know why the guardrail saved us.

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My introduction to huskies came with Butz. Invited to Sunday dinner at her parents’ house, D suggested I go meet him—across the fence in the yard behind theirs. As I approached the fence, he looked up but didn’t seem too interested. I called and then he was. Seeing him coming full tilt, wolfish expression, no bark, and it was hard to tell if he was in attack mode. At least the fence was between us. He covered the ground in a couple bounds, arriving to leap up and slap both paws on top fence bar, ‘hiya!’ Meeting cute, husky style.

Despite giving him away to the strangers one Saturday knocking at the door, Butz’s owner at least had trained him to run, which he did exceptionally well until he died.

D told the story of a younger couple she knew who decided their puppy wasn’t trainable, and gave the dog up. At four months. My thought: they’d give away a four month child? They wouldn’t want to try a full grown rottweiler like Molly with teeth and an attitude.

On his last Thursday night run, Butz and I had done an eight miles slog on the bike trail. By that Sunday, he was dead of a brain seizure. People told us ‘you gave him a great life,’ but we knew he’d given us far more. We still have pictures of him on the mantle.

A few short months later, we brought Mojo and Maddie home, six and eight weeks old respectively.

Not a spectator sport—their first snowfall—photo by William E. Evans ©1998

Huskies are worthless guard dogs, unless it’s the neighborhood cat or an errant racoon you need protection from. Huskies are hunters, and they like nothing better than trapping racoons between them. It was striking to witness that trait from their wolf ancestors. Walking Mojo and Maddie at the Outer Banks, coming on a feral cat at night, they’d fan out either side, wide as their leads would allow, stealthy silent, heads down, tails straight back. The kill awaited them, if they could get loose of me.

But guarding the house? Nah, those two would gladly show the thief where the jewels were kept if he’d pet them first. Though Maddie liked to announce anyone approaching the house, which was useful, and we always praised her for it.

…

Several years ago, I ran across an article in National Geographic reporting on research that discovered dogs have evolved eye muscles their gray wolf ancestors didn’t possess—in theory responding to human interaction.

“The most remarkable among dogs’ behavioral adaptations… is their ability to read and use human communication in ways that other animals cannot. Dogs are more skillful in using human communicative cues, like pointing gestures or gaze direction, even than human’s closest living relative, chimpanzees, and also than their own closest living relatives, wolves, or other domesticated species. Recent research suggests that eye contact between humans and dogs is crucial for dog−human social interaction. Dogs, but not wolves, establish eye contact with humans when they cannot solve a problem on their own. Eye contact also helps dogs to know when communication is relevant and directed at them, as dogs tend to ignore human pointing gestures when the human’s eyes are not visible. Dogs, but not wolves, seem to be motivated to establish eye contact with humans from an early age, and dogs’ motivation to establish eye contact with humans seems to be an indicator of the level of attachment between humans and dogs. Thus, mutual gaze between dogs and humans seems to be a hallmark of the unique relationship between both species during human cultural evolution.”

from Evolution of facial muscle anatomy in dogs  in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

Though the kicker for me was this comment in passing:

“All domestic dogs routinely possessed this muscle, except for the Siberian husky specimen, which interestingly belongs to the more ancient dog breeds, more closely related to wolves than many other breeds.”

from Evolution of facial muscle anatomy in dogs  in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

Mojo in Osprey—photo by William E. Evans, © 2006

Mojo didn’t need extra eye muscles—he had that great husky gaze and eye liner too.

Want a lap dog? Get a Yorkie, but be prepared to put up with their infernal yapping. Huskies aren’t lap dogs, even if they do appreciate a good belly rub. When people got busy breeding dogs for other than work, they removed a primary association and left only the cuddly wuddly, which strikes me as poignant for both man and dog.

It’s said of huskies that the Chukchi people of Siberia let them roam all summer, feeding themselves by hunting, only returning in the winter months when food became scarce, trading the fun of hauling sleds for food. Whatever domestication the Chukchi did to produce huskies left them largely like their ancestors, and their isolated existence kept the gene lines clean.

Give huskies a job, and they’re happy to work their tails off—some food and a belly rub after dinner is all they ask.

It’s the independent streak that makes huskies different from other dogs. And it’s a distinction other dogs recognize—sufficient to rile them, as if huskies were a separate species. Even border collies, another famous work ‘til they drop breed, react to huskies with alarm. We’re always getting into it with border collies.

The neighborhood foxes recognize their kin—in the way they stop to stare at Layla, and she they. Possibly they react the same to other breeds. Though, if you’ve ever watched a husky and fox in a standoff, say, separated by a narrow strip of water, that particular fox will seem to respect its larger hunting competitor. With Maddie, it was harder to tell; she was that fierce to wildlife.

Huskies demonstrate much of the character of wolves, to the extent that seeing a wolf pack operate seems perfectly familiar. I don’t miss the work, but do miss seeing our two huskies operating as a unit in the winter on a frigid night run.

…

With Mojo, we got comments on how striking he was, and with Layla the same. But I’ve taken to explaining to any who’ll listen, living with a husky is not like having other dogs. You either take them on their terms, or the deal doesn’t work. And the misunderstood husky bearing the brunt is the reason there are husky rescue groups.

Something like that happened with Layla—she being chipped, Animal Control notified her family, but they never reclaimed her, so Pet Harbor did.

Butz’s previous owner seemed to care about his dog—though his wife was terrified of him. Incredibly sad the way he spent years of his life alone in their backyard. Butz was all heart, and all he sought was a good long run, some food and a belly rub. Though even in winter, he rarely slept inside at night; by habit he’d retire to his deck chair, jump up, curl into a husky ball, slapping his tail over his nose to keep it warm. As long as he could see us through the sliding glass door, he was fine.

There’s something perfectly fitting—seeing a husky dusted in snow falling fast asleep in the freezing cold. Though Butz was our only husky who spent his nights like that. Hurts remembering.

Maddie waiting for the fox to come play—photo by William E. Evans, © 2009