Yesterday was a big day for her. Yesterday marked the six month anniversary of the day she agreed to participate in my scientific experiment.
I know. You are about to argue the point that dogs lack opposable thumbs, and therefore also lack the capacity to sign consent forms. You are about to argue that River could not possibly have "agreed" to participate. I argue, however, that dogs have tails, and that the wagging of a tail is a reliable and valid measure of participant consent.
But fine, if it makes you feel better, I'll rephrase. Yesterday marks six months since I signed River's paperwork and committed her to my scientific experiment. So it wasn't random, and my participant didn't have much say. I never claimed that I expected a gold star for good experimental design.
Anyway, since we are quibbling over technicalities, River picked me. Ask anyone who was there. I thought, when I walked into the kennel that I was going to be bringing home a boy. A boy, I thought, would more outgoing, more affectionate, more people-oriented. A boy, I thought, would be better equipped to handle the flux of my academic life: the change in routine, roommates, and real estate more or less every term. Boy, was I biased.
Lucky for River, none of boys at the GRA that day had the right kind of fur. Yes, you read that right: I was selecting my subject based on the composition of its coat. I'm not proud. But I'd heard that some greyhounds are unlucky enough to lack the gene that codes for an undercoat, which makes them less likely to shed seasonal piles of fluffy fuzz. As a dog enthusiast allergic to dogs, that single coat quality is, in my view, an evolutionary advantage. I made it my selection criteria.
As such, I almost walked out when I discovered that all of the available boys had thick, full undercoats. But then Andrew, my boyfriend, did something unexpected. He'd sworn on the drive down that since this was going to be my dog and my responsibility, which dog I brought home was also going to be my choice. He was only going for moral support. But Andrew took my hand and, without a word, led me to crate at the back of the kennel with a sign above it that read, "Chicky." She was lying down, curled into a tiny ball of greyhound. But her eyes were watching me and her tail was wagging, just a little.
When I let her out, I knew immediately that something was wrong. She didn't. She moved out of that crate on three legs and into the main isle quick as a - well, as a greyhound. Before I could even turn around, she was down the isle and out the door, bounding towards Bill, the kennel caretaker, her tail in full wag. I knew greyhounds could move fast, but I never expected that that argument applied to a greyhound in a cast.
I apologized immediately to Bill, assuming that a dog in her condition probably wasn't supposed to be let out. Bill didn't say anything. He just kept scratching her ears, and waited for me to approach. When I did, Chicky, as she was called then, welcomed me into the room. She fit her head into my hand where I held it at my side, and for a moment, it felt as if her head had always belonged there.
Then she was was off again, bounding about the room. She was shaking, but it was unclear if that was due to the effort of moving on three legs, or to the thrill she was clearly experiencing at getting attention.
"Here," said Bill, "Here is your people-oriented dog."
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| Iruska Cool Chic ("Chicky" and now "River") at the GRA in August. |
And it was true. The other dogs that I'd let out had been more interested in greeting their neighbour hounds than Andrew or I. But this dog, it was clear, had eyes only for humans. She was confident, outgoing, affectionate, excitable, gentle, winsome. She could make a cat love her.
She was injured, but she was perfect.
And so, six months ago my research into canus lupis familiaris and homo sapien relations began. The experiment wasn't to see if I could handle or commit to a dog for life. No, those things were a given. I'd done them before. The experiment was to see how living with a dog of my own, one that was 100% my responsibility, would change me.
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| Want to go for a walk? River's Canadian winter walking attire |
After six months, I think it's still too early to draw any final conclusions. I can say, however, that there have been some obvious side effects. I am more patient, more assertive, and absolutely more committed to routine now than I was six months ago. But more importantly, I am so much happier now that I have River in my life. She keeps me company on long walks, and short walks, and adventures into the back yard. She eats the food that I spill on the floor, sings at 7:28 every morning to let me know that it's breakfast time, and keeps me from becoming a workaholic by continually encouraging me to take "petting" breaks. Whenever Andrew has to stay late, we have a ladies' night and watch Dr Who reruns. My favourite part is the show; her favourite part is the popcorn. She reminds me to take pleasure in the more basic aspects of life. For River, sleep, food, and being outside are everyday delicacies never to be taken for granted.
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| Waiting for birthday breakfast |
River turned three yesterday too. In dog years, I think that puts her at the prime of her life. She celebrated by doing all of her favourite things:
- We ate breakfast, together, at 7:36 on the dot
- She went back to bed, slept in until noon
- We went for a car ride
- We went for a walk uptown, where there were hundreds of people to see
- Some people let River sniff them
- We went for another car ride
- I gave her a "pig in a blanket." It was hard, chewy, fragrant and most importantly, all hers
- She had a nap
- She ate dinner at exactly 5:30 (dinner promptness, like breakfast promptness, is usually an unobtainable goal for me but when it happens, it's her favourite thing)
- She had a nap
- We went for a walk, and I brought popcorn pieces for good behaviour instead of the usual dried chicken
- She got to poop in the middle of a driveway
- She got to sniff the corner fire hydrant for as long as she wanted
- She had a nap
- She woke up for pettings
- She had a nap,
- And the nap turned into going to bed
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| The pig in a blanket in a blanket |
I think my scientific experiment is well on it's way to being a success.
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