Farm Livin'
It’s a Dog’s Laugh
By Emily Esterson , 12-21-05
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| Oly and the bears | |
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For a few weeks now, a piece of nifty news has been traveling the print and online media (and no, it isn't the Bill Richardson touchy feely story). The story, from the Associated Press, details a dog behaviorist's discovery that dogs laugh.
To me, this is no surprise. Dogs do incredible things, so why shouldn't they laugh? Years ago in Boulder, I worked for a horse trainer who was trampled by her herd of young horses one cold winter evening. Her afghan hounds sat on her all night, barking until the neighbors investigated, found the woman and called an ambulance.
About four years ago someone gave me a book, Dog Works, that detailed the amazing creations dogs put together of their own volition. Pyramids of driftwood, spirals of rocks, organized, thoughtful, and Stone Henge-like sculptures on beaches and in backyards. The text was uninteresting (except the story of how the dogs did their art) but the pictures were fascinating, and a tad unbelieveable.
That is, until we got Oly. He was our wedding dog, a rescued, highly-bred Golden Retriever. Oly had papers and may have been slated to be a stud dog, because he is a truly gorgeous, right-out-of-the-breed-book pup. Within a few weeks, we learned that he doesn't just look like a retriever, he really is one. When we would leave him for a few hours he retrieved my shoes (one from each pair) in a pile. He later developed a taste for riding gloves and would pick them out of the tack trunk in the barn and transport them to a carefully arranged pile near the back door. If I am out riding and leave the tack room door open, he'll put together an interesting collection of items: A galloping boot. A glove. My water bottle. An old helmet. He doesn't destroy what he collects. He just collects.
What truly amazes me, though, is his deliberate choice of items. They are all things that have sentimental or utilitarian value. They are all things I use, and love. He does not collect smelly underwear or socks or used up Kleenexes (although when he's mad he does shred trash) or other such base items. He collects well-loved leather riding gloves. My clogs. And lately, teddy bears.
I have a collection of the fuzzy fellows, ranging from tiny to large, all given to me as gifts. One-eyed Ted, who my best friend from high school bestowed upon me on graduation day; life-preserver Mini Bear, given to me by my therapist during a particularly difficult time; and a large yellow pooh bear, a gift from my mother (during the same period—somehow those who love me think teddy bears are better than anti-depressants). The bears are sprinkled throughout the house--some sit on bookshelves and others are perched on dressers. It's not like I have thousands--just a few, here and there.
When I leave for a few hours, it is not surprising to come home to a scene like this one (picture) which greeted me today after I'd been to town for lunch and a couple of hours of Christmas shopping. Oly had collected pooh bear from the top of his dog crate in the bedroom, life preserver bear from the top bookshelf in my office (this requires him deliberately standing on his hind legs and reaching for him), and one-eye Ted, who I believe was stowed on top of my bureau in the closet. He laid them neatly next to the squeaky chicken leg and the catnip rooster (toys he does not like or play with).
In the book Dog Works, the author believes that dogs are celestial messengers--the canines themselves just conduits for other-worldly beings trying to communicate with us. I don't buy that part--I know that Oly communicates very clearly with me when he needs to. But as far as what he's trying to tell me with the teddy bear collection, I believe Oly's collectibles are deliberate. I insert my own anthropomorphic meaning. I imagine he loves me. I imagine I'm right up there on top of the list, possibly second in line behind horse manure popsicles. It will only be a matter of time before he starts lining the bears up, creating sculptural shapes out of them, panting (laughing) all the way to the dog bone jar.
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