7/27/2021 0 Comments Can Dogs Love? Part 2 Here are some of the reader responses the newspaper received in reaction to the Jon Katz interview. One of them was apparently written by a dog, no less! I have dog sat several times for people. I live in their house for a week or two. I take care of the dogs. I feed them, give them water, walk them & definitely play with them. And guess what? When the owner comes home, those dogs go absolutely nuts! They missed their owners. They may like me, but they completely love the people they really live with! –okgo Until dogs can talk, the author's opinion can never be more than a theory.–Seamus There was a time when I would have agreed with you but I believe you are completely wrong. My parents went away for almost a year while my father had a lung transplant. They left their little poodle "Lady" with friends. Lady did just fine with the new keepers until the day my parents came back home. When they walked into the room Lady almost fainted and then began to bark and squeal and dance and dance and so on. She was so happy to see my mom and dad that we began to fear she was going to have a heart attack and tried to calm her down. This went on so long that it was more than seeing a past food server but genuinely missed my parents. I will never forget that experience.–HLW Hellooo? His name is Katz. The arch-nemesis of canines. Jeesh. I don't buy it. Now go cough up that fur ball.–Dr. J My husband & I recently visited friends we hadn't seen in 4 years. Their little Yorkie went wild over me and ignored my husband--I had cared for her a lot when she was younger and injured and when her "parents" vacationed, my husband was always there but not involved with Zoe. It was pretty amazing and her mom human told me that Zoe only acted that way for a very few favorite people. 4 years! What a memory.--Sean As a golden retriever, I take great umbrage with this column (yes, goldens are smart enough to read and type). I am almost 14 years old, and have lived all over the country with my person/master/whatever you want to call him. He hasn't left me that often, but the few times he has, I most certainly missed him. and I most definitely love him. I've gotten sick before, and he's made me better. I needed both knees reconstructed so I wouldn't be in pain, and he took a second job so that we could get the surgery. I'm living with cancer now, and he's taking me to chemotherapy...and it's going into remission. Everything he gives to me, I try to give back 10-fold, and it's not just because he's got the food. Take it from me, dogs form attachments, and dogs love.--Julie What about the dogs that manage to find their way back to their family after weeks, months, even years of separation (sometimes on their own, even!)? These dogs bypass new homes that could feed them and give them attention, focused on finding their proper "pack." What about the dogs that refuse to leave their master's grave/house/whatever despite other people offering food? It may not be love as we typically define it, but I would at least call that attachment.--Ella Dangerous article to write in a city known for being dog lovers. I'd jump in the lake to save my dog every day and twice on Sunday.–Leonid Radzvilar This is from Katz’s own website and describes his dog: "While Katz is trying to help his dog, Orson is helping him, shepherding him toward a new life on a two-hundred-year-old hillside farm in upstate New York. There, aided by good neighbors and a tolerant wife, hip-deep in sheep, chickens, donkeys, and more dogs, the man and his canine companion explore meadows, woods, and even stars, wade through snow, bask by a roaring wood stove, and struggle to keep faith with each other. There, with deep love, each embraces his unfolding destiny. "So, which is it, Mr. Katz?–Dan P.S. Approximately 90% of the respondents insisted dogs can indeed love. Apparently, they felt Mr. Katz was “barking up the wrong tree” (I just had to write that!) PLEASE SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS:
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As promised here’s an article that appeared in the Chicago Tribune in 2009:
Note to Jess Craigie: Your dog still doesn't love you. Yes, you jumped into the 40-degree waters of Lake Michigan Tuesday to save her. Paramedics said you were less than five minutes from death when they plucked you and Moxie, your 2-year-old mutt, to safety. It was a foolhardy risk. But, honestly, I'd have done the same thing if I thought my dog was going to drown. And my dog doesn't love me, either. I tell myself she does—that she offers me not just affection, but that rare gift of unconditional love. But in fact, said author Jon Katz, who has written extensively on the bond between humans and dogs, what she, Moxie and other pets offer is neither unconditional nor love. "Dogs develop very strong, instinctive attachments to the people who feed and care for them," said Katz, speaking Wednesday from his farm in upstate New York. "Over 15,000 years of domestication, they've learned to trick us into thinking that they love us." What about the nuzzling? The big, adoring eyes? The wagging glee with which they greet us? They're all part of what Katz refers to as the "opportunistic, manipulative behavior" that's second nature to dogs. Not to say that they're canine con artists. "It's just how their instincts have evolved," Katz said. “Dogs aren't deceptive any more than they're sentimental, loyal, nostalgic, witty or bitter.” "They don't have a narrative mind or the language to have those sorts of human qualities," said Katz. Imagining otherwise is part of what he calls the "Disney Dog" idea so many of us buy into. Their attachment is, in fact, "extremely conditional," Katz said. "They'll respond to anyone who gives them food and attention. I have a wonderful Labrador retriever who's very happy here. But if you had hamburger meat on you, she'd gladly go to Chicago with you and never look back." I'd been thinking about this subject all week, even before Craigie took the plunge for Moxie. Since Friday, we've been taking care of Scout, the beloved mongrel of my vacationing Tribune colleagues Barbara Brotman and Chuck Berman. And she's shown no sign of pining for them—no loss of appetite or energy, no unsociable behavior. "Dogs don't 'miss' you when you go away," said Katz, whose conclusions are supported by university studies of animal behavior. "They might get anxious and confused, but don't mistake that for loneliness or mourning. As soon as they find someone else to take care of them, they forget you pretty quickly." He added, "I don't mean to imply that dogs aren't great. I love my dogs. But I don't need to pretend that they're like people. That doesn't do them any good. Dogs are happiest when you treat and train them as dogs, not children." I'll remind Barbara and Chuck of that should they ask for the return of their faithless mutt. But meanwhile, Jon Katz, moment of truth: Despite your unrequited love, would you leap into an icy Lake Michigan after one of your dogs? "It's hard to say," he allowed. "I'd like to think I wouldn't; that I'd realize that human life is far more valuable. But watching my dog drown would be very tough." YOUR THOUGHTS? 5/30/2021 0 Comments Dogs Love HoseBorder collies are known for their teamwork when herding. How about this teamwork when "getting hosed"? 4/30/2021 0 Comments Dogs and Cats being Dogs and Cats!Video Source: https://www.cyclerides.com Can Dogs Talk?Early in the process of writing Lance: A Spirit Unbroken, I joined a critiquing group. It was the single best thing I did to improve my writing. Subjecting my work to others’ criticism wasn’t easy for me, but better to learn from fellow writers before publishing, than learn the hard way from readers after publishing. In those early critiquing sessions, I was told to do two things: get rid of the big words and write less formally. The former was relatively easy to accomplish; the latter required a leap of faith on my part but I'm confident the book became a lot more conversational by the time it got published.
Along the way, one of my fellow critiquers suggested that I make Lance a talking dog. Other members of the group rolled their eyes, but he was dead serious. I thought about his suggestion, but not for too long. To do such a thing would have changed the trajectory and the mood of Lance’s story and, in my mind, diminished the serious purpose I had for writing the book. That purpose was to raise awareness re: animal maltreatment and, hopefully, inspire the reader to take action. Though Lance and I did not have oral conversations (except for the occasional bite!), I feel there were times when he and I communicated mentally, beyond his obeying a command or understanding words like “treat” or “hike.” For example, not once, but twice, he escaped from his abusive owners’ property and showed up on my doorstep. Wasn’t that a silent cry for help? In the book, Lance occasionally "talks" to me, not in quotes but in italics. I’ve wondered at times if a reader might find my communication with Lance a stretch, but so far no one has commented to that effect. How about you? Do you have “conversations” with your dog? What has your dog “told” you and vice versa? GOLDEN RETRIEVER: The sun is shining, the day is young, we've got our whole lives ahead of us, and you're inside worrying about a stupid burned-out bulb? BORDER COLLIE: Just one. And then I'll replace any wiring that's not up to code. DACHSUND: You know I can't reach that stupid lamp! ROTTWEILER: Make me. LAB: Oh, me, me!!!! Puleeeeeeze let me change the light bulb! Can I? Can I? Huh? Huh? Huh? Can I? TIBETAN TERRIER: Let the Border Collie do it. You can feed me while he's busy! JACK RUSSELL TERRIER: I'll just pop it in while I'm bouncing off the walls and furniture. POODLE: I'll just blow in the Border Collie's ear and he'll do it. By the time he finishes rewiring the house, my nails will be dry. GERMAN SHEPHERD: I'll change it as soon as I've led these people from the dark, checked to make sure I haven't missed any, and make just one more perimeter patrol to see that no one has tried to take advantage of the situation. COCKER SPANIEL: Why change it? I can still pee on the carpet in the dark. DOBERMAN: While it's dark, I'm going to sleep on the couch. BOXER: Who cares? I can still play with my squeaky toys in the dark. CHIHUAHUA: Yo quiero Taco Bulb. IRISH WOLFHOUND: Can somebody else do it? I've got this hangover. POINTER: I see it, there it is, there it is, right there! GREYHOUND: It isn't moving. Who cares? YORKSHIRE TERRIER: I'm over qualified, have the boxer do it! AUSTRALIAN SHEPHERD: First, I'll put all the light bulbs in a little circle.. OLD ENGLISH SHEEP DOG: Light bulb? I'm sorry, but I don't see a light bulb? HOUND DOG: ZZZZZZzzzzz.z.z.z..z..z..z…z SCHNAUZER: Bark! Bark! Bark! Mom, the lightbulb is out…Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!…MOM! I said the lightbulb is out! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!…MOM!!! WHAT PART OF THAT DIDN'T YOU HEAR? I MEAN HELLO???? SHIH TZU: Who me change a light bulb? We are royal descendants and we have staff to do that for us. And what about cats? CATS: Dogs do not change light bulbs. People change light bulbs. So, the question is: How long will it be before I can expect light? ALL OF WHICH PROVES, ONCE AGAIN, THAT WHILE DOGS HAVE MASTERS, CATS HAVE STAFF… Happiness is a wagging tail!2/26/2021 0 Comments MONKEY - An Incredible DogI'm not sure I could remember the exact order of these challenges while I was unsuccessfully trying to handle them!
A Tribute to Gabriel I rescued Gabriel from a homeowner who cared more about his Italian furniture than he did for a dog’s life. When I met Gabe, he was being kept outside in a cage with a rug over the cage in 85 degree weather. The man let him out of the cage so I could meet him. Gabe immediately wanted to play ball but the man kept hitting him with a fly swatter. Gabe was 7 months old. Guess what? I rescued this boy. He was the sweetest, most gentle soul. When he was 4 1/2 he got epilepsy and to this day I wonder if the many hits on the head by his original owner were to blame. But Gabe had Jake and Daisy and they played together every day. When Jake died, you could see all the sadness in Gabe but he kept on fighting for his own life. He was on a lot of meds. Finally, he couldn't fight his illness any more. One year after Jake crossed over, Gabriel joined him. He was only 10 1/2. Can't even begin to tell you how much Daisy and I miss him. My tribute to Gabe follows: MY LITTLE BOY, GABRIEL
SEPTEMBER 15, 2007 TO MARCH 26, 2018 I remember so clearly The day that we met You were so friendly And wanted to play. Your owner was mean I knew you were mine So we took you home To be loved and cherished. Your name was Boots Which I did not like I saw you were an Angel and you were now Gabriel. At first you were afraid To come into the house But quickly you knew This was your forever home. Oh, wow, you wanted to play You and Jake became great friends You so loved your ball and your Frisbee But mostly you wanted to swim. You were always so gentle and so loving You loved your brothers and sisters They all loved you, especially Snoopy The two of you would romp the yard You were never crazy about car rides You stayed home with me when Jake went with Dad. You loved to cuddle and love At night you would stay under the bed. Remember we rescued Daisy She loved you so very much. Jake, Daisy and you would play Catching Frisbees, balls and swimming When I would come home from work You were so happy to see me You would jump up on me And hug me around the waist. You were never really close to Dad But you loved him all the same When he left us you all were very sad But things just started to change When you were only four and a half You had a seizure and it scared me. The seizures became more frequent And the doctor put you on meds. All of a sudden you loved car rides. Jake would hold his Frisbee You barked and laughed, the 3 of you And we all became so close. Whenever you would have a seizure, Daisy would try and help you. She stayed by your side and kissed you And always just tried to help. We had to move from the home you loved And we no longer had a swimming pool But the 3 of you found other ways To make our days stay cool. We played every day and went for walks We even went to the Beach. We had a lot of happy times But we had our share of sad. One day, Jake became very sick And he crossed the big divide. It broke our hearts so very much And things began to change. You were starting to have more seizures You found it hard to get up You kept going to the doctor And I knew it was getting close. We still played outside a lot Daisy would comfort you We still went for car rides And took our walks every day. But one day it became so clear to me You were not doing well at all One year after Jake you joined him And Daisy and I were alone My Little Boy I love you so much You are always in my heart I pray that God holds you in His arms Until I meet you at the Rainbow Bridge. —Marilyn Willing 12/22/2020 0 Comments A Story within a StoryBy the time I met him, Lance’s life had been up for grabs for a decade. Then, one day, I overheard Lance’s owners joking about “nuking “their dog. Considering how they’d treated Lance for a decade, I couldn't help but think his life might be literally on the line. Since we were living in a no-dogs-allowed apartment, my wife Clara and I frantically searched for a house to purchase and found one within a couple of weeks. A few days after we moved in, I showed up at the Schmidt residence and asked to take Lance. My request was denied. Mrs. Schmidt insisted—I'd say delusionally—that Lance was part of her family. I drove back home, at first confused and then flat out angry. A part of the family? Who the heck was she kidding? I decided that if I couldn't get Lance by hook, I'd get him by crook. I began scheming—I would steal Lance, if necessary. In the book, I mention that I might be a bit rusty in the theft department, not having stolen anything since my shoplifting days as an adolescent. A lapse of memory. It was only after Lance: A Spirit Unbroken was published that I remembered having committed theft as an adult and that thievery just so happened to involve a dog…
…One summer, back in the 1980s, I was going through a tough time. Among other things, I was between jobs. John, a friend of mine, let me stay at his house in Roosevelt, Long Island while I got back on my feet. Living with him at the time was a family (we’ll call them the Smiths) he had befriended. They had a dog, a Terrier mix, named Quincy. The first time I laid eyes on him it was obvious he was being severely neglected. He was a scrawny, smelly mess. I noticed that at dinner he was either ignored or thrown an occasional scrap as an afterthought. The Smiths were the kind of people I wouldn't be caught dead with but my own circumstances had thrown me under the same roof with them. When I got my initial unemployment check, one of the first things I did was buy Quincy a bag of kibble. Every so often I’d supplement that with some of my own dinner. Within a month, Quincy was back to his appropriate weight. John and I also gave Quincy a bath (the first of his life?). We had to use scissors to cut gum, candy and other foreign objects that were embedded in his coat. Admiring our handiwork, John said, “Quincy has his dignity back.” I started taking Quincy with me to the local high school where, while I ran around a quarter-mile track, he did the kind of investigating dogs normally do in all the nearby foliage. Every once in a while he'd join in and run right alongside me as I circled the track. Usually, that didn't keep his interest for long and he went back to further canine snooping. About six weeks after I had moved in with John, I found employment in New York City. That meant a round-trip commute via the Long Island Railroad five days a week. Every workday morning when I’d leave the house, Quincy would stare at me from a window, propped up on the sill with his front paws, begging me with his eyes to either take him along or come back inside the house. Oh, the guilt trips (literally and figuratively) Mondays through Fridays! The first evening I came back home from my job, Quincy was nowhere to be found. After much searching, I found him up in my bedroom, ensconced in a closet I’d left open. That was where I would find him after every workday. I had the distinct feeling he didn't want to be around any of his owners during my absence. Then I met Clara. We hit it off immediately. The problem was she lived some thirty-five miles away in the Village of Patchogue. Lots of phone calls led to our first meeting, several dates and, after a January weekend together, the decision that I would move in with her. The following Monday I called off work and headed back to John's place to get my stuff. While driving on the Long Island Expressway, I had no trouble convincing myself that I should and would take Quincy with me. It was early evening when I got to John's place. No one was home, making my caper easier to pull off. I parked my VW beetle in front of the house, went inside and, after exchanging greetings with Quincy, began collecting my personal belongings and taking them out to my car. On my last trip to the car the Smiths pulled into the driveway. I happened to be carrying a bag of dirty laundry so I told them I was going to the laundromat, sensing they hadn’t noticed the rest of my worldly possessions crammed inside my VW. I hadn’t aroused their suspicions, but taking Quincy to the laundromat might. I went back inside, trudged upstairs and sat myself at the desk in my bedroom, pondering my next move. Quincy lay down next to his would-be dognapper. What to do? I wasn’t about to unpack my car but I couldn’t leave my possessions in it either—that would be an open invitation to anyone with sticky fingers. No telling what my extensive LP and 45rpm record collection was worth. Then, opportunity knocked! I heard talking and laughing coming from downstairs. I descended to the first floor and realized the Smiths, all five of them, were in the back room watching TV. From there, they couldn’t see the front door to the house—as long as they stayed put. I went outside, started the car and came back into the house. The Smiths were engrossed in whatever show they were watching so I went upstairs, leashed Quincy, and descended the stairs, hoping and praying he’d keep his yap shut. Out the door we went, high-tailing it (Quincy doing so literally!)to the car. After squeezing Quincy into the back seat between my dumbbells and stereo, I scooted into the driver’s seat and slowly drove away, not wanting to attract attention or arouse suspicions. I kept a lookout in my rearview mirror, all the while trying to cook up an alibi if nabbed and forced to explain what I was doing. Once I entered Southern State Parkway, I gunned my car to the extent you can gun a 1973 VW Beetle. Quincy and I were home free! We arrived at Clara’s and, before unloading any of my personal property, I let Quincy into Clara’s house to meet her. What did he do? He went into a furious spin and then took a humongous dump on the living room floor. Quincy had introduced himself! Clara is a dog lover so Quincy put a damper on the relationship. Moral of this story? After a long car ride let your (kidnapped) dog poop outside before bringing him inside. As for Lance, did I have to kidnap him? I can’t give that away but, if you haven’t already, you can find out by reading Lance: A Spirit Unbroken. |
Author Biography
Walter Stoffel is a substance abuse counselor and GED teacher in correctional facilities. When not behind bars, he likes to read, travel, work out and watch bad movies. Major accomplishment : He entered a 26.2-mile marathon following hip replacement surgery and finished—dead last. The author currently lives with his wife Clara, their dog Buddy (another rescue), and cat Winky (yet another rescue).
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