The Other End of the Leash: Why We Do What We Do Around Dogs

by Patricia B. McConnell

“Tulip,” I yelled again, and stepped closer to her. This time not an ear twitch. Not the slightest acknowledgment of my existence. My call was louder this time, because I was getting mad, irritated at standing in the pouring rain, getting wet because my huge, soggy Great Pyrenees was blowing me off. In about half an hour, I was expecting company for an elaborate dinner party. I didn’t want the meal to be accompanied by a large, wet dog who smelled like old death. But Tulip didn’t actually roll in the squishy mess under her, because I came to my senses and stopped being a dog owner and started being an animal trainer. “No,” I said, this time quietly but with a pitch as low as the ground. Tulip stopped her sniffing and turned her huge, square head to look straight at me. “Tulip, come!” The “come” came out like a cheery greeting to a neighbor you’d ask over for coffee. With a brief look at the treasure below her, Tulip turned like a dancer and ran to me. We dashed together to the house, and I let my poor, long-suffering floors get muddy yet one more time, while we tore to the refrigerator for Tulip’s favorite treats. Tulip had done exactly what I had asked from the beginning. “Tulip!” I had said at first, meaning “come” but simply saying her name and expecting her to read my mind about what it was that I wanted her to do. She acknowledged my presence politely, expressed some doggy version of “Wow, look! I found a dead squirrel, and it has maggots in it!” and returned to what ...