One of the wonderful things about working with companion animals is that I get an intimate view of how behaviors change as the animals mature. The puppy and kitten toddlers we get at 8-12 weeks give way to adolescents, young then mature adults, and then senior citizens, with each life stage adding its own unique spin to the basic canine or feline behavioral repertoire. It’s unfortunate that as our society has become more remote from animals as animals, we no longer recognize these changes as normal. Quite the contrary, when these occur, and sometimes they may occur as suddenly as they do in humans, a common response is to think that the animals experiencing these have lost their mental marbles.
But in spite of the fact that I know all this, I naively thought that BeeBee’s brain problems would preclude these transitions and she would remain in her own admittedly eccentric but fetchingly innocent little world. But that hasn’t been the case. As she’s moved into young adulthood, she seems to have become aware that she’s different, almost certainly at least partially because of the way other people and animals respond differently to her. When she was younger, she seemed oblivious to their reactions. But now sometimes she pays much closer attention to what the other dogs are doing, as if she were trying to learn how to be more like them.
When she can’t do what they do, her behaviors can take on an edge. Her frustration perhaps?
When I see her doing this, I find myself feeling the way I think the parent of an impaired child must feel, aching for her to be like the other dogs. I know it’s foolish because there’s really no comparison. Plus she isn’t like those other dogs and never will be.
A case in point: each morning after I finish doing my yoga, I cradle each dog upside down in my lap while I sit in the lotus position. Then I massage their ears, eyes, and feet, and finish with a tummy rub, all while doing deep breathing and relaxing myself.
I don’t do this in response to some scientific article that said this would be a good calming and bond-affirming activity, although I do employ other such in my work with patients and clients. If there’s actually an Upside Down Dog Lotus Pose, I’ve never heard of it. I do it because years ago I discovered that the dogs would come and lie next to me when I got to this part of my routine. Once they did, it seemed only natural to include them in it.
Over the years, I’ve learned many things from this accidental interspecies interaction. One is that there’s a difference in the way young, adolescent, young adult, and older animals respond. Within the current canine population, Ollie, the 6-month-old pup does the wriggling wagging routine for about 30 seconds before sighing (sometimes more in resignation than relaxation I think), closing his eyes, then going limp and giving into the calming massage message.
Mature Frica reminds me of myself during these brief interludes of relaxation; she sees these interludes as mini-spas and takes full advantage of them, perhaps to fortify herself for another day of putting up with two high-energy young canines. Some mornings, she practically throws herself upside down in my lap, puts her head back, and shuts her eyes as if to say, “Please, please, massage me and send me to that place with the soft ocean waves and broad expanses of empty silver beaches, where I can sleep when I want, gnaw on my bone or play with the toys I want when I want without having to deal with puppies!”
At a little over a year of age, BeeBee sometimes accepts the massage message to relax, but now sometimes she fights it. She never resists me manipulating her feet or rubbing her tummy. But when it comes to massaging her ears and eyes, sometimes she’s OK with it, but other times she isn’t.
At first it seemed odd to me that a deaf dog with impaired vision would be sensitive about me doing something that would limit the function of organs she didn’t act like she depended on that much, if at all. But when I saw this behavior in the context of the other changes she’s experiencing as she enters adulthood, it began to sense.
Like the rest of us, when BeeBee doesn’t feel sure about herself and where she fits in, she wants access to every means of sensory data collection she has at her disposal to make sense–”literally!–of the world and those around her. The more limited a particular sensory collector and processor, the more she wants the freedom to use what little of it she has. I can understand this because without my glasses, my distance vision is pathetic. Put me in a situation in which distance vision is crucial and take away my glasses, and I would resist any attempt by others to interfere with what little visual ability I have.
So for now, I’m trying to find BeeBee’s soft spot, that position in my lap that will allow her the freedom she needs to feel secure at the same time as it teaches her to relax. Today, that meant just cupping her head and ears in my hands. Maybe that’s as far as she’ll ever get. Maybe she’ll never go back to the blissful Ollie-like puppy oblivion that marked her younger days, or grow into Fric’s zoned out bliss as she matures. But maybe with time and patience she’ll make her peace with this new phase of her life and learn to accept and enjoy it as much as she did its predecessor.
Because I know what an important role modeling plays in animal learning and how that includes modeling human behaviors in domestic animals, I look down at BeeBee’s head cradled in my hands and think, “This dog just might help me find peace as I grow older, too.”