Roughly speaking, all social behavior falls somewhere between two poles: rigid conformity and utter anarchy. Depending on our own temperament and social grooming, most of us tend to be attracted to one of the two and repulsed by the other. We are Apollonian or Dionysian, seekers of light and order or darkness and misrule. Dog owners are especially easy to fit into this spectrum. On the one side we have the disciplinarians for whom the very definition of a "good" dog is obedience; on the other side we have those -- the right term doesn't come immediately to mind -- who are perfectly content to let their dogs work out behavior boundaries on their own. Each side has a partial but pungeant view of the other: tales of cruel treatment and broken spirits are matched, story by story, with those of owner irresponsibility and intractable pets.
What dogs might think about all this is a little more complicated. As Elizabeth Marshall Thomas points out, they have lived with human beings for thousands of years in a state more like truce than true amicability. Dogs tolerated humans because they were so adept at generating tasty scraps; humans tolerated dogs because they cleaned up waste and kept a watchful eye out for strangers and dangerous animals. True, there was also their usefulness as hunting companions, but this may be overrated, since to be really successful at this dogs must be carefully trained (otherwise, "me kill, me eat") -- something that, until recently, humans were not particularly inclined to do.
It is just this sort of primeval human-dog relationship -- or as close to it as one can get in these modern times -- that Thomas has attempted to provide for her own dogs, while demanding of herself something much more involved (and humane) than the traditional mere sufferance displayed by the human side. She adopts this laissez-fair attitude toward her pets partly because she believes it is the one that dogs understand and like the best and partly because, as a professional observer of these animals, she finds that it is in just this sort of situation that they are most likely to display their true doggy selves.
Each of Thomas's three books on human pets -- The Hidden Life of Dogs, The Tribe of Tiger, and, lastly, The Social Lives of Dogs -- all of which I have read and greatly admired (The Tribe of Tiger actually is one of those extremely rare books that changed my life, for reasons to complex to go into here) -- is a deeply considered meditation on the nature of interspecies relationship as it applies to humans and their house animals (she doesn't approve of the word "pet" for reasons that are easy to understand, but it's hard to come up with a better term. "Domesticated animals" too much suggests cows and pigs, which are not at all the same thing.) As you can tell from their titles, the first book focused mostly on dogs and the second book mostly on cats.
This third one, though, despite the title, embraces her whole tribe of house animals -- a menage of dogs, cats, and parrots (or birds like cockatoos that for most of us might just as well be parrots). And, this time, she herself plays a larger role, the pivotal presence in the lives of the animals about whom she structures her narrative and who themselves, willingly or inadvertently, have come to structure her household and, in ways that are amusing and instructive, her own behavior as well.
The three elderly dogs we meet when the book begins -- Suessi, Fatima, and Inookshook -- have established something pretty close to the original human-dog connection on their own. They have little interest in their human owners, interact with them only when necessary, and generally live their own quiet, self-absorbed lives apart from the rest of the household. Interestingly, this makes them seem much more like cats than the dogs most of us know.
Enter Sundog, a large, handsome male of indeterminate breed, abandoned on Thomas's mother's front porch in Cambridge, Massachusetts, by his previous owners. If the original trio of dogs had been willing to absorb Sundog into their group when he arrived, he might have become much like them. But they wanted nothing to do with him. And so, stunned and mortified, he decided to make the best of the situation and join the human pack, instead. A dog without a secure place in a social structure is a dog completely at sea.
Sundog identifies Thomas's husband, Steve, as the alpha male in the human pack and attaches himself to him, almost to the point where the two become inseparable. This situation Steve accepts at first with good grace and later with a fierce sense of bonding. Because of this connection, Sundog adopts some human behaviors, the most touching of which is an interest in sharing, a concept not normally associated with canine behavior. He and Steve come to share ice cream cones lick by lick and, later, popcorn, something that normal dogs have absolutely no interest in. That both these experiences come to grief provides a fascinating instance of how much and how little two species, with the best will in the world, can fail to understand each other.
The tribe is increased with the arrival of other dogs, the cats, and the birds, all of whom find their own place in the unit's social structure. How they do so and what results from this is a central theme of the book, the other being -- perhaps -- the price animals pay for joining together with humans in social units. It is very hard to decide once one reaches the end whether to be inspired or depressed. Thomas offers good reasons to feel both emotions; what is unusual is that she is adept at making you feel them both at once, and profoundly.
For me, however, not knowing whether to laugh or cry was the least of it. Thomas is one of those fortunate people who are completely at ease in the world of light and the world of darkness, able to discern order in the worst of chaos and to point out disorder rippling beneath the surface of the most orderly behavior. I share the same ability, but for me it is turned inside out. I yearn for freedom when my life becomes bound by discipline; yearn for order when everything slips helplessly into muddle and confusion.
This exactly defines my relationship with my dog, a large and very self-assured Siberian husky. Although he accepted me as the alpha member in the pack, he was not at all interested in becoming part of a master/pet relationship. I understood this but what followed was as painful as it was rewarding, and at times it was very, very painful. What do you do with a dog who wants the freedom to be himself? You can't turn him loose in the wild; you can't let him run wild in civilization, because the consequences will only come back to haunt you.
Because of this, after Mick died, I've never been able to consider becoming a dog owner again, although I profoundly miss having a dog in my life. The Social Lives of Dogs showed me that, even after two decades, the old wounds are still raw, the old desire still rages in my heart. But it doesn't offer a clue about what to do about this, except perhaps to become a large enough person to be able to handle both.