Dog Love

When I drive to the park with Nicholai, he sits in the front passenger seat, body facing me, eyes forward. With his left front paw plopped on my shoulder, he leans toward me, a self-styled, hyper-cool, gold-chain-wearing type guy, casually possessive of his old lady. At least once per trip – if not several times – he lays his head on my shoulder and nuzzles my neck with his wet nose. I am always inclined to nuzzle him back, and kiss the top of his furry black head.

I've read expert opinions about dogs – and other animals – that they don't experience emotions, their behaviors all serve simple biological needs. You've got to be kidding me, I think when I read such a treatise, have you ever lived with … even a gerbil? I don't claim to know or understand what Nicholai and my other dogs think and feel, only that they do. I'm not sure we can ever solve the dilemma of understanding animals, as long as we humans can barely understand each other.

The word 'love' is used to communicate a tumult of sense, emotion, action, and understanding between humans. The vast amount of drama and miscommunication resulting from mismatched expectations around love should make it clear: even for us, the word is utterly inadequate. As Mark Doty says in his book, Dog Years, it's less a description, and more "a sign saying this way to the mountain top."

Maybe Nicholai licks my face as a remnant of baby wolf behavior. Perhaps he runs to see me when I get home as a rush to protect his territory. I suppose he might jump onto the bed and roll to his side, offering his belly for a rub, solely to demonstrate his subservience to the provider of his meals. And maybe he sits in the front seat of the car, hanging on me and pawing at me because … because what? What is that behavior, if not relational? And heck, if his actions don't indicate his love for me, no problem – at least they inspire me to love him. And at the end of the day, I'm the only one whose feelings I really know, animal or human.