Until I lost four close relations 40 years ago and suffered from acute depression as a result, I had not thought of myself as in any way intuitive. I thought intuition was an artsy-fartsy sort of mental posturing. But, suffering the loss of my best dog, an uncle, my best friend, and my father in less than a year, and lacking emotional support from my wife, whom I later divorced, I went into therapy. It did not take my therapist long to conclude that I was very intuitive—a surprise to me and a conclusion which I doubted for some time.
As I recovered and realized my continuing knack with animals of all sorts—parakeets, cats, dogs, and horses—, I came to realize that intuition was playing a part on both sides of those relationships and was important to my success as an animal whisperer. Most dogs, unless badly damaged by their owners, intuit my empathy for them which attracts them to me. One canine story illustrates the point: canines have intuitions about me and my empathy for them.
At dusk on a wintery New Year’s Eve afternoon, a light snow falling in the darkening day, I visited the wolf yard at the Cleveland Zoo with three out-of-town friends. To view the yard, we descended into an underground room with a narrow, double-paned window with one-way glass panes. We watched the pack walking among the large standing and fallen trees and large boulders for several minutes; then my friends left for other exhibits. I remained to observe the pack, particularly, its leader. Almost at that moment, he turned, approached the window, and stopped directly in front of me; only about a foot and a half separated us. Although he could not smell, hear, or see me, he sensed me. He peered intently at me, and I peered as intently at him. It was a mesmerizing moment; there are no eyes like a wolf’s eyes. When I slowly, quietly turned to leave, he lingered for a moment, then rejoined his pack.
Acquiring Jewel, nee Mercedes, was a case of two fortunate intuitions. I have told this story in a previous blog, but it bears repeating. Anticipating retirements of two old, large dogs, I went to the Animal Services Center of the Mesilla Valley in search of a companion for my small terrier blend. Walking by the dog pens generated the usual responses: dogs rushing to the front, yelping to be taken or barking to drive me away. Only this time, I also got a response by a dog who sat and stared at me from the back of her pen. The card for her said “shy”—pound-speak for “abused.” All of my 19 dogs have been rescues, most abused. Even so, this dog’s behavior was unusual by their standard. I moved on.
I came to the pen of a non-descript dog, slender body, long legs, whippy tail, and yellow coat—the kind of dog who, in stories set in the South, is known as a “yaller dog.” I liked her looks, filled out the paperwork, paid the fees, and named her “Yaller.” Yet, on the way home, I had an intuition which raised the question whether this dog was a cat-killer. The answer came as soon as we arrived, by which time Yaller had bonded to me. I always bring a new dog into the house on a leash. When I walked with her out onto the porch, my calico attacked her and scared her so badly that she nearly pulled me over trying to get away. Message sent and received. The next day, still leashed, Yaller twice lunged at my mackerel tabby. Answer confirmed. The next day I returned Yaller to the pound (and recommended her as a pet for a family without cats).
I then took a second look at the unusual dog. In the meet-and-greet pen, she paid no attention to me—which surprised me since most dogs recognize me as a friend and come to me. Again, my intuition kicked in that this dog and I would work out just fine; I gave her a name which proclaimed her a gem. Home we went and bonded on the way. The bonding confirmed my intuition. The working out which I had intuited extended to my other dogs and my cats, with whom she got along well from the start. Thirty hours after her adoption, Jewel and I were walking together, she on a leash. She saw a man at some distance approaching; the hair on her back went up, she began growling, and she elevated her concern to barking—all to protect me. She soon showed herself to be the smartest and most expressively affectionate dog whom I have owned. Day begins with her jumping up on the bed, lying down beside me, and going belly up for me to rub it while she licks my face.
I intuit one more thing about Jewel. She did not seem to me to completely fit the bill as a Shepsky, a blend of German Shepherd and Husky. The DNA test showed her to be 21.0% German Shepherd, 44.9% Husky, and 34.1% anyone’s guess. Some small fraction of that 34.1% consists of traces from five other breeds, but most of it remains unidentified. I requested the testing company to check for coyote DNA; it reported no trace of it.
Probably because I have a romantic streak in me, I sense an element of wildness in her. My perception ignores the features which the DNA analyst says are stray DNA bits and pieces—most canines are genetic stews with genetic seasonings—and urges that their combination is more than chance. Jewel’s snout is narrow; her eyes are yellow; the base of the backs of her erect, pointed ears are reddish; she has one black spot at the base of her tail, and its tip is black. She looks and runs like a coyote. She is very intelligent and wary of strangers. She collects trash on walks and buries it. If I am right—I trust my intuition—, the pound sold me a coydog, a hybrid illegal in Las Cruces. Fortunately for Jewel and me, the DNA evidence would refute any City Attorney’s allegation and save the pound from prosecution; my intuition would count for nothing in court. Still, I shall trust it and make myself happy by thinking her a coydog.
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