Today we started out on a walk, first stopping to let the dog eat the ripe blackberries, as she loves to do these days. Then she insisted we stop and say hello to a gardener, by lowering herself to the ground and straining toward him on the leash. Normally she ignores the people we come across, but somehow she knows when someone wants to pet her. She was right; the man gave her a good rub, telling me he had lots of dogs at home.
Many people assume, never having let their dogs off lead before, that their vivacious dogs will behave the same way toward strangers they meet in the park as they do when a stranger comes to their home. My dog positively swoons with joy whenever anyone comes to the house, she's so glad to see new humans.
But when she's off lead, she generally ignores humans who cross her path. Once in a while, though, she'll make subtle eye contact, then pause for the hand that's invariably proffered. It's as if she knows that person is a special breed, one of us humans who are invigorated by touching a dog.
How do they know this? It must be instinctual—dogs depend on humans for their survival, after all.
It's like knowing which berries are ripe and which are not.
What I can't figure out, though, is how she knew today, when we were stopped at the corner to wait for a car, that when the car slowed down and signaled to turn that it was okay to start across the street, before I'd even made a move, not one I could detect, anyway.
Surely the ability to read a car's language is not inborn in a dog? I suppose people who trust their seeing eye dogs to know when to cross the street wouldn't be surprised at how quickly a dog learns when it's okay to step off the curb. Their life depends on it, after all.
Speaking of, you might enjoy reading The Seeing Eye Report, a first hand account of how Jared and his dog Kerry learned to work together. (Via Philobiblion)
