23 minute read
THE LIFE
The Wonder Of Dogs
For many of us, a life without animal companions would be a lesser life.
I had a dog once that played music. Really. Any time my friend Gil and I got out our guitars, Ricky grabbed a squeaky toy, planted himself between us, and started making noise. He had no sense of time or rhythm—it was pure skronking jazz—but this Belgian Tervuren was into the music. Whenever he heard the Cheers theme on TV, he began, uh, singing along. We have many audio tapes, but alas, no video of him while he wailed. He would be a viral sensation today.
It’s been more than 20 years since Ricky died, but I think about him a lot. I think often about all the dogs that have graced my life. No other canine has shown any degree of musical aptitude, though I have tried mightily. But each one has been a good friend, and each has taught me something about myself. I couldn’t live without a dog. They are my companions, friends, and teachers.
Humans, especially Americans, are animal crazy. As of 2018, according to Statista, a statistics portal for market data, 60 percent of US households included a dog, and 47 million had a cat. That’s 80 to 90 million dogs, give or take a few million. Many have both, and that doesn’t count the multitude of fi sh, rabbits, ferrets, iguanas, snakes, birds, guinea pigs, mice, hamsters, and other animals we keep. Maybe we’re not all Leona Helmsley, the hotelier who left most of her inheritance to Trouble, a Maltese who lived in luxury until she died at age 12, yet we managed to spend almost $70 billion on our companion animals in 2017, half of that on food and treats, and we’re on target to spend more this year.
I was afraid of dogs as a child and grew up with the general belief that non-human animals— we are all animals, after all—acted solely by instinct. The diff erence between humans and other animals, we were told, is that we humans are sentient, conscious, emotional beings, and other animals aren’t. Animals belong to us, the reasoning went. Not being around them, I didn’t give it much thought until I got my fi rst dog at age 27. I’ve never been without one since.
A big part of the disconnect about whether animals are conscious beings is that they can’t tell us what or how they’re feeling or how
intelligent they are in a language that, as smart as we are, we can understand. Their “intelligence,” such as it is, might not resemble ours, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It’s not hard to fi nd YouTube videos that show ravens and crows making complex decisions to get food. Border collies have been trained to distinguish between hundreds of words. Watching the famous video of Robin Williams and Koko the ape interacting, it’s hard not to suggest they are showing genuine empathy for each other while rubbing each other’s bellies and laughing.
We can put GoPros on their heads to see the world from their point of view, and The New York Times reported recently that a canine researcher is performing MRIs on dogs to try to see inside their brains, but there is still no way we can experience life as animals do. That’s a secret they keep to themselves, and it drives us crazy. When I once suggested to a researcher in Yellowstone it would be cool to be inside a coyote’s brain for fi ve minutes, he replied that he would give anything for just one second inside there.
Dominion vs. Domination
The way we look at animals has changed a lot, especially over the last 50 years, and we are fi nally coming to terms with animal sentience, or at least the concept that animals have feelings, too. The Biblical injunction comes early, in its fi rst chapter. “And God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness,’” Genesis 1:26 reads. “And let them have dominion over the fi sh of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.”
That one word in there—dominion—has proved problematic. What does dominion really mean? Does it mean we humans must exert control over all other creatures or be their caretakers? Marc Bekoff is an ethologist (someone who studies the science of animal behavior) and researcher who has been working with animals his entire life. “A lot of this is driven from the view that as humans we are a superior species, and we are allowed to do what we want,” he says. “But dominion doesn’t mean domination.”
Religion has played its role, he explains, in passages like the one above that claim only humans have souls. “Another reason is that if you distance yourself from other animals,” Bekoff says, “it allows you to do what you want.”
This kind of detachment allows us to control animals, whether that means shooting them for trophies, keeping them in zoos, or producing them for research purposes. “In terms of industry, you can understand where people come from,” Bekoff says. Allowing that animals have feelings changes that dynamic considerably and begs even more questions.
That humans are unique was accepted dogma for most of human history. Charles Jonkel, the recently deceased bear biologist, grew up poor but learned to trap and hunt at an early age as part of a subsistence family. When he went to school in the 1950s, bear biology was a relatively new fi eld. Jonkel already knew a thing or two about animal behavior, but he also knew to
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CBD 4 K9s
CBD is all the rage these days—and not only for humans. More and more veterinarians are learning about this compound and are now suggesting it to their canine patients for pain relief, anxiety and behavior issues, and in ammation, especially in older dogs.
A clinical study from Cornell released earlier this year suggests that CBD oil can help increase comfort for dogs with osteoarthritis. My local humane society now stocks CBD products, and my vet says she hasn’t found any real downsides, although she suggests talking with a doctor about medications the dog might already be taking before starting a CBD protocol.
There are lots of choices, but one place to start might be Mary’s Whole Pet, a new farm-to-table line from Mary’s Medicinals and Elite Botanicals. All plants used for the oil are grown on an organic, chemical- and pesticide-free family farm in Colorado, and the list of products includes drops (in two potencies based on weight), capsules of di erent dosages, and a transdermal gel pen for fast-acting relief for dry skin, cracked nose or paws, or surface wounds.
One warning: THC, the compound generally associated with the cannabis high, should never be given to dogs. Keep your edible products away from your canine companions. Because it’s federally illegal, no scienti c tests have been done on dosage levels for animals. As suggested with humans, start low and go slow to nd the right dose. And always remember that every animal is di erent; what works for some won’t work for others.
keep his opinions about animal intelligence and sensitivity to himself because, as he explained it, that wouldn’t help get you a degree. In those days, he said, you didn’t talk about that kind of stuff out loud, and it wasn’t until he graduated that he was able to pursue his real studies.
Bekoff has worked with and written books with Jane Goodall, perhaps the best-known ethologist for her work with apes. When they started writing about animal sentience, they ran into the same kind of resistance for questioning established beliefs. “For a long time, Jane and I were kinda sideshows,” he admits. “We got heavily criticized for talking about the emotional lives of animals. But I basically really believed in what I was doing and kept doing it.”
Bekoff ’s view of dominion has more to do with stewardship than domination, based around the concept that humans, the dominant species, are charged with taking care of what we have. And though humans might consider themselves more intelligent than animals, we really have to try and see things from the animal’s perspective. “It’s not how smart an individual animal is, it’s what they feel,” Bekoff says. “We’re all smart in some ways, but there are diff erent types of intelligence. Rats are really smart. Maybe not as smart as humans, but they have emotional lives just the same.”
Companion Animals
What does this have to do with the way we interact with our dogs? I scoff ed originally when the city of Boulder, Colorado, changed the word “owner” to “guardian” in its ordinances almost two decades ago. It’s nothing more than a symbolic gesture, one of those “only in Boulder” things, I told myself, agreeing with a city attorney who at the time called it “social engineering.”
I have since come to appreciate the distinction. Ownership, as noted above, suggests that you can do whatever the hell you want, and, at its worst leads to behavior that obliterates all distinctions and leads to atrocities like dog- or cockfi ghting. Thinking of yourself as a guardian instead of an owner suggests a diff erent way to approach your responsibility toward your animal companions.
One of the best places to learn about dog behavior is dog parks, the
fastest growing segment of city parks these days. Most major US cities have at least one, and they have become a kind of a cultural phenomenon. In his new book, Canine Confi dential: Why Dogs Do What They Do, Bekoff says dog parks are like rich petri dishes of dog culture, working classrooms for human/ canine understanding and citizen science on the subject.
“They’re gold mines for learning about both dogs and people,” he writes. “Visits can serve as myth breakers or icebreakers. For hours on end, the interactions never stop: dogs are watching dogs, people are watching dogs, dogs are watching people, and people are watching one another as they care for, play with, and try to manage their dogs.”
I’ve spent some time in dog parks in the last few years, and Canine Confi dential, which is written in a casual, conversational style, reinforces the things I’m learning and pushes me to learn even more. “Life is very vivid to animals. In many cases, they know who they are,” says Carl Safi na, whose Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel is a scientifi c and observational study of elephant, wolf, and whale interaction and societies. “They know who their friends are and who their rivals are. They have ambitions for higher status. They compete. Their lives follow the arc of a career, like ours do.”
Thinking about animals in that context provides a much better way to look at my dog. Rather than drag her away when she wants to spend time sniffi ng at a certain spot or chastising her every time she gets into a scuffl e, I try to see it from her point of view.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that, if we just allow them, dogs can be our teachers and not just our pets. We can learn a lot from them. I have had an exceptionally diffi cult time with my dogs’ deaths. But I have also come to realize that, hard as they are, those deaths are a reminder that life is precious and that grieving is a part of it, too. It’s their fi nal lesson for us, and it’s a big one.
Though I’m still looking for another dog that can make music like Ricky, I’ve learned that every dog is unique and special in its own way. We have come a long way, but we still have a long way to go, and it can never come too quickly for Bekoff . “The bottom line,” he says, “is that if we’re going to make change, we need to recognize sentience.”
What I learned as a digital nomad—and what I’ll do di erently next time.
TEXT ROBYN GRIGGS LAWRENCE
LESSONS FROM THE UNEASY HIGHWAY
My summer gig on Orcas Island just fell apart after a week. I don’t know where to go.
I’ve parked my Airstream at the Deerwood RV Resort on the outskirts of Eugene, Oregon, so I can fi gure things out. It’s raining. I know that’s what it does here, but every drop feels personal. I’ve been on the road for two years, traveling from San Diego to the San Juans, with detours to Spain and Mexico and Michigan and a few stops to see my kids in Denver. I’m gritty.
Campgrounds have just reopened after the early pandemic lockdowns. A startling number of Cruise America rentals are fi ling into Deerwood, tentatively driven (and more tentatively parked) by a whole new class of RVer: techies from Silicon Valley, gay couples from San Francisco, and families from Seattle—younger adults with full-time jobs and no interest in pickleball or water aerobics.
Watching the rain pelt the couple next to me as they wrestle with their sewer lines, all I can think about is how these new nomads (“newmads”) are going to make fi nding a place to park the Flying Cloud—already next to impossible because RV infrastructure hasn’t kept up with the number of vehicles on the road—impossible. Even before this infl ux, reservations at state parks and desirable RV resorts needed to be made months in advance.
It’s the week after Memorial Day. I’m screwed.
On the radio, Kenny Loggins sings “Celebrate Me Home,” a ballad lamenting the uneasy highway.
As I sing along, “and I never know where I belong,” I start crying.
I don’t want to do this anymore—ricocheting from place to place; retreating to hotels and Airbnbs when living in a trailer gets claustrophobic, then moving back into the trailer when other people’s rules get claustrophobic; bunking with friends to ward off loneliness; falling in love with other people’s dogs and having to leave them. I need a home to go home to again.
I’ll sell the trailer to one of these newmads and settle down near my kids for a while. Think about what just happened. Figure out how I’ll do this better next time.
Here’s what I know.
I WON’T BUY ANOTHER AIRSTREAM (OR ANY RV).
This is hard to admit, because my nomad dreams were so wrapped up in romantic ideas about touring around in an Airstream, but the shiny trailer never sparked the kind of joy it should have for all the money it cost—and kept on costing—in aftermarket products, ongoing maintenance, licensing, insurance, gas (my truck averaged about 13 mpg when hauling), and hookups at campgrounds and RV resorts (when I could get them). On the West Coast, the minimum per night in a campground where I felt safe was $55, and the nicest parks run well over $100 a night. When I was lucky enough to book a parking spot for a month, it cost around $1,600—about the same as the mortgage I’d been paying on an appreciating home in Boulder.
A Sprinter van would have given me a lot more freedom and mobility, and I hope to try one for an extended trip (they’re too small for me to live in full time, though lots of people do). I can rent one for somewhere between $70 and $700 a night, meaning I could journey for two weeks in a basic wagon for around $1,000 or the most tricked-out, badass mobile out there for about $10,000. Either way, I’ll spend a fraction of what it would cost me to buy, outfi t, license, insure, and maintain a van of my own.
I’LL EXPLORE CO-LIVING.
RVing wasn’t for me, but I did like how easy it was to meet people in RV parks and campgrounds. There’s instant community when travelers circle their wagons (and there’s a hot tub). I didn’t realize how much I needed that camaraderie until I spent a month in an Airbnb on Bankers Hill in San Diego, where I knew no one. I made a couple unsuccessful attempts to connect with humans—a coworking space, Tinder—and spent a lot of time alone. (Loneliness, it should be noted, is consistently the number-one thing that causes digital nomads to give it up and go back home.)
Digital Newmads
Digital nomads (aka digital gypsies) are people who use technology to do their jobs from anywhere on the planet. According to the Jerusalem Post, you have to move locations at least three times in a year to qualify. And workers are doing it in increasing numbers. • The number of digital nomads in America has gone up by 49 percent, from 7.3 million in 2019 to 10.9 million in mid2020, a study by Emergent Research and MBO
Partners found. • There are 35 million digital nomads of every nationality living and working across the globe, according to a 2021 survey by the website A Brother
Abroad. • While vacation paradises from Anguilla to Bermuda to Costa Rica to
Dubai are all attempting to lure remote workers with year-long visas and incentives, Mexico is home to the most (14 percent), followed by
Thailand and Portugal, A
Brother Abroad found.
My mood and perspective changed completely when I moved to a co-living house on the beach in Encinitas, the surfer paradise just north of San Diego. I got to chat with fellow travelers over coff ee in the morning and share sunsets with them in the evening, and everyone was respectful of each other’s work needs during the day. It felt like college again, but with people who have been to cool places and done inspiring things.
As more people discover co-living, its popularity has soared— even through the pandemic. Rates at Outsite and other companies that off er private and shared rooms in houses around the world have skyrocketed since I stayed in early 2020 (like everything, I guess). Coliving.com, a sort of Airbnb for co-living houses, off ers some more-aff ordable options.
I’LL STAY LONGER IN FEWER PLACES.
In two years, I spent a week or more in 24 locations. That’s not the way to do this.
According to a survey conducted this year by the website A Brother Abroad (abrotherabroad.com), digital nomads overwhelmingly prefer to stay in one place for about six months at a time. Longer stays let you relax and get to know a place, embed in the community. They’re also easier on the body (travel takes its toll), a lot more conducive to getting work done, and more aff ordable (long-term stays are cheaper, and getting from place to place always costs something.)
I’m working through my commitment issues. Next time, I’ll stop and stay a while.
I’LL BUDGET.
I recently read the average digital nomad spends $1,875 per month, or $22,500 per year—and I was incredulous. I consistently spent double that, sometimes triple in expensive California.
I wasn’t prepared for how much everything cost. Next time, I’ll be more responsible. It’s not that
hard—I don’t even have to learn QuickBooks. Apps like Destigogo and The Earth Awaits are available to help me calculate where I can aff ord to travel based on my time frame and how much money I have. Radical.
I’LL GET MAIL SERVICE.
I never got counted in the 2020 Census. I was having mail sent to a friend’s house in Boulder when it happened, and the letter with the code I needed to get counted online never made it to me. There was a lot going on at my friend’s house, and forwarding my mail wasn’t a priority. I get it.
I chose to use my friend’s address not because I was worried about my mail—I pay my bills and do most transactions online anyway—but because of all the things attached to an address, from health insurance to vehicle and voter registration. I like having Colorado plates and voting in a blue state.
But next time, I’ll spring for a professional mail service like PostScan Mail or Earth Class Mail to sort, scan, and shred my mail, then send digital copies and forward important documents (like the Census letter) and checks (I may have missed a few of those, too). Most of these companies are in Texas and South Dakota, which have low income tax rates and loose residency requirements, and they can also help me become a citizen of one of those states even if I never live in them. I’m not down with the way those states restrict their citizens’ rights, though, so I doubt I’ll ever check that box.
I’LL BRING MY OWN WI-FI.
Finding reliable Wi-Fi is digital nomads’ number-one complaint.
Being able to hotspot my phone was a lifesaver when I started traveling in 2018, but it never gave me all the bandwidth I needed to work and watch Netfl ix. I was constantly data starved.
The good news is, portable WiFi technology (like all technology) has improved exponentially over the past couple years, and now I can buy a high-speed portable hotspot like the Skyroam Solis, which can handle unlimited data and up to 10 devices.
I’ll also research Wi-Fi speeds before I plan an extended stay in another country because some don’t have the bare minimum to support remote work, and this is beyond frustrating. The Digi-
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PLEASE CONSUME RESPONSIBLY. IF YOU FEEL DIFFERENT YOU DRIVE DIFFERENT
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tal Nomad Index (circleloop.com/ nomadindex) and Nomad List (nomadlist.com) give good snapshots of global internet speeds, and provide a lot more info nomads need.
I’LL BRING MY OWN COFFEE.
If coff ee doesn’t matter to you, you can skip this section. (I’ll never understand you.)
Too many times, while staying at Airbnbs or dog sitting or visiting friends, I found myself in a kitchen in the morning without a way to make coff ee. It seems unfathomable to me, but apparently some people are not caff eine junkies and they overlook this morning ritual.
I put together this kit to make sure I never have to wake up without caff eine again: • An Aeropress (a plastic tube with a plunger that makes an excellent cup of coff ee) • A stainless steel reusable fi lter for Aeropress • A portable immersion heater (a
little clip you put inside a cup to heat water) • Ground coff ee • Powdered milk (I like my coff ee brown)
I’LL BRING MY DOG.
My Catahoula died right before I hit the road. I borrowed a friend’s toy poodle for the fi rst leg of my journey, but when I had to give him back after four months, loneliness set in. Not having a pet makes traveling easier and gives you more options—just watch how many available rental properties drop out when you fi lter for “pets allowed”—but extended travel without a best friend was unbearable for me.
The fi rst thing I did when I landed in a home again was adopt a senior Shih Tzu. He’s grumpy but adaptable enough to travel. I’ll plan my next journey around his needs.
I’LL BRING LESS STUFF.
Before I set out, I bragged about getting rid of everything that didn’t fi t into my Airstream. That wasn’t entirely true. I stashed furniture with my kids and friends, and I had to rent a storage unit for the bins full of memorabilia and photographs I couldn’t let go. I cursed my sentimentality every month when I paid that bill.
Even after spending months purging almost everything I owned, I still carried around things I didn’t need and never used, detritus that weighed me down and cost me—in gas to haul my overstuff ed trailer and in baggage fees when I transferred clothes I never wore into a big pink suitcase to travel by air.
Everything I need to live my life, full stop, can fi t into a carry-on suitcase and a backpack. That’s what I’ll take next time, no matter where I go. Unencumbered. No excuses.
I’LL WORRY LESS, APPRECIATE MORE.
At least, I hope I will. I’m always working on this one.
