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First Person: Finding One's Inner Dog
1/14/2004

By Chris Coughlan-Smith
My in-laws are dogs. They're an enormous Irish Catholic family that loves large gatherings—graduation parties, holidays, birthdays, reunion picnics. They laugh and sing and argue and then they start all over again. At Christmas, nearly three-dozen young cousins bound toward the tree and open presents in one wild, 30-second orgy of flying gift wrap. In my family we took turns, then passed each gift around for quiet admiration. My in-laws are the kind of people who bring musical instruments to wedding receptions. When a cousin on my English Presbyterian side of the family recently announced her engagement to be married, I asked what kind of dance band they planned to have. "We do not," she informed me, "dance at weddings."

You might have guessed that I was raised as a cat. I'm often slow to warm up in social situations, can come off as aloof, and can't help but come running when I hear the can opener. I tend to hang on to my grudges and can be finicky, a loner, and—especially when tired—prone to hissing. While these are not necessarily things I like about myself, I never found them to be much of a problem.

Then I had kids.

Every one of my four children is a puppy. The genetic odds of this happening bewilder me. But there they are: boisterous, energetic, spontaneous. They wrestle with each other and their parents. And like all pups, they need to be led, shaped, shown the value of those dog-like qualities of loyalty and trust. They need an alpha wolf.

The thing is, I'd always felt that dogs were overrated. My boyhood friend Robby had a big brown mutt named George. George was noisy and needy and seriously lacking in personal hygiene, deportment, and self-respect. He slobbered on us and whatever ball we were playing with. When we came up to the plate in kickball, George would race in to sniff us (if you know what I mean) right in front of the girls. Inside Robby's house, I'd seen George do worse.

I took to cats as a preschooler, when a big, orange vagabond tomcat took up with us for a few years before moving on. Over the years I've owned four cats (although who can say they've ever really owned a cat?), the last one, Spike, exhibiting some fairly dog-like qualities.

Violating the first rule of cats—that when encountering your so-called owner on the street, the proper response is a cool, "Do I know you?"—Spike would follow me around outdoors. He would wait with me at the bus stop until I boarded and then trot home. Living in a house full of men trying to finish college (that's another essay), Spike became accustomed to loud gatherings and poker games and would position himself square in the middle of the action. He had a gentle nature, but I just got the feeling that, if there were ever trouble, I could count on Spike to be right there with me, tooth and claw. Spike had an inner dog.

Thanks to my kids, I've found that I, too, have an inner dog. I'd already realized that there are things about dogs I admire. They're loyal, guileless, and pretty content if treated right. If trained (unlike George), they can even attain a certain level of dignity. And their enthusiasm for pretty much any activity is commendable. Like my in-laws, they seem to enjoy just being alive. Dogs are party people; cats stay home.

One Halloween, when my two oldest kids were still preschoolers, I found my inner dog. We were at one of those well-intentioned, understaffed Halloween events designed to keep us city-dwellers off the dark and freezing sidewalks. Full of hope and expectation, I led my little Tigger and Luke Skywalker by the hand toward the gymnasium. But instead of the calm little group of cute preschoolers and doting parents I had anticipated, the place was a boiling sea of insanity. There was screaming, heat, bright costumes in motion, running, pushing, falling, and parents yelling, "Who's in charge here?!" Young event volunteers were trapped behind their games, each tiny fortress in danger of being overrun by sugared-up kids demanding more.

I edged us toward an open space along the back wall. A skeleton loomed up and ran off. Dracula raced by, baring his fangs. Ninjas swam by with swords flashing, swarms of witches and mummies appeared, even a poor kid in a Barney suit snarled menacingly. I stood as if paralyzed, a grown man wishing his mommy would come lift him by the nape and carry him away from this nightmare.

But through the pounding inside my head (was that my heart or enemy drums?) I was aware that there were choices to be made. We could flee to safety and live forever with my cowardice and the memory of that one lame, candyless Halloween. Or I could find my inner dog. I looked down. My son, Merritt, stoic in his brown Jedi cape, still gamely swinging his plastic pumpkin—his empty plastic pumpkin—while his little sister, Rose, bounced against my legs, chewing her Tigger tail. They were eager. But they needed their alpha wolf.

Merritt looked up at me. "Well?" he mouthed. I tightened my grip on their hands and shouted, "Let's play some games!" I growled as we pressed through the perimeter of parents and into the fray. Yes, we warmed up on the less besieged activities like tossing bean bags, but soon we were in there fighting for space at the front of the balloon-and-dart game and hitting tennis balls into a clown's mouth. We could do this. I could do this. This was . . . kind of fun.

Don't get me wrong, I'll never entirely become a dog. I still sometimes need to step outside "for some air" at family gatherings. I still like solitary pursuits like reading and running. But I can call up my inner dog when I need it now. I've played bongos at a wedding reception. I dress up for Halloween. I've even found myself barking—figuratively, so far—at skittish cat people whose fondest desire is for children to be neither seen nor heard. I can't believe I was once one of them.

A few years ago, at an event sponsored by a local cat shelter, I found quite a few of these types. I had brought the kids across the street after church hoping to see a few cats. There were displays and videos and products for sale, but the room with animals available for adoption was guarded more tightly than the Oval Office. Sharp-eyed volunteers were on the lookout for children, a nervous cat's worst enemy.

"You can't go in there," a volunteer told us as we angled toward the door. "Unless," she added, looking coolly down at the children, "you're here to adopt." I didn't want to lie, at least not in front of the kids and having just come out of church, so we veered away. I spied a kind-looking volunteer near one of the doors and approached her. "We're not going to adopt today," I admitted. "But someday we will. Is there any chance you could just let us in there so my kids can see how nice cats are?"

It worked. We entered the adoption area to alarmed stares and whispers, but our ally proceeded to show us a few of the calmer animals. She lifted a fluffy gray cat out of its carrier and held it so the kids could touch him. My little Clara, who has learned how not to be ignored, pushed her way to the front. This set off some jostling and I growled to restore calm. The cat took it in stride, but it was too late. One of the pricklier attendants confronted us. "The cats are not here for your amusement," he smirked. "They've been through a lot already." My inner dog snarled. I've never been quick-witted, so the best I could come up with was, "You cat people need to lighten up."

The Beatrix Potter character Tabitha Twitchit is an anxious parent—a cat, of course. Trying to maintain her dignity in the face of her misbehaving kittens, she whines to her uptight Cousin Ribby, "What a thing it is to have an unruly family!" Yes, but if you lighten up and find your inner dog when you need it, it is a blessed thing. If the kittens must grow into cats, let them be like Spike.

As a matter of fact, I'm thinking of getting a dog.

Chris Coughlan-Smith is senior editor of Minnesota.

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