They Don't Know

One of the bizarre advantages I had as an assistant dog was my nearly absolute ignorance. I really knew nothing about dogs. The first time we stopped so she could eat grass, I was baffled. When someone nearby called out, "Eating grass, huh? Well, you know what that means!"

Actually, I didn't. That meant when Oz finished with the grass, plopped down on her tail, and vomited, I was horrified. Dear god, what's wrong!

Apparently, nothing. Apparently, people who know dogs know that they sometimes eat grass to calm an upset stomach—and that they throw it up again. Who would have known?

What this meant, though, was that I was in a continual state of discovery. I never knew if they were dog things or Oz things. I would just make a little note: Oz doesn't mind the leash. Oz loves water, but hates slippery rocks. And so on.

One thing I noticed, though, was how poorly people who think they understand their dogs understand their dogs. To be blunt, they don't know jack about them.

I remember one time we were walking along a road in Sudden Valley. A door opened, and a woman came out with two large-ish dogs on leashes. We were just getting to that yard, and were on that side of the road. Oz wanted to say hi, but we didn't know the dogs, so I asked, "Should we cross the street?"

"Oh no," she said. "They're always friendly."

At that point, they both leapt at Oz, snarling. When they couldn't get to her, they looped back around their "owner," so that the woman's arms were folded around herself and she was essentially tied up with their leashes. They started dragging her toward us, but slowly, due to all the confusion. We left.

They're always friendly.

Riiight.