I would never presume to understand a dog.
I want to.
I read books by educated people and scientists and behaviorists and I try to.
The closest I’ve been is the other day… for a short period of time, at least.
I watched five dogs on the mountain have a tremendous day.
They dug holes and sniffed smells and rolled in a disgusting something-or-other (which smell must mean something totally different to them) and ran and dodged and ducked and drank from a mountain spring and ran and barked and played tag and dug more holes and watched us humans (briefly) and laid down in the sunshine and slept.
They begged tidbits of food from our lunch.
They asked for a stick to be thrown and it was.
They asked for a scratch behind their ears and they received it.
They laid in the shade and slept.
They chased birds and missed.
They cornered rock chucks under an old log cabin and got excited and barked and dug and tried to pull the logs off of the cabin to reach their prey (which, unfortunately for them, ended with their stupid owners forcing them to quit and LEAVE IT!)
Lastly, they loaded in the pickup and rode quietly down the mountain.
I think, right then, as we pulled through the gate, that THAT DAY… THAT DAY full of doggy activities practiced full bore and unleashed and uncollared must have been a day of which DOGGY HEAVEN must be made.
How could it *not* have been bliss?