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Your Dog Doesn't Love You

The cold, hard truth about your furry friend

By LibbyPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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Your dog doesn't love you.

I know. That sounds harsh, but it's the truth. We, as humans have an expansive vocabulary that allows each word to have a unique set of rules and stipulations which must be met in order to comply with a word's definition. Words like joy, sadness, and love are all words that are easily applied to our fellow humans but are more difficult to apply to our furry friends.

Dogs and cats don't live with the mentality that they must meet certain prerequisites to "love" something. They can cuddle you one moment and then growl at you or scratch you the next because you got too close to their food bowl or pet them the wrong way.

When it's a pet, this sort of behavior is simply them being moody, but if it was a parent, friend, or significant other, we would see this as a cause for concern.

I know my dog doesn't "love" me per-se. My years spent studying animal behavior tell me that it's simply her caudate nucleus - the reward center of her brain - lights up when she smells or sees me. All this really proves is that my dog associates me with rewards. I am simply a positive cue for her, and that sort of mentality definitely doesn't meet the requirements for "love."

Looking from a scientific standpoint, my Staffordshire Terrier-Pitbull Mix only sees me as a source of good things, such as food, walks, play, and treats. I'm the one that provides small comforts, like covering her with a blanket when the temperature drops or buying her stuffed animals even though I know she'll chew them up within minutes (leaving a mess for me to clean later).

Schooling has taught me that Zeida is a social being. Taking after her ancestors, she loves being embedded in a group, but as she's evolved into the modern dog, she has learned to better read human emotions on a basic level. My dog doesn't love me. She has simply learned to respond to me.

That is what the science says.

But then there are moments.

***

I was standing with my arm over the kitchen sink, a trickle of red was just beginning to surface on the thin gash near my inner elbow. I was staring blankly, a warm feeling washing over the entirety of my being.

I had been riding the emotional and mental ebbs and flows all day, simply taking each emotion as it came. But I had also been alone all day and was now feeling the full force of that loneliness.

For anyone unfamiliar, depression takes different forms for different people. This is why every artist and author has their own way of describing it - whether they personify it, turning it into a monster hanging off their shoulders, or they simplify it by drawing a scribbled-out mind - I believe these descriptions of mental illness are less of a creative choice and more of a reflection of how they've learned to cope with what they feel on a day-to-day basis. It helps to know what you're dealing with.

For me, it's a black hole that starts in my chest and starts a slow but agonizing journey or absorption throughout my body. Starting my expanding downwards, creating a pit in my stomach that makes me feel full and empty all at once. Then it moves upward, busying my mind with nothingness - wasting precious mental energy. It's this feeling of dissociation that leaves room for human error. These are the moments when I don't feel right. When I don't feel like myself. I feel destructive and untamable and search for an outlet for these pent-up feelings that threaten to rip me open.

Something to help drain the black hole - to release the pressure. Something to leave an inkling of peace.

Of course, draining the black hole isn't the only option. There are also moments of sweet distraction. They're like a snap back to reality. Sometimes they're sudden and dramatic, like a fire alarm going off in the middle of a silent library. And other times their subtle links to my former self - the person I was before I felt lost.

This time it was subtle - and it came in the form of jangling metal swaying back and forth, clashing against each other as they hung from a rainbow collar.

The noise crashed down on my narrowing field of vision and my head shot up in surprise. Zeida was running toward me with her tail wagging and her tongue out, but when she rounded the corner of the kitchen island to face me, she simply sat down. The jangling of the metal came to a halt, her tongue had rolled back into her mouth, and I was being watched with gorgeous amber eyes. The chef's knife was still balancing in my loose grip, but I suddenly felt self-conscious, maybe even guilty, as Zeida looked up at me with eyes that were too intelligent to be an animal that didn't understand when she was looking at her own reflection.

I began to stand up straight, with certain areas in my back popping joyfully from the release of being hunched over.

I'm not sure if Zeida saw the utensil in my hand and was confused, sensed my emotional shift, or overall just got bad vibes from the situation; Regardless, she whined at me.

Zeida has always been talkative but in the form of barks or low, playful growls. For this reason, her soft whine caught me off guard and forced me to examine her more closely. "Hey..." I used a calming voice and released my already loose grip on the knife, letting it clatter in the sink."It's okay," I tried to reassure Zeida as she jumped from the loud sound of metal on metal. Despite the jump, as I came close Zeida's whining subsided. When she was within my reach, Zeida slowly stepped away, turning her back to me.

Surprised, and a little insulted, I took this as a cue that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. I turned back to the sink to put everything away - removing any evidence of how the morning unfolded. After only a few steps back toward the kitchen island, Zeida began crying once again. Her soft whines broke the painful silence brought on by an empty house, and it made my heart swell.

"It's okay," I tried to reassure Zeida as I maintained eye contact with her, but she wasn't having it. Her whining intensified and she began to walk back toward me, her tail down and head lowered.

I had read plenty of articles about dogs and their tendency to comfort their depressed owners. They would bring toys to keep their owners occupied, follow them around to keep constant watch and approach their owners slowly and cautiously. I knew about all of these incredible behaviors, evidence that dogs are concerned for their owners' wellbeing.

I knew about all of these behaviors but never expected to see them in Zeida.

If Zeida ever applied to be an emotional support dog she would be fired after the first mental breakdown. She's the type of dog to start off by licking your tears away as you cry, but quickly progress to biting your nose and ears from over-excitement. The type of dog to chew up the corner of your comforter while you're trying to sleep after a too-long day. The type of dog to break up a much-needed hug from a family member or friend simply because she's jealous that she isn't the center of attention.

Zeida has never been the comforting type, and so it was never something I expected. But now there was something about how she looked at me - a stare that simultaneously gave me comfort and broke my heart.

"Okay," I said and stepped away from the kitchen once more.

This time around I followed Zeida instead of assuming she was ignoring me. She stopped in front of my favorite rocking chair - a Lazy Boy that engulfs you as you sit down. Every single morning without fail she and I would sit and cuddle, I would wrap her in one of the many blankets she had claimed by chewing holes in it, and she would take her first nap of the day.

Now she was staring and waiting - watching for my next move with a deep expression that somehow looked through me. I grabbed the nearest blanket, only later realizing it was one without any holes in it, bundled it under my arm, sat on the Lazy Boy, and pat my lap.

Without hesitation, Zeida lept onto my lap, made three quick circles, and plopped herself down. I took the blanket out from under my arm and strewed it across Zeida and my legs.

I don't remember how long she and I sat there together, and I don't remember thinking about much as the rest of the day droned on.

Looking back, though, I realize how heartbreakingly special that moment was. It's the reason I miss Zeida with an extra level of intensity whenever I leave home, as though one of my grounding threads has been cut. It's the reason I crave her attention and when I feel myself sinking. So yes, any person working in the realm of animal behavior will tell me that what Zeida did was not a display of love.

Because dogs can't love. That's an emotion strictly reserved for people. It has too many stipulations for the simple life of a dog.

Don't don't love. What they do is so much more powerful and significant. It's unconditional and unbreakable.

So no - your dog doesn't love you. What they do is so much better.

Bad habitsChildhoodFamilyFriendshipHumanitySecretsTabooTeenage years
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About the Creator

Libby

An amateur writer that uses language to escape the real world and destress. I joined for a writing challenge and stayed for the community of writers who love sharing their stories as much as I do.

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