If you consider yourself an avid animal-lover and your animals part of your family, at this time of year you probably receive catalogs devoted to all kinds of toys for pets. Either that or you automatically zero in on the pet section of catalogues or on-line sites that offer more general selection. And if you’re like me and have gone through this ritual for years as well as have heard tales about doing so from others, you know that toys that look like the perfect pet gift to us may may not impress the intended recipient.
Sometimes expensive toys may languish for months or elicit little more than a ho-hum response from our animals when we try to convince them of the merits of our offering. Some of these toys never may succeed in overcoming whatever flaws our nonhuman companions attribute to them. Others suddenly become favorites after being long ignored. The latter events cause us to recall all those sometimes expensive toys we gave away and wonder if we should have kept them until whatever cosmic event that triggers such acceptance occurs again.
So what’s the best toy-related strategy? One that takes into account the concept of self, particularly as it relates to the animal but also as it relates to us.
Because I see a fair number of animals whose response to stress may cause them not to play at all or to play in edgy ways that create more problems than benefits for them and others, I think about play a lot. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that, like anything an animal truly learns, a sense of what comprises a worthy toy must come from within. It must reflect a choice that animals make based on their needs at that time.
Even though this may seem obvious, sometimes we can get so caught up in the all the different training options, devices and drugs that imply we can make animals do whatever we want, the idea that sometimes animals can and do—and I would add should—choose do things by themselves may make us feel uncomfortable. This even may occur if the choice results in the animal behaving in a manner that we personally find beneficial for one reason or another. For example, we may cheer if an animal performs a complex display in response to our commands or to get a treat (which may or may not be the equivalent). But if the animal performs that same behavior in the correct context without any input from us, some of us may feel uneasy. Like we’re not in control. Like maybe animals are smarter than we want to give them credit for because…
Because what? Because they’ll go postal on us? Or because sharing our homes with such beings would require us to provide them with the opportunity to figure things out for themselves and we lack the patience and confidence to do that?
Going back to toys, a recent study confirms something many dog-owners intuitively suspected: toys that carry a strong emotional charge—such as any scents and memories imparted during play with the toy and us—may make them more appealing to our pets than those lacking this association. It also seems reasonable to suggest that toys that carry the animal’s own scent as well as ours would rank higher than those that carry just ours. Hence all those tattered and grungy toys that our pets have played with to a state of near oblivion that we try to hide before any guests arrive. It also explains why animals are more likely to drag out these eyesores at such potentially more stressful times to comfort and relax themselves.
In addition to animals putting more value on toys that carry quality scents and memories, experience tells me that objects with which animals are able to create their own games carry a greater positive emotional charge than those that don’t offer this opportunity. A fairly common game combines a toy with a wild behavior called caching that animals use to hide something of particular value to them. In wild animals, food the animal can’t or doesn’t want to eat for some reason at that particular time ranks as the object most likely to merit caching. But while some companion animals will cache food for this same reason, caching also lies at the heart of many companion animal games created to store treasured toys and other objects.
In addition to personal experiences with my own animals, over the years clients have shared stories of their animals’ caching games that have much to teach us about this behavior. My personal favorite caching experience involved Violet, a corgi, who would stash her grungy rubber bone under my pillow for safe-keeping. Hardly the most restful object for me to sleep on, but once she put it there she always slept soundly herself!
Other dogs dig holes apparently for the specific purpose of storing their special toys outside. Some adopt an approach that seems more akin to the creation of safe houses than stationary treasure chests/holes. In this case, the dog digs a hole and keeps the treasured object in it for a few days with or without a covering of dirt. Then the dog digs another hole and moves the toy to it.
Does the scent of some potential toy-stealer in the area warrant the creation to a new hole? I have no idea. I do know that sometimes if we’re lucky, we can offer the dog a collection of more permanent toy havens—such as some wooden boxes or metal buckets—to use instead. Some dogs will accept these. But for others, ensuring the toy’s safety from real or imaginary threats in a subterranean repository contributes to the toy’s allure.
This brings up another point which is the need to provide animals with the physical and mental security to make up such games on their own. When this security exists, we may find ourselves drawn into these games and fantasies with no memory of how this happened. A case in point involves my dog Ollie who some might consider one of those annoying little dogs who barks ferociously at other animals when we’re in the car. He hunkers down on the back window ledge and the front end of his body assumes what he apparently considers full wolf mode while his back end wiggles with glee. Somewhere along the line I decided that he and I must reach a compromise regarding his game with its associated racket. To that end, I started congratulating him for his skill at causing the other animal to recede at a rate of approximately 35 MPH after only two barks. Whether he initially agreed with this evaluation, the upbeat tone of my voice was enough to terminate the barks and incorporate the 2-bark limit into the game instead.
At some point however, Ollie decided to expand his gaming repertoire to include the life-sized plywood moose in front of the local moose hall. The moose also only gets two barks, but unlike the other dogs whose appearance is random, the moose always lords over the same location. Because of this, it appears that the goal of Ollie’s game is to frighten the moose so badly that he remains frozen in place. As we approach, Ollie vibrates in anticipation lest he miss that brief window of opportunity to stun the moose with his allotted two barks as I drive by. Once he fires these, he watches the moose recede far enough to rule out the possibility of a sneak moose attack from the rear. Then he turns his attention back to keeping us safe from smaller, but more mobile dogs. Although cats, squirrels and people engage his attention, he never barks at them. The nonhuman animals warrant his rapt attention whereas the human ones always cause him to wag his tail rapidly.
And speaking of people, another car game involves Ollie and his mother Frica and occurs when another car pulls up beside us at a red light. The two of them begin pawing frantically at the nearest window while crying pathetically with their tails once again going a mile a minute. Of course, those in the other car can’t see their rear ends because the dogs are so little. All they see are two dogs acting like they’re communicating, “Help! We’re being held prisoners by the woman driving this car! Please save us!” For obvious reasons I don’t enjoy this game as much as they apparently do and at such times it seems like the light remains red forever. But they seem to enjoy it a great deal and once we start moving again, they immediately settle down so I don’t have the heart to stop it.
Meanwhile the games the cat makes up and the tricks he plays on us would fill a whole book. Just about the time I think he can’t possibly surprise us with a new expression of his feline joie de vivre, he does. Whereas vocalizations play a big part in the games the dogs create, Bamboo’s rarely do except for the self-satisfied purr that marks the end of the event. Instead, he prefers to create the impression that he’s a 500-pound ogre thumping up or down the stairs after I’ve turned the lights out. Or that he’s a diabolical feline predator who springs without warning from inside, behind or under an amazing array of furnishes and objects in his always rewarding “Watch the Human and Dogs Jump” game.
I don’t describe the games my animals make up because I believe that they prove how exceptionally intelligent or creative they are. Instead I offer this commentary as a reminder this holiday season of all the wonderful gifts of their unique and creative selves the animals in our lives give us in the form of their made-up games and other feats of joyful creativity. Once you start recall these, I imagine you’ll join me in thinking these memories are among the most precious gifts you’ve received.
If you consider yourself an avid animal-lover and your animals part of your family, at this time of year you probably receive catalogs devoted to all kinds of toys for pets. Either that or you automatically zero in on the pet section of catalogues or on-line sites that offer more general selection. And if you’re like me and have gone through this ritual for years as well as have heard tales about doing so from others, you know that toys that look like the perfect pet gift to us may may not impress the intended recipient.
Sometimes expensive toys may languish for months or elicit little more than a ho-hum response from our animals when we try to convince them of the merits of our offering. Some of these toys never may succeed in overcoming whatever flaws our nonhuman companions attribute to them. Others suddenly become favorites after being long ignored. The latter events cause us to recall all those sometimes expensive toys we gave away and wonder if we should have kept them until whatever cosmic event that triggers such acceptance occurs again.
So what’s the best toy-related strategy? One that takes into account the concept of self, particularly as it relates to the animal but also as it relates to us.
Because I see a fair number of animals whose response to stress may cause them not to play at all or to play in edgy ways that create more problems than benefits for them and others, I think about play a lot. Over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that, like anything an animal truly learns, a sense of what comprises a worthy toy must come from within. It must reflect a choice that animals make based on their needs at that time.
Even though this may seem obvious, sometimes we can get so caught up in the all the different training options, devices and drugs that imply we can make animals do whatever we want, the idea that sometimes animals can and do—and I would add should—choose do things by themselves may make us feel uncomfortable. This even may occur if the choice results in the animal behaving in a manner that we personally find beneficial for one reason or another. For example, we may cheer if an animal performs a complex display in response to our commands or to get a treat (which may or may not be the equivalent). But if the animal performs that same behavior in the correct context without any input from us, some of us may feel uneasy. Like we’re not in control. Like maybe animals are smarter than we want to give them credit for because…
Because what? Because they’ll go postal on us? Or because sharing our homes with such beings would require us to provide them with the opportunity to figure things out for themselves and we lack the patience and confidence to do that?
Going back to toys, a recent study confirms something many dog-owners intuitively suspected: toys that carry a strong emotional charge—such as any scents and memories imparted during play with the toy and us—may make them more appealing to our pets than those lacking this association. It also seems reasonable to suggest that toys that carry the animal’s own scent as well as ours would rank higher than those that carry just ours. Hence all those tattered and grungy toys that our pets have played with to a state of near oblivion that we try to hide before any guests arrive. It also explains why animals are more likely to drag out these eyesores at such potentially more stressful times to comfort and relax themselves.
In addition to animals putting more value on toys that carry quality scents and memories, experience tells me that objects with which animals are able to create their own games carry a greater positive emotional charge than those that don’t offer this opportunity. A fairly common game combines a toy with a wild behavior called caching that animals use to hide something of particular value to them. In wild animals, food the animal can’t or doesn’t want to eat for some reason at that particular time ranks as the object most likely to merit caching. But while some companion animals will cache food for this same reason, caching also lies at the heart of many companion animal games created to store treasured toys and other objects.
In addition to personal experiences with my own animals, over the years clients have shared stories of their animals’ caching games that have much to teach us about this behavior. My personal favorite caching experience involved Violet, a corgi, who would stash her grungy rubber bone under my pillow for safe-keeping. Hardly the most restful object for me to sleep on, but once she put it there she always slept soundly herself!
Other dogs dig holes apparently for the specific purpose of storing their special toys outside. Some adopt an approach that seems more akin to the creation of safe houses than stationary treasure chests/holes. In this case, the dog digs a hole and keeps the treasured object in it for a few days with or without a covering of dirt. Then the dog digs another hole and moves the toy to it.
Does the scent of some potential toy-stealer in the area warrant the creation to a new hole? I have no idea. I do know that sometimes if we’re lucky, we can offer the dog a collection of more permanent toy havens—such as some wooden boxes or metal buckets—to use instead. Some dogs will accept these. But for others, ensuring the toy’s safety from real or imaginary threats in a subterranean repository contributes to the toy’s allure.
At some point however, Ollie decided to expand his gaming repertoire to include the life-sized plywood moose in front of the local moose hall. The moose also only gets two barks, but unlike the other dogs whose appearance is random, the moose always lords over the same location. Because of this, it appears that the goal of Ollie’s game is to frighten the moose so badly that he remains frozen in place. As we approach, Ollie vibrates in anticipation lest he miss that brief window of opportunity to stun the moose with his allotted two barks as I drive by. Once he fires these, he watches the moose recede far enough to rule out the possibility of a sneak moose attack from the rear. Then he turns his attention back to keeping us safe from smaller, but more mobile dogs. Although cats, squirrels and people engage his attention, he never barks at them. The nonhuman animals warrant his rapt attention whereas the human ones always cause him to wag his tail rapidly.
Meanwhile the games the cat makes up and the tricks he plays on us would fill a whole book. Just about the time I think he can’t possibly surprise us with a new expression of his feline joie de vivre, he does. Whereas vocalizations play a big part in the games the dogs create, Bamboo’s rarely do except for the self-satisfied purr that marks the end of the event. Instead, he prefers to create the impression that he’s a 500-pound ogre thumping up or down the stairs after I’ve turned the lights out. Or that he’s a diabolical feline predator who springs without warning from inside, behind or under an amazing array of furnishes and objects in his always rewarding “Watch the Human and Dogs Jump” game.