Reflections on the Dogliness of Dog

Gavin placed his face as close as possible to Sam's - today's experiment was to determine whether this particular being also had 'personal space issues'. Mum had them, said Dad; but did Sam? Research had so far concluded that potential proximity changed day by day, minute by minute. Today, now, the distance was set at just two inches. Gavin kept his cranial muscles relaxed for fear of sudden movements wrecking the experiment. The blacks of their eyes crossed paths as Sam blinked and turned slightly, adjusting his position on the couch. This experiment was over. For now.

Gavin considered his subject. 'He seems bored. Unthinking. Like a mountain.' He surveyed Sam's cat-sized body. 'Or maybe just a small hill.'

"What are you thinking?" he whispered, barely expelling breath as he did so. Sam reacted nevertheless. Swivelling his head to sit at right angles to Gavin, he yawned massively, with gusto, then flopped his chin down on the cushions and fluttered his eyelids until they closed. Within milliseconds, he was asleep. Gavin continued his observations unperturbed. 'Can dogs dream?' he wondered with unnerving concentration.

This tranquil scientific inquiry was soon broken by a great stomping pile of laundry. After attempting to balance several towels on a thin, rickety ironing board, and watching them all predictably topple off one after another, the woman Gavin called Mum was revealed, flushed and cross.
"Bollocks," she muttered, before noticing the boy sprawled on the three-seater couch, staring at the dog. Again. Deciding not to excuse her foul language, seeing as Gavin was probably ignoring her in favour of the resident dumb beast anyway, she opted to ask him what he thought he was doing inside on such a gloriously sunny day.

Not even glancing up from Sam's sleeping form, the boy replied with,
"That's just it Mum. I know what I'm thinking. But does he?" She took a deep, supposedly healing breath. This is not what I signed up for, she groaned to herself.
"Does he know what you're thinking? No. He's just a dog, Gav..."
"Nooooo..." he leisurely disagreed, as if building to something, "does he think? Does he know what he's thinking? Does he think about what he's doing?"

At that moment Sam jumped up and tottered over to his food-bowl. A rhythmic lapping ensued. Gavin's mother, whose preferred name was Carol incidentally, and who wasn't technically his mother, resigned herself to completing housework surrounded by yet another circular conversation about a dog or a duck or a dinosaur.

"No honey, he doesn't think. He's just a dog. Which means he isn't clever enough to think. His brain's only about as big as a tennis ball." She looked down, spying Sam's triumphant tail-wagging at having chewed off and eaten a patch of the dog-food-coloured carpet. "At the most." Hoping for a satisfied nod from Gavin, she glanced over the stack of washing at this ever-curious child.

The boy's eyes were still on Sam though, and instead of grimacing in distaste, a puzzled expression was chiselling his chin.
"Sit", he suddenly commanded. Dutifully, Sam coughed up a fragment of fluff and sat down, cocking his head expectedly while lifting one mottled brown ear. Gavin ignored him and turned to Carol, who'd instinctively slid back behind the clothes-pile, hoping for respite from the explanation of something she didn't quite understand, nor particularly cared about.
Undaunted, "See?" asked Gavin, "he knows what that means".
"Yes but that's not the same as thinking", she accidentally snapped, "he's just learned to act that way".
"But if he can learn, he can think."
"No, just because he can learn, it doesn't mean he can think."
"But why?"
"Because...?" she searched for a way to finish this sentence. "Go ask your Dad," she suggested sneakily, "he'll know". As Gavin bounced from the room with his dumb dog in tow, Carol continued ironing in blissful silence, her mind positively brimming with ideas for the garden.

"Daaaaaad," he began, innocently starting the conversation in the most obnoxious way possible, "can Sam think?"
His father continued to type, the quick clips of the keys filling the room. Gavin waited patiently as Sam explored with impish enthusiasm.
"Not now son. I've gotta finish this." Gavin hovered near the desk until the hurried typing recommenced, then turned and left him in peace, disappointed to be so easily dismissed.

Flopping down on the door-mat, Sam once again exited the world of consciousness. Gavin crouched down beside him, roughly massaging the loose fur around his collar. It must be boring being a dog, he hypothesised. If you can't think, then what happens in your brain? How do you know if life is good or bad if you don't know anything? He flopped down half-on, half-beside the dog.
"Are you happy, Sam?" No answer.
"What makes you happy, hmm?" No change in position. He pondered the problem a little longer. He must like stuff; some things must make him happy.
"Walkies?" he tentatively asked.

Finally, a reaction! Sam leapt to his feet, his eyes connecting with Gavin's for the first time in hours, since before the experiments began. His ears shot up like they wanted to detach themselves from his scalp. His tongue struck out from behind pointed teeth and began panting at the pace of his wagging tail. It was like he was unfolding, every extremity behaving like a jack in the box, leaping out from within due to pure unadulterated excitement. Feeling instantly guilty for providing false hope, Gavin resolved to follow through on his promise.
"Yeh, walkies makes you happy, doesn't it boy?"
He fetched the leash from where it hung on the banister and hooked it to the dog's collar. They left the house together, Sam twisted amidst human legs, scampering for escape.

On the way to the park, three other dog-walkers were passed, two of which Gavin, and therefore Sam, already knew. The dogs sniffed and waltzed while their owners smiled politely and watched them, dragging their respective dogs away after an appropriate amount of time. The third owner was an unknown overcoat with a mystery dog, and Sam tried madly to drag Gavin towards her vicinity. Unfortunately for Sam, her owner called out that she was 'on heat', hinting that boy and boy-dog should stay well back. Following this interaction, Gavin got to wondering about whether Sam knows he's a dog. 'He must be aware of certain... similarities... with other dogs. He doesn't sniff every butt he sees, after all. And he knows his place in the world, like who his master is (me) and who gives him food (Carol) and who to avoid at all costs, on pain of being put in the garage (dad). So maybe he does know he's a dog, Maybe he does think and know and be happy.'

After an hour-long jaunt round the park and back, they returned home slightly tired. Gavin headed towards the study to find his father, while Sam nipped off in the direction of his food-bowl. The boy found the computer abandoned, the screensaver flashing brightly-coloured vortexes on a black background. He went to his bedroom instead, laying down flat on top of the duvet, head still cluttered, full of unanswered questions and experiments for the future. After a few minutes a stocky man with glasses appeared in his doorway.
"Hey Dad."
"Hey sport, how's it going?"
"...OK..."
"Just... OK?"

Gavin didn't know how to answer. The woman he called Mum in everywhere but his head hadn't seemed too bothered. Maybe these questions were stupid. Maybe he was stupid for wanting to ask them. All he wanted to know was what it was like to be Sam. Was that bad? Was he bad? Embarrassed, he wiped away tears that were about to fall, transferring them from his cheeks to the backs of his hands.

His father, whose real name was Patrick incidentally, who'd chosen this 10-year-old boy with his late wife when he was still a bawling baby, still hated to see him upset. Instinctively, he leant over and grasped his son's shoulder with gentle strength, trying to put his face near the boy's, trying to look at him square-on. Gavin thought of how he did the same thing to Sam, and how it was only because he wanted to know if he was happy. Because he cared.
"What is it? What's up? Something about the dog, right?"
Gavin couldn't look at him, but something about his tone made it alright to speak.
"Yeh... I just... do you think he's happy?"
Patrick sat beside Gavin on the bed. Clearly he was genuinely thinking about it. Several seconds passed before he ventured an answer.
"Yeh. I do. I think that despite the fact that he's only an animal, and supposed to be stupid an' all, he's happy. I see you guys together and I see two very happy animals." Gavin grinned, tears clearing. "And I know you just want him to be happy, and that's what makes you a good person, so you shouldn't ever feel ashamed for saying so. OK?"

Gavin felt comforted. Comfortable. He noticed Sam sitting quietly by the foot of the bed. He must have padded in silently as they were talking.
"Dad?"
"Yes son?"
"Do you think dogs can think?"
Again, a slight moment while he formulated his reply.
"No son, I don't think they can think. But that doesn't mean they can't be happy."
Gavin was unconvinced, but nodded nonetheless.

Realising none of these animals had any food to offer, Sam left in search of somewhere nice to nap. He turned back when he reached the door and saw the two male monkeys hugging one another on the bed.
"Gay..." he thought, as he walked away.