It’s often said some people wear their heart on their sleeve.
Dogs wear theirs on their butt.
A dog’s tail isn’t a prehensile tool, as for monkeys, or balance for cats. Some dogs don’t even have tails. So what good are they? What purpose do they serve?
A very important one. It’s a flag, an indicator of the dog’s mood and intention.
When they’re scared or guilty it’s tucked between their legs; if they’re sad, it droops. Excited dog tails twitch. And it wags when the dog is happy.
I don’t know what the tail of an aggressive or mean dog does. I’m too busy avoiding the teeth.
Believe me if people had tails, there would be a lot less bar fights, domestic violence and war.
My own dog Musket is a Yellow Labrador, a breed known for being loving and friendly. Musket is also a Guide Dog. I’m legally blind and he is my eyes and safety. He is very social and friendly with everybody.
Even by the high standards of Guide dogs, Musket has a certain something which sets him apart from the rest of the pack. A very beautiful and charming dog, he has soft fur, expressive eyes and that
But on the other hand, or should I say ‘end’ is his tail. He has a heavy otter tail. Thick and powerful, he could batter down condemned buildings with it. He often knocks over bric-a-brac from the coffee table, making bric-a-broke. But Musket is totally unaware of it. He has no idea what his butt is up to.
He wags it the way enthusiastic fans waved the flag at the Olympic Games. When he sees a friend or family member he hadn’t seen in ages, which to a dog is five minutes, his tail moves so hard it creates a breeze. I’ve had an idea to tie a fan on it for hot days.
Being visually impaired I sometimes step on his tail. Does he yelp or bark or whimper? Not my dog. The most I ever get from him is a dirty look.
Musket likes everybody. His all-time love, his sweetheart, the true holder of his heart? I’ll give you a clue. It ain’t me.
My wife Jane is the center of his world, and he of hers. The bond between Musket and I took months to develop. For Musket and Jane, eleven seconds did it.
And Musket’s tail hasn’t stopped wagging since.
I’ll provide an example. Musket always takes over the bed. He has it down to a science, taking at least 70% of the usable space on a Queen sized mattress with little effort. And off to sleep he goes, snoring like a longshoreman sleeping off a hangover in
Then his Mommy comes in. And the tail knows it before he does.
A couple of inches at first, just the end. Twitch, twitch.
“Where’s my Musket?” Jane asks.
Half his tail goes active, rapidly patting the bed covers. Whapwhapwhap.
“Is that my Musket?”
And then the sound of a pile driver is heard. Wham, wham, wham.
So far he hasn’t even moved. Just the tail.
Then he leaps up, slobbering Jane with loving kisses.
There are few things which make Jane happier than Musket’s kisses.
In fact I can’t think of any. He’s furry Prozac, but without the side effects.
His tail is his antenna, ready to transmit his feelings about everything from meeting a new friend to waiting to go for a walk. I can hear it long before I hear his panting or jingling tags. When I call him downstairs his tail beats along the stair banister like a baseball card in a bicycle’s spokes. When he comes inside after using the yard, his heavy tail propels him like a helicopter rotor.
Often dog owners test their dog’s nose to see if they are feeling ill, but all I need is Musket’s tail. It’s the best way to know his feeling. It broadcasts all his emotions; happy, sad, guilty, tired, nervous, excited or sick.
My co-workers adore him, walking past my office and calling his name. His tail against the metal of my filing cabinet sounds like Rosie the Riveter making a B-17.
Nothing a ball-peen hammer and some Bondo wouldn’t fix. When Jane comes by the office to visit or give us a ride home, Musket knows it.
“Where’s my Musket,” is heard from down the hall.
ZOOM! He’s off like a Tomcat on a carrier catapult, propelled by his madly thrashing tail.
It isn’t proper Guide dog behavior but I don’t try to stop him.
I’m blind, not insane. I like my arm right where it is, attached to my shoulder.
Musket is not aggressive, but rather submissive around other dogs. He lies down and allows them to be dominant. But if the other dog is growling, he stands his ground. He seems to be saying ‘Chill out, Cujo. You need to lighten up.’
He never growls at small dogs even when they use his ears and jowls as chew toys, just sighs and tolerates it for about ten minutes. Then he simply walks away. His tail manages to convey a feeling of relief.
He is great with kids. One day I was talking with the parents of a four-year old tyke who was fascinated by Musket’s gyrating tail. She tried to catch it but he only let her have it for a moment and turned around. Then she ran after it again, like a kitten with a ball of string. He never growled or even seemed annoyed. Her parents laughed.
“That’s my boy,” I said, grinning.
If he had any inkling of how important his tail is to his public persona he’d start charging fees. Musket’s tail makes me laugh. And he likes it when I am happy. It’s a perfect circle of cause and effect, harmonious and unbroken. Sort of Zen-like. See? I knew I’d find some way to fit that in.
Paws be with you.
Mark Carlson
a true tail by Barbara Kirsch
