Would you ever kick a dog?

What dog ownership taught me about empathy

This is Beau, our 160lb Mastiff

I used to work for a company with an awkward initiation for new executives. They would introduce the new fancy leader with a Q&A. What is your past experience? Why did you join the company? What do you hope to accomplish? They would end the interview with, “Would you ever kick a dog?” Huh?

I grew up in a household where we had cats. Regal cats with servant owners. Aloof cats that displayed their affection when they felt like it. Agile cats that gracefully navigated their domain on their terms.

I didn’t understand the “Did you ever kick a dog?” question. It made no sense to me. My feline pets lived in their own world and didn’t think about their humans other than for food and shelter. You loved them, and they kind of tolerated you when they felt like it. They didn’t depend on you. Need you. Live for your affection.

Then I became a dog owner.

Fast forward to the first winter of COVID. My beloved arrives home with an immense furry friend. I knew the “dog thing” was imminent. We installed an extra large dog door during a renovation project a few years prior. He tells me the dog is a mastiff. I have no idea what that means. Then the 130-pound drooling, jowly giant arrives at the front door.

We decided to call this beast Beau. He was a rescue dog. His previous family had to give him up because they were always at work and never home. When they left for the day, Thor (which was Beau’s name before he became Beau) would moan like a beached whale in agony because he hated to be alone.

I stand 5’ 1” tall and am NOT an Alpha in any way, shape or form. I’m a peacemaker, a collaborator, and an agreeable middle child. I was supposed to learn how to dominate this colossal giant. He had a huge head, exceedingly pointy teeth, and paws that dwarfed my measly hands. And that bark… is was menacing and loud.

The first few months were a mix of fascination and fear. When I wasn’t hiding from this slobbering 4-legged menace, I was secretly captivated by his graceful movements, complete lack of pretense, and voracious appetite. He ate anything that he could reach. The first week he was with us, we innocently left a Costco roasted chicken in the package on the counter. In complete silence, he devoured the chicken, bones, and plastic packaging in a split second. When we discovered the remains of his tasty snack, of course, we freaked out and called the vet. No need to worry. He was just fine.

Two and a half years later, I have grown to love this lumbering lug.

He responds to me when I say stay, come, and back off. He tries to protect me by barking when he senses trouble. Of course, then he immediately hides behind me as a shield from the danger. He wags his tail when he is happy (they really do that), and his eyebrows droop when he is sad. He is thrilled to see his friends at the dog park and retreats in guilt when he is caught eating the cats’ food (we have two cats — their story will come in another blog). He comes running when I call his name and moans with joy when I rub his tummy.

My feelings for Beau surprise me. I worry about him being bored, sick, hungry, and lonely. I want the other dogs at the dog park to like him and include him in their doggy games. I beam with pride when people tell me he is wonderful. I laugh when he drools ick on my clothes and when he showers me with soapy water after a bath.

When I think back to the “Would you ever kick a dog?” question, I get it now. People who kick dogs don’t understand them.

Dogs live for their owners. While their personalities are as varied as their breeds, they all share universal needs. For acceptance and love. True that they track mud into the house, chew on your favorite sandals, bark at the mailman, and wake you up in the middle of the night with bellowing snores (yes, Beau does all of these things), they don’t mean to do it. Sure they can be frustrating, maddening, messy, and smelly. But never to the point where you would raise a hand or foot to them.

When you are feeling low, dogs lick your face; when you need a hug, they hop up next to you on the sofa, and when you are wondering if anyone really understands you, they listen to your every word with rapt attention.

People who kick dogs lack something that dogs have in spades. Empathy.

Do you have a dog story? I’d love to hear it.