All Bets Are Off

Greek mythology has it, that when Zeus' brother Poseiden was wooing Demeter, she set him the challenge, "to create the most beautiful animal that the world has ever seen"; and he came up with the horse. As a Navy kid (already familiar with Poseiden as Ruler of the Waves), I knew about his thing with horses by the time my sister & I invested in 2 Cheap Day Return rail tickets, for a Day at the Races at Sandown Park in Surrey, England. At 12 & 13, we were only making friendly wagers with each other; but every time I expressed an interest in a horse, it either threw a shoe, or its rider, or otherwise came a cropper. So I made a promise to Poseiden, which I have kept, never to "have a horse in the race."

That hasn't kept me away from racetracks, mind you. When my girls were 6 & 9, I took them by subway to Aqueduct [we were already visiting NYC at the time], where, it being early on a weekday, the only other punters were the Damon Runyonesque characters so endearingly portrayed in the HBO series Luck [filmed at a favorite SoCal track of ours, Santa Anita]. Overhearing my girls' uncanny handicapping skills [especially the 6-year-old's], one railbird approached her as we were leaving and offered, "Girlie, I would buy you sodas and snacks all day, if you would stick around and pick horses for me." We had other fish to fry that day; but similar offers are made to them, every time we go to the races. True to my promise to Poseiden, I keep my money in my pocket & my havoc-wreaking opinions to myself.

Last Saturday, on the 3rd of March, on Big 'Cap [Handicapping] Day, our family had just arrived at Santa Anita in time for Race 3, when "Muny," the horse in Post position 3, broke through the gate early, and chaos ensued. As reported by Tracy Gantz in Bloodhorse.com/Horse Racing News, only 3 of the 7 horses "came out of the gate properly." 3 assistant starters were able to hold their horses, as it were; but "Mr. Bossy Pants," "Oak Kye Why," & "Sky Cape," were off to the races, even though, "before the horses had traversed even half the distance of the race, the stewards posted the enquiry sign." Meanwhile, back near the starting gate, "Lord's Minister" had thrown his jockey, Martin Garcia, and "proceeded [riderless] down the hill after the other 3" before being skillfully wrangled by an outrider in the stretch. Both horse & jockey were unharmed [thank Poseiden]; and Garcia went on to win an impressive victory in the very next race.

As "Mr. Bossy Pants" romped home for the ostensible "win," the huge crowd went silent, as the track announcer intoned, "Hold all tickets, please." We were standing at the rail, just behind the fancy box seats, not 10 feet from the Luck actor, John Ortiz [later joined by the jockey-commentator-actor, Gary Stevens]; but everyone seemed baffled. As we wandered back into the betting hall, the tote board flashed the message, in huge red letters: "NO CONTEST"; and seasoned punters explained to rookies, "All bets are off. Everybody gets their money back." One railbird quipped, "Does this mean I get back all the money I've lost all day?" Well, no, but "all 7 horses were considered winners for the purposes of multi-race wagers, except for daily doubles." The only possible loser was "Mr. Bossy Pants" and his connections, who must have felt "they was robbed."

Now for an analysis of Magical Thinking [which is inherent in the Sport of Kings]. Seriously, do I believe that I have such powerful internal locus of control, that my mere presence at a race meeting was enough to cause all this mayhem? Never mind me, how 'bout all those 3's? Don't you just bet a lot of punters played "the 3" in all subsequent races? Both my girls stuck to their usual [intuitive but effective] wagering strategies, with the younger one winning more than her sister, while Chris lost a few bucks. In the last race we stayed for, the 10th, our elder girl pulled herself "out of the whole" by betting the 9-to-1 Irish-bred longshot, "Willyconker," who won by a neck in a thrilling finish.

As the old Irish joke goes, when asked if she believed in fairies, the country woman replied, "I do not; but they're there." Do I believe that a deal I made with a Greek god, more than 50 years ago, helps to bring all horses and their riders "safe home"? Well, now, I wouldn't be bettin' against it.

"You can't handle the truth!"

Back in the less politically correct turn-of-the-20th Century, there was a cartoon with the following caption: "Leading cause of adult illiteracy: CATS." In our household, Zanzibar (pictured here "censoring" the New York Times) often makes it difficult to read All the News That's Fit to Print. It's fun to attribute to him the Jack Nicholson motive of shielding his lily-livered owners from the Inconvenient Truth.

Alas, as libel lawyers grow rich demonstrating every day, just cuz it's printed don't make it the truth, innit? [See all my previous posts under Murky Research, to bang home this observation.] Every morning I do a side-by-side comparison of articles in the NYTimes & Washington Post, which 2 "reliable sources" often use the same photo for a given story, yet recount Rashoman-like variations of the "facts." Then I go online and use the Manchester Guardian as the tie-breaker, especially for reportage on American politics. As the not-untainted-erstwhile-NoW-editor, Piers Morgan, put it on Chelsea Lately the other night, the Brits don't have "a dog in the race." [A slightly more humane metaphor than the American "dog in the fight."]

Yet, even if we are in a newspaper-free zone [like a hotel, where all they offer is The USA Today], our dear little heads do Zanzibar's job for us. We edit incoming data heavily. We say to ourselves, "I don't wish to know that!" and either block it, forget it, or distort it. The clinical terms for the first 2 defense mechanisms are denial & repression. The 3rd is called PR.

This morning Lili & I got to the sports park early enough that we had the place to ourselves. "Good-o!" thought I. "No worries about fraught encounters with other dogs. We'll just enjoy the gorgeous morning." We had completed half the circuit when we met a leashed terrier mix & his owner, so I put Lili in a down-stay to let them pass by. I was succeeding in being Lili's Pack Leader, until the man asked, "How are you today?" When I replied, "Fine," Lili sprang into action, dragging me across the path, so she could bark & lunge at the now-also-barking & lunging terrier, as I profusely apologized. Oy! Such humiliation I suffered! More than 7 years of daily training exercises, and I still can't reliably control my dog. So, as we pounded the pavement even faster, to "burn off" my anger (and, possibly, Lili's), I formulated a face-saving, fact-bending "press release," for the next time Lili shows me up in public: "Sorry. She's a rescue."

Then I could imagine Jack Nicholson sneering & Zanzibar sprawling, and I pulled myself together. Amended press release: "Sorry. She's a work-in-progress." [And so is her owner.] I had just loaded Lili back up into the Jeep, when the terrier & owner reached their nearby car. He gave me a not-at-all-condescending wave [completely neutralizing any residual humiliation] and his terrier (perhaps noting that the fearsome wolf-like beast was safely locked up behind metal & glass) gave a farewell bark & lunge display.

The truth is, every dog & owner partnership is a work in progress. I think I can handle that.

No Polar Bears' Picnic

It's been such a freakishly mild winter, so far, that I plumb forgot to put Lili's snow boots on this weekend, for our walk in the Smithsonian woods. Here she is with Chris, just before [and after] flinging herself down on her stomach, to dramatize, "Large, painful snowballs have formed in the impractically luxuriant fur between my toes; and I can't walk another step until you pull them out!" What was up her nose was unmistakably pain & suffering.

What was up my nose was the humiliation of having, through my silly mistake, inflicted needless discomfort on my trusting pet. What was up Chris' nose was the intrusion of having to stop so often to perform the snow removal ceremony on Lili's paws. "Tatsu" [to get her to stand up from her flung-down-dog position]; then "Su wa te" [to get her to sit down]; then "Gimme a paw" [well, you get it...].

And so as we made our halting way through our beloved woods, I chanted in my head Albert Ellis' mantra ["This situation is not awful; it is only highly inconvenient."], until we encountered our old nemeses: the girl with the unleashed retriever. Figuring that Lili's limbic system was even more lit up than usual, Chris dragged her off the path into the trees, where she barked & lunged, embarrassingly but harmlessly, as the runner and her [short-haired] dog passed by, unhindered by snowballs between the toes, apparently.

But, as they say in the UK, worse was to follow! A few hundred yards later, we encountered an older woman running [sine cane]; and Lili gave her the full bark & lunge routine, just for nothing. The lady, whose limbic system was the least aroused of any of us, remarked cheerfully, "He's lucky to be wearing a warm fur coat on a day like this!"

Later, on the ride home, Chris remarked, "I was afraid Lili would pull me off my feet back there!" [Welcome to my world, even when it's only muddy underfoot.]

So, what's it all about, then? Despite daily training exercises, to gain mastery over the howling wolf in Lili's head [and, ahem, mine], we are still very much a work in progress. But wallowing in humiliation about it only adds fuel to the limbic fire [and more resulting anger]. The best thing to do is to use the cheerful lady in the woods as a role model: to Keep Calm & Carry On.

Born This Way?

This, from last Tuesday's Washington Post: "Fido won't sit? Blame his genes." This slipshod article is loosely based on a study conducted at the Department of Ethology & the Department of Medical Chemistry at 2 separate universities in Budapest, Hungary, entitled "Polymorphism in the Tyrosine Hydroxylase (TH) Gene Is Associated with Activity-Impulsivity in German Shepherd Dogs." Still paying attention?

For me, the most fascinating finding was that, regarding this herenow gene, there was great variance between different dog breeds. (Which wasn't the point of the study at all, mind you. They were supposed to be focusing on within-breed differences. Seem to have gotten a little sidetracked, no?) "For example, the frequency of allele 2 is 31% in Groenandaels [Belgian Shepherds to you & me], 0.89% in German shepherds, and 0.73% in wolves." Got wolf? Yes, I do, near as dammit.

Now, to the weakest link of the study: the operational definition of Activity-Impulsivity in dogs. First they modified the standard parents-kvetching-about-their-kids ADHD checklist to "apply" to owners-kvetching-about-their-dogs. No items from this questionnaire appeared in the article. Trust them, it had great inter-rater reliability. Swell. How about validity? What they call ADHD, I might call hypervigilance [which is what my wolflike German shepherd manifests, ja?]. Or, possibly, Separation Anxiety, which she also has.

Next they conducted a 4-task individual test for 104 dog & owner pairs, with a female experimenter present. (1)"Spontaneous activity." Dog on leash with owner [not giving any commands] for 1 minute. [How many leg movements did the dog make?] (2)"Separation & play." With owner "hiding" behind a nearby tree & dog tied to another tree, the experimenter tries to engage the dog in a game of tug-of-war. [How active was the dog?] (3)"Lying on the side." Owner commands the dog to lie down, then has it lie on its side for 30 seconds. [Does the dog obey?] (4)"Approaching the owner." While experimenter holds the dog on a leash, the owner "hides" behind a tree. Then the dog is let off the leash and given the command "Go!" back to the owner. Now, get a load of this! The more quickly the dog returns to its owner, the more "ADHD" it is! Seriously.

Who knew the Hungarians placed such a premium on taking your sweet time when summoned by "the boss"?

Ooh! So, would they then predict that wolves [with an even lower frequency of the TH gene] would return to their pack leader even faster than our dog Lili? [Which I would have thought had survival value...] Wolves must be "ADHD" as all getout.

Notice that nowhere in the study was "Sitting on command" assessed.

May I suggest that you henceforth take the "Science News" section of the WaPo with a grain of salt? As they sing in Porgy & Bess, "It ain't necessarily so."

Why the long face?

Chances are, if you are a horse or a human at an equestrian barn, that hang-dog look means you have just suffered a humiliation.

The other day my San Francisco daughter (who has been riding horses since she was 7, including, in better times, our magnificent 18hh Hanoverian, Owen) called to say, "Well, good. I finally met the Barn Bitch." She had decided to reallocate her discretionary income, from hanging with 20-somethings at Frisco watering holes, to hanging with a 20-something horse in Oakland, name of Zachary. (Which is also her boss' name, innit?) Until that day, everyone she had met at the barn had been helpful and welcoming.

I, too, began riding at the age of 7; and have never, in more than a dozen different barns, in the US and Europe, failed to encounter at least one trainer stuck in a permanent state of rage. There is also always at least one horse in a permanent Bad Mood. In the UK, where horses are not exotic, and mingle freely with motorists and pedestrians, such a "known kicker and/or biter" is likely to have a red ribbon tied to its tail. If only the Barn Bitch came with such a warning label!

Let's do a bit of ethology, to try to figure out why "There's (at least) one in every crowd." Horses, it must be understood, are both pack animals and prey animals. In the wild, survival depends on being "well in" with the herd, whose members can better fend off predators. Yet, when forage is scarce, survival depends on being of high enough status to get first dibs on the food. Battles for supremacy involve biting and kicking; and size does not always matter. (Even a fierce little dog can growl a horse away from food which is of no nutritional value to the terrier, itself. Hence, the English expression, "to act like a dog in the manger.") Indeed, at riding barns, it is most often a small mare or even a pony who wears the red ribbon.

And so, to the psychology of the Barn Bitch. It is rarely the owner of the establishment who snarls (at potential customers). It may not even be the head trainer, whose alpha status allows first pick of horses, tack, and students, making it more likely that they will win the on-going zero-sum-game, into which all human/horse endeavors [not just show events, or races, but even lessons] morph. It is the "Not Quites," the Wannabe trainers, who are left with the nags, the old tack and the less promising students, who suffer humiliation, which they pass along, like the Old Maid card, usually to unsuspecting newcomers.

Once you know who should be wearing a red ribbon, it's easier to put out your own subtext message, loud & clear: "I'm not your enemy, but I'm not your victim." Now, jump out of the manger, and let my horse eat. An old hand at such scenarios, my daughter held her ground; and the erstwhile Barn Bitch morphed into a lap dog.

Nostalgia

Do you know the MGMT song, "Kids"? It's the 21st Century version of Cat Stevens' "Remember The Days in the Old School Yard." These world-weary 20-something lyricists [Ingrosso, Goldwasser & VanWyngarden] are reminiscing about their lost youth: "Take only what you need from it. A family of trees wanted to be haunted." When the howling wind made the trees in the Smithsonian woods creak and groan, I couldn't get that song out of my head.

Notice the past tense. A few weeks ago, the policy of allowing leashed dogs to transit school property to enter the woods was rescinded. A batty lady very loosely in charge of 3 free-range dogs [whom we had unpleasantly encountered earlier that month] had let her Lab menace a walking party of school children; and now all dogs are banned. Highly inconvenient, since we have yet to find another way into the nature preserve. Highly ironic, too, since we had just been given the blessing of the Smithsonian Police to patrol the woods for hunters, innit?

It's not only the intrusion of having to find another place for Lili's daily trek; it's the humiliation of remembering the time when Lili was the Off-the-Hook bad dog [and I, the bad owner], several years earlier, when she menaced a Vizcla on the school grounds. Ironically (again), just the day before I got warned off by the School Safety Officer, Lili & I met the [always unleashed] Vizcla & her owner in the parking lot, without any drama. After I had loaded Lili into the car, I made friendly overtures to the other dog, who seemed to chagrin her owner by coming over and licking my proffered "paw."

But now to the heart of the matter. As I have made clear in such posts as "What's keepin' ya?" and "The Holy Ground," our walks in those particular woods have given structure & meaning to my life [Can't speak for Lili's existential experience.]; and the prospect that they may be forever lost to us causes me emotional pain & suffering (aka, nostalgia).

Having done this Wolf Work on myself, I knew that the only way out of my anger was to seek out another "family of trees [that] wanted to be haunted." Before we had discovered the joys of the Smithsonian woods, we used to walk Lili in a municipal sports park [on an erstwhile landfill, now converted to a nature preserve]. It has much to recommend it. It's about equidistant from our house, but nowhere near a school. The dogs-on-the-leash rule is strictly enforced by park rangers. In previous years a family of Blue Herons graced the wetlands pond. (This year we've spotted turtles, beavers, deer, and the occasional snake.) In the past, I had found the paved paths a bit too safe & boring, compared to the rough & ready challenge of the Smithsonian woods. However (hurrah!), the other day I discovered a dirt path leading into some woods on the edge of the park, complete with trip-you-up tree roots & a bluff with a stunning view of a tidewater inlet way below. Reminds me of when I was a kid in Tarrytown, overlooking the Hudson River.

So, see? The cure for nostalgia is...nostalgia. The cure for one Paradise Lost is to find another Paradise (which might one day also be lost), innit?

Meanwhile, during Winter Break it's been "crickets" @ the old school yard. No children to menace and no authorities to enforce the No Walkies Zone. We may have revisited "The Holy Ground" a time or two; but when it's term time, we'll make new memories in "another part of the forest" that graces this Chesapeake estuary.

"I have a bone to pick with you."

Like most idioms in your first language, the meaning of this one seems obvious: "You and I have a score to settle." But why does it mean that? Why a zero-sum-game power-struggle vibe, rather than, "Oh, look! I've brought a bone that we can share, cuz I'm an altruistic mammal." [See this week's NYTimes Science section, for a heart-warming University of Chicago study of (relatively) "free" rats liberating caged rats, even if they did not then get to enjoy the newly-freed rats' company. They even saved and shared their chocolates with their less fortunate brethren, like something out of a Festive Seasonal Disney flick.]

My extensive collection of Word & Phrase Origin books shed no light on the (bone) subject, so I ventured into [onto?] the web, where I found a site (Usingenglish.com) intended for the wising up of those for whom English is a second language. Mint, nar'mean? They don't bother with derivations, just plug & chug ["This means that. Just memorize it, already."] definitions. Other sites attempting to explain whence cometh the bone-to-pick-with-you idiom get all vague and say "Dating from the 15th or 16th century. Referring to two dogs fighting over a bone. See bone of contention."

So, what? Before the 1400s, English dogs behaved with ratlike altruism and shared their bones? I should cocoa! [Try finding the derivation of that idiom, I dare ya. I've been looking ever since I first heard it used in Ealing Studios comedies, in the (19)60s.] Then came the reign of the Tudors, and the Great Bone Panic. [I just made that up. Use of the Poetic speech function.]

And thus, to the bone I have to pick with the NYTimes science reporter, Sindya N. Bhanoo. As with most attributions of species-wide behavioral traits [including the sweetie-sharing rats of Chicago], there is the danger of extrapolating beyond the data. I suspect, for instance, that the "altruism" of the lab rats [which was found more consistently in the females, incidentally] is another manifestation of the Oxytocin effect, in which In-group members are tended & defended, whereas Out-group members [street rats, for instance], would receive short shrift.

Likewise, the Tudor dogs who were observed [proverbially] contending over bones may have been those indolent little hand-fed ones who hung around Hampton Court Palace [not the noble Big Dogs who went out with the hunting parties, and could forage bones galore out in the woods].

Alas, the thoroughly modern Lili is only allowed stage prop Nylabones, which she nevertheless seems to value highly, since she usually tries to pick [gnaw] two of them at once.