Office Dogs

Occasionally I read the Freakonomics blog that appears on the New York Times Web site. The guys who write it always make interesting observations about how people spend their money and their time. The heading for today's blog was "Dogs for Everyone?", so of course I read it. I looked forward to reading about why everyone should have a dog. But the topic was actually about the impact that dogs in the workplace can have on the behavior of the human workers. Here's the premise of the study that Levitt and Dubner cite: At workplaces that allowed employees to bring dogs, workers were significantly more likely to be loyal to and trusting in their co-workers and teammates. According to the blog, the scientist running the study "also asked 13 groups of people to play a version of the prisoner’s dilemma game and found that '[h]aving a dog around made volunteers 30% less likely to snitch than those who played without one.' " Interesting, no?


Being economists and not psychologists, the Freako guys did not hazard any hypotheses about why dogs make workers feel more like, well, part of the pack. In my own case, I have a dog in my office all the time, but I don't have actual co-workers, so the study doesn't quite fit. Muzzy snores happily but often bolts the room when my cursing at the cursor gets out of hand. She also skedaddles when my tube of lip rolls off the desk and plonks on the floor  and any time the printer grinds into gear. Still, I do register Muzzy's presence during my day. If I sneeze or burp around her, I always excuse myself. And when she executes a command, I often say, "thank you" instead of "good girl." It is not that I'm worried about hurting Muzzy's feelings, mind you. (And believe me, I wish that she'd excuse herself after some room-clearing gas attacks.) But I do worry about getting out of practice of knowing how to behave around other humans. If I let what few manners I have slip entirely, I may not be able to pass as a civilized adult when the occasion calls. 


So I think what the study discussed in the Freako-blog today hints at is that dogs do appeal to our better nature. Even if they are not judging us, we read all kinds of things into their big brown eyes. They are sentient beings whose loyalty and trust in us challenge us to be better team players. Who wants to look like a jerk in front of the dog? Or let's put it this way: What does it say about a person who is capable of acting like a jerk in front of the dog? You just don't want that guy on your team. 
-z

What the Dogs Do While You're at Work

Back in the day, when everybody drank hard liquor, smoked unfiltered, ironed their clothes, and drove classic cars, your dogs might have whiled away the workday hours this way:

But this is Austin and a new era, so while you're working too many hours for too little pay, your dogs are probably improving themselves by doing yoga, learning Spanish online, watching organic gardening shows on the Create channel, or participating in a book club in which they read and discuss the merits of dog-centric books, such as Racing in the Rain ("Meh.") and Marlee and Me ("Enough with the dying dogs! Pass me a kleenex!").

It could happen. Want proof? 

Yes, the masterpiece of doggie kitsch has been lovingly reinterpreted by an artist named Mark Sowa. You can read the story behind the artwork and its source at the always interesting Dog Art Today. 

Now you know why you keep finding spent herbal tea bags and Kashi bar wrappers in the trash when you come home. Also, those mysterious charges on your credit card to Half Price Books.

Ta.

-z

The Last Thing I See as I Head to Work

Well, Muzzy, somebody has to earn the bucks to buy the kibble. 

Roma says, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out." 

The Working Class

How do people do it—hold full-time jobs in fluorescent-lit rooms using crappy computers and drinking crappy coffee? How do they do it and maintain their senses of humor let alone their will to live? I have been dragging my carcass to an "office" every day for two weeks now, and I can barely summon the energy to sit upright on the evenings and weekends. Still, at dog park time, I am roused by the sounds of the clicky toenails jingling tags of dogs who ARE READY TO GO TO DOG PARK, and I must get up and serve those who wait.

This work thing has really cut into my enthusiasm for Dog Park. I spend more than eight hours a day filtering out necessary work-related chatter from all the other extraneous human noise created by 20 people stuffed into a room with bad acoustics and terrible lighting. As a result, I have no patience with the normal Dog Park exchanges. I have nothing to say about what's going on in the news because I don't listen anymore. I have no plans for the weekend except to do laundry and cook and get ready for next week. I don't know who the new people are or what their dogs' names are because I just can't take in any information that doesn't help me do my job. 

So on Wednesday, when a mob of young people showed up at Dog Park and set up kleig lights and cameras and musical equipment in the middle of the field next to the south parking lot, I was more annoyed than intrigued. Those stupid people can go anywhere to do their cutely creative musical thing, I thought. They do not need to come to Park and mess up my routine. People kept asking, "Who are they? What's their deal? What are they doing?", but I had no idea and, frankly, I did not care. Normally, I'd have been all over them, taking photographic evidence for the blog, expressing my opinion. Instead, I sat stupefied in the dust on the berm and watched the other Parkers swarm like ants in a flooded ant hill. Now I remember why I gave up working like a normal person. When I do, too much of live just passes me by. 

-z

Long Time, No Post

Thanks to all who have inquired about my first full week of full-time work. The job is going well, but it is exhausting. By the time I get home, my brain feels like it has been forced through a juicer. The girls are a little confused, and Roma does not like the substitute dog walker. She takes a perverse pleasure in messing with her mind. When I get home, I find plaintive little notes about how Roma doesn't like her and won't come back inside the house after walks. Thanks for not going easy into that dark night, Roma. The regular walker comes back from her vacation tomorrow. 

Out of guilt and in anticipation of a real pay check, I bought Muzzy a pile of toys—chew bones and fresh fetching balls. She, of course, gives the walker no trouble at all, but I do pay a price. While getting ready for bed at night (earlier than usual, of course), I hear her pacing in the hallway with a ball, which makes a thokthokthok sound when she drops it and it bounces on the tiles. Out of desperation, I go outside at 11 at night in my 'jamas and throw the ball until she is exhausted and I get devoured by mosquitoes. The things we do for our dogs. 

The only downtime the dogs still allow me is that hour between dinner and Dog Park. On Friday, I was flipping through the latest copy of the New Yorker, lacking even the brain power to decode the cartoons, when I found a poem by the current U.S. poet laureate, Kay Ryan. It's about dogs and it's short. I was able not only to understand it but to enjoy it. I hope you do, too. 

Fool's Errands

A thing

cannot be

delivered 

enough times:

this is the 

rule of dogs

for whom there 

are no fool's 

errands. To 

loop out and 

come back is 

good all alone.

It's gravy to 

carry a ball 

or a bone. 

Enjoy. 

-z