New dog, new car. In this house, there have been more dogs than cars, but still, after years of side-by-side ownership, I feel qualified to offer a comparative view. It might be of interest to the automotive industry, or at least to the pamphlet rack in some veterinary waiting room.
It’s best to start from the beginning. Neither a dog nor a car is easy to drive around the block at first. Will the dog lunge? Will the brakes work? What’s the unfamiliar dashboard? The growl?
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At the same time, early outings bring unique pleasure. Here’s a physically imperfect being—in my case, me—making a public debut in the company of a companion far more beautiful and interesting. Heads turn on the street, and though admirers pet the dog more often than the car, it brings the same sense of pride.
Dogs and cars both show their best sides at first. It’s as if—to take metaphorical liberties with a machine that has no consciousness—they want to please. They want to belong. They want to last. After a few weeks, the darker aspects begin to emerge. For starters, one of them eats garbage while the other eats gas.
They’re similar, they’re different. A dog does not come with a user manual. There’s no smell of vinyl on dog fur, and no fur on car seats—at least, not until the dog hops in. Dogs don’t stop at red lights. Cars don’t bolt through fence slats. A car does not growl, a dog does not honk, and we give each of them ridiculous names.
Because owners are only human, we’re prone to confuse the new with the old. The old versions were familiar; a perfect fit. (We ourselves are notably imperfect, but it doesn’t change our expectations.) The old versions settled in and, over time, conformed to our requirements. The new versions arrive from other galaxies. They don’t come when they’re called; the clutch is uncooperative, and they have no idea what’s wanted of them.
What’s wanted is the same perfection we had in earlier models, though we don’t always want to take the same time to ensure it. A trainer once told me (firmly, because he was entirely on the side of the dog): “New owners tell me they want a puppy, but they don’t want to be a trainer. And I tell them, ‘That’s like saying you want a baby, but you don’t want to be a parent.’” Dog, car, car, dog. The greatest learning curve is always for the humans.
Here’s a final comparison, and I stand by it. In the suburbs (let’s just say, randomly pulled from a hat, Belmont), suburbanites see a new car as a practical necessity. Cars take us where we need to go. Dog people–in suburbia, or urban high-rises, or homesteads so distant there are no street signs—see a new dog as an emotional necessity. Dogs take us into our own hearts. If we don’t know the route, or if we have somehow forgotten, they will find it for us.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
