Dogs master human art of inspiring guilt

As the mother of a 5-year-old, I'm still working on my official "Motherly Stare of Guilt" - that wordless, steely gaze my mother used to give that made me want to crawl under a chair.

To learn the art of the stare, I'm taking lessons from the reigning Queen of Guilt in our family: my dog.

"She's staring at me," I whisper to my husband. "She's staring at me, and she knows I'm going for a run without her."

"Don't make eye contact," my husband whispers back. "I'll divert her attention with a squeaky toy, and you sneak out the back door."

Half an hour later, I quietly open the back door to find her forlornly staring at me.

"OK, OK, I'm really sorry," I say to her, instantly filled with remorse.

"How can I make it up to you?"

I give her a treat. She stares at me. I brush her. She stares at me. I take her in the back yard to play fetch. She stares at me.

"All right! Fine! You win! I'll take you out for a run."

When we return I feel certain that I've finally made my dog happy.

That is, until I look down and see those unblinking eyes fixated on me.

"What?!" I ask her. "What more could I possibly do?!"

Dog guilt. It's guilt you feel at the office. Guilt you feel at the mall.

Guilt you feel on vacation. It's guilt that never sleeps.

At 3 in the morning I tiptoe past her for a glass of water and her eyes pop open - "Anything for me? Did you want to play? Want to go for a walk? Were you thinking of petting me? Just in case you need a friend, I'm here waiting."

I slip down the stairs to the kitchen in the morning and she's already sitting next to the refrigerator - "What about me?"

I slither out the front door to get the paper - "What about me?"

I sit down with my cup of coffee and the front page only to find a head on my knee and those eyes staring through the paper - "What about me?"

I stare back at the set of eyes trained on my face and ask my dog, "How can you possibly make me feel guilty? You're the one who regularly does something unspeakable on the rug four minutes after it's back from the cleaners. You're the one who's chewed the noses off of every stuffed animal in this house. And I'm the one who feels bad? Ha."

She stares back at me, and I instantly feel guilty for ever having had such thoughts. I put down my paper and coffee, grab a leash and am dragged out the front door.

When it comes to guilt, I'll always be 10 steps behind my dog.

 

(Mickey Guisewite)