I split my time between Tokyo and northern Nagano, where my cabin sits at the edge of a national park. A footpath threads the woods to the lake and passes close to my door. In summer, hikers drift by. I don’t need a motion sensor; my dog hears them long before I do and launches into a full-throated report. Scolding doesn’t help. Treats don’t either.
Which, when you think about it, is an old job description. Go back tens of thousands of years, when humans were hunter-gatherers living in small bands of 50–100 people. We moved with the seasons, slept in primitive shelters, and watched for predators and rival groups. Wolves shadowed our camps: most kept their distance, but the bolder ones lingered at the edges for scraps. We tolerated them because they warned us; they tolerated us because we fed them, even unintentionally. Over a very long time, that uneasy truce shifted into partnership. Some wolves adapted to human life—changing in behavior and, eventually, in body—on the long road to becoming dogs.
So when someone crunches past my cabin and my dog sounds the alarm, she isn’t being difficult; she’s doing what her ancestors were selected to do. Training can soften the response, but the sentinel instinct runs deep. Out here, I’ve learned to take it less personally—and sometimes, to say thank you.