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At some point in prehistoric times, humans and wolves learned to work together.
If you stop to think about that for a second, it's pretty impressive. It's not often that you'll find predators from two different species cooperating with each other. Rarely, large herds or schools of fish will bring predators together. Sometimes just a truce in recognition of the fact that there's plenty for everyone. More rarely, different tactics will play off each other, like when diving birds from above and dolphins approaching from below will combine to trap the fish in a place where both can get them. But that sort of thing is over as soon as the migration passes.
There are other examples of symbiosis, or even just food sharing, but those are generally limited to species with different needs. It's not something you see between predators on the same high tier of the food chain. It's even stranger when you consider that wolf packs have been known to hunt humans, and it's not entirely unheard of for humans to eat wolves and their relatives.
But, somehow, it happened. Wolves and humans found that they could help each other. Combine their strengths.
And the humans found something else. Some wolves were easier to work with. More cooperative and trustworthy. Better able to grasp shared tactics. Less afraid of fire. More willing to share. More companionable. Those wolves stuck around more, and bred with each other. And what the humans found is that the more that happened, the better the partners the successive generations of wolves became. And that is how we got dogs.
But we took it further than that. We changed them to suit our needs and wants. We changed their size, shape, coloring, hair/fur, and more. We made Great Danes and Saint Bernards more massive than we are. We made Chihuahuas that could fit in the palms of our hands. We made Dachshunds with short legs so they could fit down fox holes. We made Greyhounds with long legs so they could sprint. We made dogs with lots of thick fur, dogs with hair that wouldn't shed, dogs with little to no hair or fur at all.
We went beyond that. We reprogrammed their minds. We made aggressive guard dogs who would viciously attack just about anyone. We made friendly and lovable family dogs who could be trusted to play with our children. We took wolves who would eat sheep and turned them into sheepdogs who would watch over our sheep and even protect them from wolves. We made dogs that would hunt with us and dogs that would watch over our homes while we were gone. We made dogs who would be happy to do specialized jobs like tracking prey or herding prey or pulling sleds or any number of other things. We made dogs who would hunt with us in large packs and dogs who would be fine surrounded only by humans. We made active dogs, always alert and ready, and we made docile dogs content to just sit in our laps. We made intelligent dogs who could learn to do complex things and we made stupid dogs who wouldn't be bored with simple repetitive tasks.
You know how some dogs love to play fetch? No matter how tired or mopey they are, you can just show them a ball or a stick or something and they'll instantly be so excited they can barely contain themselves. It's the best thing ever. You know why? We put that into their heads. Because we wanted retrievers. Dogs who could chase after what we shot and bring it back to us. Throw the stick like an arrow, see it fall like a bird. The dog bounds after it, picks it up, shakes it to finish it off, and brings it back. All done by instinct, with enough pleasure to make the whole thing its own reward. We did that. (And that's why dogs who don't have hound or retriever blood in them will look at you waving a stick, sit there, and put on an expression which clearly says, "Yeah? So?")
We've made hundreds of different kids of dog, each with its own purpose, desires, skills, instincts, and personality.
Yet, for all that, they're still wolves. From a purely genetic standpoint, there isn't enough difference between any of the canids to mark them off as a separate species. Any breed of dog from the tiny, hairless, nervous Chihuahua to the giant, furry, stolid Saint Bernard can (if you set aside the practical problems that come with such wide variance in size) be interbred with any other breed of dog to have a viable litter capable of producing another generation. But that's still true if you add in all the various types of wolf. Or, for that matter, any other similar animal, including foxes, coyotes, jackals, and dingos.
That creature lying next to me? He's soft and fluffy. He loves all humans unconditionally. He lets the kids climb over him, poke him in the eye, put their hands in his mouth. He watches over them when he thinks they might need a little extra supervision. Nothing makes him happier than a stick flying through the air. As hungry as he may be, he eats only what is given to him (even if there's an open bag of dog food, nothing in his way, and no one watching him... or a plate of leftovers on a kid-sized table and no one else in the house). I can even interrupt him in the middle of a meal if I need to get to his bowl. He's a friend and a companion, trusting and trustworthy.
But underneath it all, he's a wolf. More than just a wolf, though. He's the product of a genetic engineering project that we, as a species, have been conducting and fine-tuning since before the dawn of history.
If you stop to think about that for a second, it's pretty impressive. It's not often that you'll find predators from two different species cooperating with each other. Rarely, large herds or schools of fish will bring predators together. Sometimes just a truce in recognition of the fact that there's plenty for everyone. More rarely, different tactics will play off each other, like when diving birds from above and dolphins approaching from below will combine to trap the fish in a place where both can get them. But that sort of thing is over as soon as the migration passes.
There are other examples of symbiosis, or even just food sharing, but those are generally limited to species with different needs. It's not something you see between predators on the same high tier of the food chain. It's even stranger when you consider that wolf packs have been known to hunt humans, and it's not entirely unheard of for humans to eat wolves and their relatives.
But, somehow, it happened. Wolves and humans found that they could help each other. Combine their strengths.
And the humans found something else. Some wolves were easier to work with. More cooperative and trustworthy. Better able to grasp shared tactics. Less afraid of fire. More willing to share. More companionable. Those wolves stuck around more, and bred with each other. And what the humans found is that the more that happened, the better the partners the successive generations of wolves became. And that is how we got dogs.
But we took it further than that. We changed them to suit our needs and wants. We changed their size, shape, coloring, hair/fur, and more. We made Great Danes and Saint Bernards more massive than we are. We made Chihuahuas that could fit in the palms of our hands. We made Dachshunds with short legs so they could fit down fox holes. We made Greyhounds with long legs so they could sprint. We made dogs with lots of thick fur, dogs with hair that wouldn't shed, dogs with little to no hair or fur at all.
We went beyond that. We reprogrammed their minds. We made aggressive guard dogs who would viciously attack just about anyone. We made friendly and lovable family dogs who could be trusted to play with our children. We took wolves who would eat sheep and turned them into sheepdogs who would watch over our sheep and even protect them from wolves. We made dogs that would hunt with us and dogs that would watch over our homes while we were gone. We made dogs who would be happy to do specialized jobs like tracking prey or herding prey or pulling sleds or any number of other things. We made dogs who would hunt with us in large packs and dogs who would be fine surrounded only by humans. We made active dogs, always alert and ready, and we made docile dogs content to just sit in our laps. We made intelligent dogs who could learn to do complex things and we made stupid dogs who wouldn't be bored with simple repetitive tasks.
You know how some dogs love to play fetch? No matter how tired or mopey they are, you can just show them a ball or a stick or something and they'll instantly be so excited they can barely contain themselves. It's the best thing ever. You know why? We put that into their heads. Because we wanted retrievers. Dogs who could chase after what we shot and bring it back to us. Throw the stick like an arrow, see it fall like a bird. The dog bounds after it, picks it up, shakes it to finish it off, and brings it back. All done by instinct, with enough pleasure to make the whole thing its own reward. We did that. (And that's why dogs who don't have hound or retriever blood in them will look at you waving a stick, sit there, and put on an expression which clearly says, "Yeah? So?")
We've made hundreds of different kids of dog, each with its own purpose, desires, skills, instincts, and personality.
Yet, for all that, they're still wolves. From a purely genetic standpoint, there isn't enough difference between any of the canids to mark them off as a separate species. Any breed of dog from the tiny, hairless, nervous Chihuahua to the giant, furry, stolid Saint Bernard can (if you set aside the practical problems that come with such wide variance in size) be interbred with any other breed of dog to have a viable litter capable of producing another generation. But that's still true if you add in all the various types of wolf. Or, for that matter, any other similar animal, including foxes, coyotes, jackals, and dingos.
That creature lying next to me? He's soft and fluffy. He loves all humans unconditionally. He lets the kids climb over him, poke him in the eye, put their hands in his mouth. He watches over them when he thinks they might need a little extra supervision. Nothing makes him happier than a stick flying through the air. As hungry as he may be, he eats only what is given to him (even if there's an open bag of dog food, nothing in his way, and no one watching him... or a plate of leftovers on a kid-sized table and no one else in the house). I can even interrupt him in the middle of a meal if I need to get to his bowl. He's a friend and a companion, trusting and trustworthy.
But underneath it all, he's a wolf. More than just a wolf, though. He's the product of a genetic engineering project that we, as a species, have been conducting and fine-tuning since before the dawn of history.
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