Big Dog Little Dog

Do you appear to others as a big dog person or a little dog person, and what does that say about how you present to the world? I was on an urban hike with my dog Zeus earlier today, striding up the hill from Lake Washington and thinking of everything from how loud the crows were to what to wear to a nonprofit Board meeting tonight, when I noticed a woman approaching from the opposite direction.

Because of the angle of the hill, I couldn’t see her dog at first. I saw her torso, one arm draped to the side holding a sun hat and the other arm taut and angled out in a way that hinted at a dog on the end of a leash. It wasn’t until I crested the hill that I saw her lab mix galumphing along next to her. Upon seeing me and Zeus she said, with a note of surprise mingling with her British accent, “Oh, I thought when I saw you coming that you had a big dog.” My dog is in fact small, all 10 pounds of him, his big name notwithstanding.  “Why,” I asked, “Do I look like a big dog person?” “Yes, you do actually.” (Remember, she had a British accent so the “actually” was crisp and gracious, not the “you big dummy” actually of my pre-teen daughter when she corrects me.)

This interaction left me curious about what she saw in that first downhill glance that made her surmise that a big dog was coming up the hill alongside me. I’m physically small, all 5’2” of me. I have a big or at least mid-sized official name (Margaret) but I go by a brief and matter of fact variation. Was it the teacherly, first born set of my shoulders? My jaunty cap and athletic gait?

Furthermore, do I appear to everyone as a big dog person, and what does that tell me about my optimal leadership and followership stances? As Olivander in Harry Potter’s Diagon Ally wand shop would say, “Curious. Very curious.”

The author and Zeus, appearing big