What it takes to fulfill Scout on days with lots of alone time
Perspective on her exercise, enrichment, and social needs compared to other dogs and depending on the environment.
I keep feeling Scout is only a medium energy dog. Maybe even low. She’s getting older—she now shows her who-knows-exactly-how-many years—and seems content to lounge most of the day.
Then we visit friends or family and I realize oh, she still requires a lot from us.
Because we’re able to leave our heeler for so long—to confidently reply to friends’ questions about her whereabouts with “she’s napping in the van” and move right on—it sometimes seems she’s a lazy blanket of a creature. But that assumption doesn’t factor in the early alarms, the family runs, the sniffy walks, the rounds of tug, the snuggles, the meal enrichment, the everything else that happens before we even go inside our hosts’ house to say good morning.
We sleep in our van when staying with loved ones—who wouldn’t travel with their own bed if they had the option?!—but spend the bulk of our time outside it. Scout’s welcome to join though rarely does. Our introverted heeler would rather relax in the peace of her own space than deal with the chaos of my parents’ home (two other dogs, my toddler niece…) or the unfamiliarity of a different friend’s abode.
She doesn’t mind staying behind. With blackout window covers, Hermes becomes a sort of sensory deprivation chamber—I think it’s good for Scout to nap deeply.
But just because she’s fine being alone doesn’t mean we can wake up and ignore her.
Our alarm goes off around six am. We spill out the sliding door for a family jog (at minimum a sniffy walk) followed by playtime. We stretch and tug and hang in the van together, getting both our cattle dog and ourselves ready for the day, before leaving Scout with breakfast. (If we really want to pull out all the stops, we put her kibble in a snuffle mat or food-dispensing ball.) Sometimes it’s two and half hours or more before I feel comfortable leaving her. Then, at regular intervals—every three to five hours—we let her out again.
My parents have two dogs of their own. Often by the time we come inside, Scout has experienced more active fulfillment (playing, walking, etc) than Snort and Margo will get the whole rest of the day. Same for our college friends’ rescue mix—once in a while he hasn’t even gone for a morning pee break yet when we arrive at their door. Yet no creature seems upset with their lot during our visits.
The explanation? Social fulfillment.
It’s harder for Scout to chill when she’s completely alone than it is for her to match our energy. When our little family’s in the van together, she can go an entire day—or more, as happens during poor weather or lengthy road trips—with minimal exercise and limited play. She’s happy to snuggle on our legs during a Ted Lasso marathon or press her chin to my neck under the covers or knock the Kindle out of my hand to request a simple ear rub.
When we leave her behind, she has a higher fulfillment threshold to relax without FOMO. If we rush from the van without giving her enough of ourselves upon waking, Scout’s more likely to watch forlornly through the windows. She might push aside the covers if they’re up—on occasion she’s even whined and barked. She self soothes eventually, but it takes a few minutes, and that initial period of unrest makes it harder to fall into truly comfortable sleep. If we hold up our end of the bargain? She’s ready to relax. My favorite mornings are the ones where after our initial shenanigans she launches herself on the bed with drooping eyes. I know, in those moments, she’s content to be left. (Heck, she’ll sleep better when we’re gone, no longer moving about the van and opening cabinets and rousing her from dreams.)
This makes intuitive sense. Dogs are social creatures! They’re particularly social with us humans, their partner species—we are family. Scout rolls with the punches so long as we’re together (on our last trip to Wisconsin, my mother-in-law observed “she just doesn’t think anything of [life] as long as she’s with you) but when we’re apart, Sean and I owe her more.
I recently included social time—like sharing affection—on a ranked list of “things that fulfill my dog”. Depending on your dog training affiliations, this view raises eyebrows: Some professionals believe physical and mental exercise ought to come before everything else. I think it should be a balance. I know Scout is a cattle dog—an active herding breed—who won’t be satisfied with mere couch snuggles and belly rubs. I also know she is a social mammal—deeply bonded to me—who won’t be satisfied with a sterile structured walk and impulse control training. She needs both.
Of course, we don’t always keep the same routine on our visits. Some mornings we’re together until noon before we leave our dog for a nap. Others we oversleep and rush through breakfast and return for longer adventures later on. (Still others involve tight schedules and human blunders, and our beloved heeler has to settle for less than she deserves.) Depending on the day’s plan—will we be able to pop back out to the van easily? will we be inside with family or inviting Scout on future walks?—we try to structure things in different ways.
Details aside: To truly fulfill my cattle dog, I need to give her ample dedicated, focused, quality time with me. Just because she won’t destroy anything in the van doesn’t mean she’s properly relaxed. Just because we can doesn’t mean it’s fair.
This all ties into my bristling when someone on the internet makes a trendy reel saying “you’re missing out if you don’t bring the dogs” or “never leave the dog behind”. I love part of the sentiment: Yes, the best version of my life seamlessly integrates into the best version of Scout’s! But should I only ever always do activities my dog enjoys? What about my own individuality? What about honoring our differences, too? Is it not possible to give her an amazing day while carving out alone time?
Loving my dog and leaving my dog are not mutually exclusive. They’re often the same action. Scout spends a lot of time alone in the van when we’re visiting friends and family—and a lot of time with us. Sean and I distribute ourselves as necessary, include her when it makes sense, ask everyone to compromise a little when it doesn’t.
I am forever thankful living in a van full time enables us to bring her everywhere while not actually forcing her to be everywhere.