I think I’ve explained, but maybe not, that we have a friend now living in the “accessory apartment” that is one half of our first floor? He’s occupying part of the downstairs level of the house, and bartering carpentry work on the rental unit for living quarters, while he personally renovates his own new-old home elsewhere in Ipswich.

That’s how we happen to have a dog living in our house again for the first time since our only family dog, Lacey, died on Christmas day a few years ago. He’s an Australian shepherd mix named Kinta. He’s a rescue dog who belongs to our friend. Amiable but not too interested in those few humans he knows and trusts (except for his owner, with whom he’d happily stay within nose-distance at all times). Apt to growl and retreat from everyone else.

Okay, so Kinta’s been living here for about a month. He’s getting to know us. We offer him biscuits and speak gently to him. Avoid quick motions and loud voices. He trusts females more than males, as a general rule. And he’s not particularly affectionate anyway … he’ll come sniff the cuff of your pants, reading all the stories that the scents might tell him, and then trot off to check the front door, where squirrels might appear at any moment.

Now here’s my observation. I always speak softly and coaxingly to him. So does every other woman I know, who spends time with this dog. We stroke his long silky ears. Run fingers and palms over his knobby head and thin neck. Reassuring. Comforting. Safe. He leans into the attention, content for a few minutes, then eases away to continue his rounds. Calm. Brief. Yet an exchange of affection between human and dog.

Now when the guys play with Kinta, they tease him. Grab and jerk away, so he bares his teeth and snaps, playing catch as only a dog might do. He jumps. He barks. He grows bright and active. He seems almost menacing, but so do the grown men he’s playing with, who agitate and wrestle with him, provoking this reaction.

Yet it’s all play. For all of them. Never a tooth mark or snapped jaw. Never a scratch or scar from all the rough-housing. He’s just animated and playing.

There seems to be a gender difference in how adult men play with this male dog, and how women soothe him. I’ll toss a ball, but if it rolls too far, or bumps into something and makes a loud noise, he balks and shies, halting before he retrieves it. I’ve always thought he’s too shy to handle any rough play.

Then Chris and our friend both teased him. And the dog loves it.

What do I know? In this instance, I just watch and learn. I’m not a boy. And I raised daughters. And a girl dog, too.

There’s a learning curve to watching this male-male interaction play out, regardless of species! Humans. Dogs. We seem to have a lot in common. Including gender-specific traits. Hmmmmm.