"Son of a Dog" Circuit: How We Deflect Blame to Protect the "I"

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the circuits in our brain—the ingrained pathways we use to process information and navigate the world. It often takes me back to a specific memory from my childhood, a moment that perfectly illustrates how one of these circuits operates.

I was small, riding the bus home from School through Sindhi Society. As we were crossing the lake on the right-hand side, I heard two boys sitting behind me begin to fight. The argument escalated until one boy hurled an insult at the other: "Son of a dog!"

Immediately, the second boy became furious. "How can you call my father a dog?" he shouted. The situation quickly turned physical.

But I remember staring out the window, puzzled. The boy who was insulted had heard something the first boy never actually said. The father was not at all in the picture. It was a simple insult calling the boy a pup by calling him as a "son of a dog." So why did he bring his father into it? Why was he so personally offended on his father's behalf?

When I got home, I discussed this with my mother. She explained, "That's because he thinks that when he's called a son of a dog, he is also calling his father a dog." It's his way of looking at it.

And that was the key revelation: it’s a way of looking. My own initial, literal interpretation was that a "son of a dog" simply meant there was a dog on the road, and you were its offspring. Where was the current father in that equation? He wasn't involved. The insult was directed solely at the boy, suggesting he was somehow inferior.

But the boy on the bus chose a different interpretation. He preferred to see the data differently. And when you look closely, you see that this preference almost always revolves around protecting the "I."

When someone calls me a "son of a dog," the direct insult is about me. I have been called something negative, something inferior. The productive, albeit difficult, response would be to either dismiss it or to self-reflect: "Is there something in my behavior that I need to work on?"

But that’s not what this circuit does. Instead, it uses a brilliant, if destructive, strategy: deflection.

I distract my opponent by completely changing the topic. I shift the focus from my own perceived flaws to an innocent third party—my father. I cry foul: "You insulted him!" Now, I have successfully changed the entire narrative. I am no longer the target; my father is. I am blaming the other person for involving someone he never intended to involve. His entire aggression was directed at me, but I deflected it, placed it on someone else, and then attacked him for his "unfairness."

This strategy of deflection is what most of our ego-protecting circuits do. The circuit refuses to take the blame. It refuses to look inward at its own inefficiency. Instead, it immediately looks for the inefficiency in the other person, accusing them of being unfair, of "kicking below the belt," of indulging in something they shouldn't.

This is a circuit that runs in most people today. It’s a micro-circuit, one of the many that form the larger, more complex "I am" identity. If we can learn to look at these micro circuits and work on them, revise them, we have a real chance to change.

Analysing this " Son of a Dog" circuit (The Anatomy of a Deflection Circuit)

This circuit isn’t about logic; it’s about protection. Its primary function is to shield the fragile “I” from a direct hit. Here’s how it works: 

1. An Insult is Received: The ego perceives a threat (“You are inferior”). 

2. The Circuit Activates: Rather than process the uncomfortable (and potentially useful) criticism, the brain seeks an escape route. 

3. Creativity is Weaponized: The circuit harnesses the individuals creative power not for solution, but for diversion. It invents a new, tangential target—often someone or something beloved and defensible (like a parent, partner, religion, belief,identity.....). 

4. The Blame is Deflected: “You didn’t insult me; you insulted my father/mother/family/honor!” The aggressor is now put on the defensive for an offense they didn’t technically commit. 

5. The “I” Escapes Unscathed: The original criticism is never addressed. The self is protected from any need for introspection or change. 

 This is a brilliant, if toxic, survival strategy. It’s the psychological equivalent of a lizard dropping its tail to escape a predator. You sacrifice a part of your narrative (by dragging an innocent party into the conflict) to allow your core ego to scamper away, unharmed and unaccountable. 

 The High Cost of "Winning" the Argument 

 The problem is, while you may “win” the ensuing argument by confusing your opponent, you lose on every other level. 

1. You Avoid Growth: The circuit prevents you from asking the hard question: “Is there a truth in this insult? Is there something I need to work on?” 

2. You Escalate Conflict: You’ve expanded the battlefield from a one-on-one skirmish to a wider war, involving parties who weren’t even there. 

3. You Sabotage Communication: The real issue is buried forever under a mountain of misplaced outrage. 

 We see this circuit everywhere—in politics, in workplaces, and in our personal relationships. It’s the root of what psychologists might call defense mechanisms like projection or displacement. The circuit cannot tolerate the perceived inefficiency of self-blame, so it expertly redirects energy toward the inefficiency of the other person: “You are unfair. You fight dirty. You kicked below the belt.” 

 Rewiring the Circuit: From Deflection to Reflection 

The power in naming this circuit, recognizing its existence, is that it gives us a choice. We can observe it activating in real-time. We can feel that flash of anger, that urge to deflect, and instead choose a different path. 

 The next time criticism comes our way, we can pause. We can ask: 

 · “What is this person actually saying about me?” 

· “Setting aside their delivery, is there useful data here?” 

· “Am I about to drop a ‘lizard’s tail’ to avoid uncomfortable self-reflection?” 

 By bringing conscious awareness to these preset neural pathways, we can slowly rewire them. We can move from a state of defensive deflection to one of open reflection. 

That boy on the bus taught me a powerful lesson: the greatest insults are often the ones we invent for ourselves. And the most profound strength lies not in defending our fictional parents, but in having the courage to look squarely at our reflection in the window—and decide if we like what we see.