My Very Good, Very Bad Dog

by Amy Newmark

  The more John looked, the more information he found. There was a post office in Round Rock named for Steven Gill. He searched for people who had placed messages on Steven’s memorial page and found Karen Cupples, who was Rose’s best friend. She filled in many of the blanks about Harley. Eventually, John even met Steven’s father Bill, who answered more questions.

  John got very little sleep in those early days with Harley, who was having nightmares. He would whimper until John curled up on the floor next to him. Of course, that meant that Harley ended up sleeping in our bed.

  Harley was seen all over Burnet County and went everywhere John went. Harley had a Facebook page where he gained many friends and helped spread the word that senior dogs need to be rescued, too. As a result, people started opening their hearts to the frosty-faced senior dogs that found themselves in rescues, animal shelters and city pounds. Harley touched many lives and was an inspiration. His friends loved to read about his adventures on Facebook and all of the witty remarks “Harley” made.

  Sadly, on February 12th, Harley went on his last patrol. John was lost without his sidekick. Harley’s Facebook friends were also shocked. John decided to memorialize Harley with a tattoo. He visited American Gypsy Tattoo in Marble Falls, Texas, and met the owner, Dave Justice, also a Marine. Dave picked a picture of Harley from his Facebook page and then designed a tattoo of Harley that was so lifelike it took John’s breath away. American Gypsy made a video of the tattoo and the moving story of a man and his dog. The video can be found on YouTube by searching for “Sarge Harley.”

  As John grieved, he didn’t know that he was going to rescue another Boston Terrier and also create a non-profit organization to keep rescuing dogs. The Sarge Harley Memorial Fund was born, and already it has met with great success on Facebook. An auction was held to kick off the organization, and $700 was raised in just a week to help pay medical bills for a Boston Terrier named Tulu that had begun having seizures and was in need of testing and medication. Money has been donated toward the purchase of a wheelchair for a little pug, medical treatment for a little Boston Terrier in Dallas with a severe skin problem, and even a little dog in California that needed emergency surgery to remove an eye.

  A new Boston Terrier rescue named Recon has joined our family now. John was floored to discover that Recon was born on July 21st, the anniversary of Steven’s death. To make it an even bigger coincidence, Steven Gill was a Recon Marine. Recon may not be Harley, but he is working his magic and making himself at home in John’s heart.

  ~Cindy Lou Ruffino

  My Therapeutic Dog

  Fun fact: Many therapy animals are dogs, but there are also therapy cats, rabbits, horses, pigs, birds, and other animals.

  Watchful Devotion

  Fun fact: It’s believed that the Icelandic Sheepdog was brought to Iceland in the late 9th or early 10th century by Viking settlers.

  My finger slipped. The word escaped me: “Oops.” My dog, Kai, hurtled across the room, barely cleared the screen of my laptop, and landed squarely on my chest. I laughed even as I scrambled to shift my laptop to a side table — an awkward task with twenty-five pounds of Icelandic Sheepdog on top of me — then wrapped my arms around him, ruffling the long, silky fur that had never really lost its puppy softness. “I’m fine, bud. I made a typo. Okay? A typo. I’m fine. I promise.”

  He was not immediately convinced, but I made my breathing slow and calm as I petted him, and after a minute or so he seemed to conclude that all was indeed well here. He hopped up over my shoulder and onto the back of my chair, where he sprawled like a cat resting lazily on a branch, draping down to rest his nose and one front paw by my ear.

  If he could talk, I thought, he would probably mutter, “I only left for a minute.”

  I understood. It was different when he first came to live with me. I was different: washed out of grad school, and so anxiety-ridden that I doubted I would ever again make it out of my room at my parents’ house for long enough to have anything resembling a normal life. I was having panic attacks daily. Virtually anything could set them off — even, on bad days, something as small as a typo.

  But when Kai came to my home, this began to change.

  I will always remember that first day. He was a nine-and-a-half-week-old ball of black-and-white fur with ears that didn’t quite stand up yet, all kisses and tail wags, completely unbothered by the fact that he had been plucked away from his siblings and his familiar yard and playpen. I sat on the floor of my room playing with him, tossing a stuffed toy that he happily chased. He would pounce on it, then snatch it up and prance around the room with his head held high and proud, as if he had just found the world’s greatest treasure.

  I laughed at his delight, but then the dark got in, as it always did. This moment was good, but it couldn’t last. I knew something would go horribly wrong. My breathing changed, and Kai spun to look at me, toy forgotten. Head on one side, he trotted over to where I sat, climbed up on my lap, and put his nose a few inches from mine as he studied my face, his dark brown eyes curious.

  I made myself smile at him. “It’s nothing, bud. It’s okay. I’m okay.” I didn’t entirely believe it, but it was close enough to be true. The nightmare that had invaded my thoughts had disappeared quickly in the face of Kai’s support.

  It happened again the next day. I sat on the floor, head in my hands, and hyperventilated. I couldn’t stop.

  Even as the panic attack started, I worried about Kai. He was a very young dog in a new place, very sensitive to the moods of those around him, and here I was hunched over on the floor, screaming at my imagination. He was a confident little boy, but this might be too much. I might scare him, make him wary of me. I knew it and hated it, but I couldn’t stop.

  With no hesitation, as if it were a job he’d been preparing to do since he was born, he marched across the room and climbed into my lap again. He was very quiet, but the set of his ears and his tail suggested no stress on his part. He leaned his small weight against me, letting me feel his steady heartbeat and unhurried breathing, and stayed there calmly while I hugged him and sobbed. Slowly, my own breath settled until it was under control again.

  Over the next weeks and months, Kai got older and more observant. If I panicked, he was there to sit with me until I wasn’t panicking anymore, but his self-appointed duties did not stop there. If I started pacing with too much urgency, he would put himself in my way and jump up on me, interrupting my steps. If I started talking to myself — a thing I did so much I didn’t always realize I was doing it — he would climb in my lap, whining and wanting to kiss my face, as soon as he heard stress in my voice. If I gesticulated too wildly as my thoughts tripped over themselves, waving my hands as I tried to get out what I couldn’t express in words, he would paw at my arms frantically until I stopped. These were not responses that I or anyone else trained him to give; they were his own, and apparently instinctive.

  Whatever was actually going on in his head, the result was that whenever I began to work myself into a panic attack, he interrupted me. Soon, he was catching subtler signs, warning me at hints of agitation that only he could see. With his patient help, I gradually learned to catch myself when I was in trouble, early enough that most of the time I could pull myself out of it.

  Kai is three years old now. Most of the time, he doesn’t have to play the role of mental-health monitor anymore. I still have dark days, but I’ve learned I can get through them. Real panic attacks are rare beasts now instead daily occurrences, and it’s largely thanks to my dog and his watchful devotion.

  I’m back in school, something I never thought would be possible when I left. Kai curls up near me when I do my homework, ready to jump up and stick his nose in my face if I so much as say, “Oops.” I don’t mind. He knows, and I know, that sometimes little problems lead to bigger ones.

  These days, when he does this, I smile back and tell him it’s okay. And I believe it.

  ~Cris Kenney

  Resting at Her Feet
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  Fun fact: Most dogs can’t see enough detail or color to enjoy watching TV.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. It was more that Benny just didn’t care about her one way or the other. The only reason he paid her any attention at all was because his best buddy did, and that was only for a few minutes at dinnertime. Only then would Benny acknowledge her presence, and then, only until his food was served.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t mind getting the canine cold shoulder, because she knew a sacred bond existed between a boy and his puppy — even if this one-year-old dog wasn’t quite a puppy anymore, and this sixty-nine-year-old man wasn’t quite a boy anymore.

  Unfortunately, one night, Benny’s best friend became ill, and people that neither of them knew came to help. They took his buddy away, and Benny never saw him again. In the days and weeks that followed, he searched for him, and several times he thought he’d found him. After all, his scent was everywhere — on his chair in the kitchen, on his coat hanging by the stairs, and even in his shoes — still waiting for him out on the breezeway. Benny became excited when he heard a car pull in the driveway or voices in the street, but in the end, it wasn’t him.

  For weeks, he moped and refused to eat, but then one day he realized something that previously had meant little to him: She was still there. That night, when they were alone, Benny slowly came over and sat at her feet. She gently began to stroke his shiny golden hair, and then something totally unexpected happened: She hugged him. From that moment forward, their relationship changed, and for each of them, the healing began.

  They would become inseparable companions who enjoyed taking long neighborhood walks, stopping to talk with everyone they met along the way. Whether watching Animal Planet on TV or doing nothing at all, they did it together — a team of two — her confidant and his new best friend. The proof of this relationship was revealed in the greeting cards she routinely sent to friends and family acknowledging holidays and special events. Depending on one’s relationship with her, the card was signed: “Love, Doris & Benny,” “Nana & Benny,” or “Mom & Benny.” And those of us receiving these cards understood the importance of the closing salutation. We knew their story was one of recovery and rebirth, of two needy souls who found each other, and of the enduring friendship that resulted. It was a good story, too, but like all stories, it had to end eventually.

  If Benny had one fault that clearly surpassed all others, it was that he wasn’t immortal. As he approached his thirteenth year, his body began to reveal evidence of the passage of time. Their long walks gave way to shorter excursions — a consequence of his new hip difficulties. Other issues developed, and by early December she wondered whether he’d make it through New Year’s.

  And then, she received a devastating diagnosis of her own.

  They both survived the holidays, and for the next few months, the three of us spent practically every day together as she suffered the procedures that took her strength and, eventually, her hair. And Benny continued to be her most faithful friend and supporter. It was as if he knew that she still needed him, and in truth, she did. Although rising from his rug and walking required increasingly more effort, he struggled to greet her every time I brought her home from her daily treatments. His puppy-heart still overflowed with unconditional love. His old body was still ready to snuggle. When her exhaustion forced her into her chair, I would sit nearby in the rocker, but Benny knew just where she needed him to be… resting at her feet.

  Benny continued to provide his love and support throughout the duration of her treatments, and when they were finally over, he died.

  Sadly, her healthy reprieve didn’t last. For a second time, she fought the good fight, but this time, when she knew the battle was lost, she gracefully accepted the inevitable and had but one request — that the ashes of her beloved Benny be interred with her.

  On a sunny November morning, we lay Mom to rest with Dad. And just as she’d asked, Benny was there, too. As always, he was just where she needed him to be… resting at her feet.

  ~Stephen Rusiniak

  Reprinted by permission of Bruce Robinson

  My Slobbery, Comforting Shadow

  Fun fact: Studies have shown that the stress-reducing effects of petting a dog occur after just five to twenty-four minutes — much more quickly than taking a stress-reducing medication.

  “Welcome home, honey,” my mom said, ushering me inside the front door of my childhood home. My dad followed close behind with my suitcases. As soon as we stepped through the door, we were greeted by a wriggling, eighty-two-pound bundle of brown-furred energy: our family dog, a Boxer named Murray. I hadn’t seen him in five months, not since I had been home for Christmas. He yelped and barked with joy, leaping up to kiss my face, then ran around the living room — his own version of welcoming me home.

  “It’s good to be back,” I said, petting Murray’s head. He slobbered all over my hand, but I didn’t mind.

  “I’m going to make you a sandwich,” my mom said, heading into the kitchen. “I can tell you haven’t been eating enough.”

  I didn’t argue — I hadn’t really been eating or sleeping much the past month and a half, not since my engagement had quite suddenly but irrevocably unraveled. At the time, I had been living halfway across the country from my family, finishing up my third and final year of graduate school. My brother flew out to be with me for the shell-shocked initial week of the break-up, and he was a godsend: hugging me as I cried, walking with me to class, sitting patiently with me at the kitchen table, and gently plying me with a few more bites of food, a few more sips of water.

  But then my brother had to return home for work. I told my family — and myself — that I could make it through the final five weeks of the semester on my own. I was strong. I could take care of myself.

  I managed to keep it together on the outside — I finished up my teaching obligations for the semester, turned in my thesis, and completed all my course requirements to graduate — but inside, I was an emotional wreck. I had trouble sleeping. I lost an unhealthy amount of weight because I simply wasn’t hungry. For the first time in my life, I suffered from anxiety, a near-constant pressure in my chest that sometimes made it hard to breathe.

  Finally, the semester ended, and I boarded a flight home to California. I arrived home shaken, unsure who I was, scared to be on my own facing a wide-open future. Only months before, I had everything mapped out. I thought I would spend the summer planning a wedding to my best friend. I thought the two of us would get jobs at a university together. I thought I was done looking for my life partner. But now, all of that was gone. I was back at square one.

  “This is exciting!” my friends said. “You’ve got a fresh start.” But I did not feel excited. I felt lost.

  My family only talked about my ex-fiancé in negative terms. “We could always see he wasn’t right for you,” they said. “You’re better off without him. You dodged a bullet.” I knew their comments were meant to make me feel better, and I was grateful for their unflagging support of my choices. But, despite everything, the truth was that I missed my ex deeply. And I felt confused and guilty for missing him.

  Out of everyone, it seemed that Murray, our family dog, was the one who best sensed my bewildered, raw grief. He looked up at me with his large, concerned eyes, and I felt understood. He didn’t prod me forward when I wasn’t ready to move yet. He didn’t judge me for my inconsistent emotions. He loved and accepted me, just as I was.

  Murray is not normally a cuddler. He’s been known to leap off a queen-sized bed if someone else dares to invade his personal space by lying down beside him. Yet, as May melted into June, and June gave way to July, Murray was my shadow. He followed me around the house. He snored under the desk as I wrote on my laptop. Every night — as if sensing that nights were the toughest time for me — he curled up at the foot of my bed and kept me company as I tried to sleep.

  As July faded into August, I began to sleep more. And eat more. And laugh. And smile. T
he hollowness and fear inside me slowly began to dissipate, like fog in sunlight. Excitement and energy began to grow anew in my core. I was healing. I was becoming myself again, passionate about life, unafraid to try new things. When I came home from my new yoga class or volunteer work at the food pantry, Murray would greet me with his sloppy dog kisses. Always, he made me feel safe and loved for exactly who I was.

  In September, I moved out of my parents’ house and on to the next chapter of my life, which is still being written. Murray stayed behind — he is, after all, our family dog, and my parents’ house is his home. I get to see him whenever I visit. He is still not a cuddler, but whenever I return to sleep in my childhood bed for a night or two, I hear his doggy footsteps padding upstairs. His big head will nudge my bedroom door open. And he’ll curl up at the foot of my bed for a little while, as if to remind me that no matter what happens, he’s there and he understands.

  ~Dallas Woodburn

  Best Friends

  Fun fact: About ten percent of people may be allergic to dogs. Allergic people should choose breeds that don’t shed and produce less dander, the source of most allergens.

  When my neighbor Ellen retired recently, one of the first things she did was to get her dog, Lucy. She had always wanted a dog, she told me, and now she had the time to care for one.

  “I had a dog very briefly when I was a little girl,” she said, “but it turns out that my brother was allergic to it, and we had to give it away.”