by Colleen Sell
“Let's talk about it later,” he said.
Out of respect for my loss of Isabelle, he waited several months before reminding me that he'd clearly said he didn't care much for dogs.
“You know, honey, you actually are a dog person,” I said. “Look how much you enjoyed Isabelle.”
“She was part of the package. And sure, she was a lot of fun. But now we're going to have a new home. Dogs track in a lot of dirt. They get hair all over.”
“You could go running with a dog.”
“I can also go running without a dog. Sorry, babe. I just don't get jazzed about looking into their eyes and carrying on whole conversations with them like you do.”
Dogs do track in a lot of dirt. Most breeds do get hair all over. And I had never seen Ray look into Isabelle's eyes. Because Ray was by far the best of the men I'd dated in the ten years following my divorce, I would try living without a dog.
I tried for six months, devoting myself to planning our wedding and house shopping. I had plenty to keep me busy: caterers to call, invitations to address, wedding cakes to sample. Still, I felt a physical ache when Ray and I were walking or hiking and passed someone with a dog. I wanted to please Ray, but I needed a canine buddy.
I mailed the invitations, and we hired the minister. We found a house and began packing our respective things. The ache deepened.
A month before the wedding, I subscribed to a community newspaper where ads for dogs free to good homes frequently appear. I fully intended to read only the local news until at least after the wedding. My rebellious fingers opened to the classifieds. I scanned the ads, and felt mostly relief when nothing jumped out at me. For several weeks, just reading those ads pacified me. Then, Annie, a golden retriever, jumped off the page.
“You know how desperately I miss having a dog,” I told Ray. “I've tried living without one, but I just can't resist going to see this golden retriever. Please, will you go with me?”
“Isn't our wedding in two weeks?” he asked.
“I know the timing's lousy. I won't get her unless she's absolutely perfect. If she is perfect, I'm sure my friend Lynn will keep her while we're on our honeymoon. We've traded dog sitting before.”
“I thought you wanted new carpet for the house. We could never keep it clean,” he said gently, his expression clearly pleading, “Be reasonable.”
I couldn't be reasonable. “I need a dog,” I said, my voice breaking and tears smarting my eyes. “I wish I didn't, but I do.”
“Go see her then,” he said with a tone of resignation.
As I drove to see Annie, part of me hoped she wasn't perfect. I didn't want to add stresses to a new marriage. Another part of me danced.
Eighteen months old, her coat as red and rich as a chestnut mare's, professionally trained so that she heeled like a champion show dog, just the right height to pat without bending over as we walked, Annie was perfect. She came complete with a crate and a tracking chip in her shoulder.
“She's awfully big,” Ray said when I brought her home.
Big dog, big mess,I knew he was thinking.
“I'll vacuum every day,” I promised.
“We'll see,” he said.
That night, Annie and I had an eye-to-sad-brown-eye, nose-to-slightly-damp-nose talk. “Annie,” I told her, “Ray is a dog person, but he doesn't know it. And he has to find out, or we're both in trouble. Your job is to convert him.”
Annie thumped her tail twice on the hardwood floor. “Sure. Of course,” she seemed to say.
Annie stayed with Lynn while Ray and I honeymooned, and then she moved into our new house with us. She began her assignment immediately.
“I'm going jogging,” Ray said and sat on the steps of our front porch to tie his running shoes.
Annie followed him out the door and stood beside him, leaning ever so slightly against his shoulder.
He looked at her. “You want to come?” he asked.
She opened her mouth in a big doggie smile and wagged her tail.
“Get your leash,” he said.
I quickly got the leash and tied a plastic bag to it.
“Plastic bag?” Ray asked. Then, “Right. Gross, but a good idea.”
“I love you both,” I said, patting Annie and kissing Ray. I watched them jog down the street and then turned to my mountain of unpacked boxes.
An hour later, they were back. Ray plopped down on the couch. “She isn't very fast,” he said. “But then, neither am I. The company's nice.” He reached out and stroked her head.
You're making progress, Annie,I thought to myself.
Over the next month, Ray and Annie jogged several times a week. Ray had his heart set on the Portland Marathon, now that he was finally retired and had time to train. Annie had her heart set on joining him for every run. I watched them leave the house, both alight with anticipation. When they came home, I would give Annie a fresh bowl of water and Ray a beer.
In the house, Annie flopped her big body down in whatever room I occupied. In my Prius, she sat on a throne of two large, fleece-covered foam pads that allowed her to look out the windows as she accompanied me on all my errands. But when Ray went for his running shoes, she raced to the front door, then back to Ray, then to the door. I waved them off, glad to be second in her heart for a moment.
Just when they had this joyful routine down, both Annie and Ray started to limp. So I took them both to orthopedists. Turns out they had bad knees in common.
“Looks like we'll be walking instead of running,” Ray said to Annie. This wasn't the first time I'd seen him chatting with her when he didn't know I was around. Then he turned to me, the lines of his face long with disappointment that he couldn't run the marathon, and said, “I guess Annie's a good dog for an old guy like me.”
“I'm sorry for you both, sweetie,” I said and kissed his forehead. Annie lifted her nose from her paws, looked at us, and thumped her tail in agreement.
Summer arrived with its host of pollen-related allergies. Ray talked about the impact of dog hair on hay fever. Talked about it every single day. Just when Annie and I were making such progress, I thought. I vacuumed more in one month than I had in my entire life. We ran the furnace fan night and day and installed an air purifier in the bedroom. Ray felt a little better.
Meanwhile, Annie was having allergy problems of her own. She developed a hot spot on one of her front legs and chewed it raw no matter what we put on it. She never complained, never whined, never begged for extra attention; she just settled into the misery of worrying her hot spot when we weren't distracting her.
I took her to the vet, who gave her medication for her leg and flea allergies and put an Elizabethan collar — an affair that looks like an upside-down lampshade — around her neck. When we got home, we walked to the overstuffed chair where Ray sat reading the paper so Annie could model her latest fashion.
“Poor girl,” Ray said, putting down the newspaper and reaching out to stroke her back. “That looks awfully uncomfortable. I could never wear it.” He eyed her a few more seconds. “I thought dogs always whine when they're miserable,” he said to Annie. “But you never do. I seem to be the dog around here.” He smiled his crooked smile, and my heart swelled with love for them both.
With Ray and Annie's allergies under control, we all three set out one warm, sunny afternoon for a stroll around the nearby community college campus. When we were side by side, Annie walked closely at my left heel, unless I told her to run off and enjoy some doggie smells. If Ray or I walked a little ahead of each other, she created a place for herself between us, looking worriedly from one to the other. “You are both all right, aren't you?” her look seemed to say. “All three of us must stick together no matter what.”No distraction kept her away for long.
Then Ray and I decided to go different directions. He wanted to head up through the buildings and find a restroom. I wanted to walk through the woods at the edge of campus.
“See you in a minute,” he said, kissed me quickly, and
headed off to the right.
I walked left toward the woods. Annie started off with me, but her head swiveled repeatedly to watch Ray's retreat.
I stopped and knelt down to talk with her. “It's okay. Go with Ray,” I said.
I swear she understood. She looked at the spot where he was just disappearing into the complex of buildings.
“It's okay,” I said again. “Go on.”
Annie bounded after Ray. In a few minutes they were back.
“She wanted to go with me,” Ray said, his voice holding the wonder of a small boy who has just been chosen for the team.
“I saw that,” I said.
Ray knelt down and looked in Annie's eyes. His hands stroked her nose. “You know, girl,” he said, “I didn't want to fall in love with you.”
My grin must have been spreading clear across my face when he looked up at me and said, “Don't think this means I'm a dog person.”
˜ Samantha Ducloux Waltz
Free Willy
I fell in love at the mall. Not with Manolo Blahniks or the latest fashion trend, but with a living, breathing being. On that breezy Sunday in April, I stood transfixed in the parking lot, looking at him, watching him. The world seemed to disappear as I gazed into his dark brown eyes, held him in my arms, and brought his face close to mine in a fit of unforeseen boldness. His nose felt cold against my skin. He seemed a bit frightened, even reluctant to pursue a relationship. But I was hooked, and I couldn't let him go.
So I handed a check to the breeder who had traveled several hundred miles to meet me in the mall's parking lot, and I took my new West Highland terrier puppy home.
My husband named him Willy, apropos of his willful nature. Once Willy got comfortable with his human pack and familiar with the new surroundings, he wasted no time in testing the limits. He would pull the leash in one direction while I yanked in another. Gnawed corners appeared on throw pillows, and a sandal disappeared. I decided it was time to nip this in the bud and enrolled him in puppy kindergarten. Besides, I wanted to show him off. He was so cute and smart; I predicted he would surprise the instructors and surpass their expectations. He would make Lassie look like an amateur. He would learn to save damsels in distress at the snap of a finger and perform tricks that would make an acrobat weep. I imagined agents clamoring to represent him, his paw print on Hollywood contracts, and requests for dog food commercials.
The first night of puppy kindergarten, Willy was ready and freshly groomed, his white fur radiant. He already knew the sit, shake (right and left), and lay down commands, tricks I'd taught him to make sure he would be a step ahead of the other puppies. While the owners introduced themselves and their pets at the start of class, I checked out the competition. There were other cute puppies in the class, a few even cuter than Willy. Oh well, if he couldn't be the cutest, at least he would be the smartest. Even beauty contests are based as much on how one answers questions as on physical beauty. We would have to rely on Willy's intellect.
At the end of the first session, our instructor handed out the upcoming assignment with the warning that if we neglected to work on these commands with our puppy during the week, everyone would know. I smiled to myself. Despite the late hour, Willy and I would start on the homework immediately. No playtime. No belly tickling. We would get down to business. It would be cold nose to the grindstone.
Upon our arrival home I got Willy ready for our training session and then searched in vain for the homework sheet. An hour later, it hit me. After class I had placed the homework on top of the car while getting Willy settled in his crate and driven off with the papers still on top. I called the training center, leaving a late night, frantic message on their answering machine. The next afternoon I heard back from the training center; they would leave another copy at their facility, which I could pick up at any time. For me, “any time” meant right now. Dinner with friends would have to wait. This was important. Willy could not lag behind. There was no way I was going to let other puppies, particularly the very cute Josie or Libby, surpass him.
I drove back, exceeding the speed limit, and with papers in hand raced back to our friends' home, gulped down dinner, made some polite conversation, sped home, and got a sleepy Willy out of his crate. I then looked at the homework. It consisted of teaching your puppy to sit and lie down by the next session. Gee, he already knew that stuff.
The next seven weeks were agony … for me, not Willy. He was having fun; I was miserable. At home he performed the commands flawlessly. In class the word “sit” became a foreign language. He could not stay still, desiring instead to play with the other puppies or jumping on me to get to the treats in my pocket.
“I knew someone else whose puppy failed kindergarten,” Libby's “mom” whispered as I pushed down on Willy's hindquarters to make him sit. Color drained from my face upon hearing the words. Could that be true? Would Whisper, Shannon, and Lance go to the next level while Willy did a repeat? Would my puppy be forced to wear the scarlet letter of shame? The thought of it was unbearable. So we worked harder. Again, at home he was perfection. In school I became the stranger he ignored.
Graduation day found me full of dread and with a stomach made for Maalox. Willy spent the hours before class calmly munching on his food and scooting after a butterfly or two. My friends informed me at the last minute that they couldn't attend the ceremony, perhaps due to embarrassment. Even my husband made excuses.
“Good luck, Willy,” he called out as I was leaving. “Have fun tonight.”
“I can't wait until this is over,” I mumbled as Willy lurched forward, almost sending me headfirst into the screen door.
When we arrived, the seating gallery at the center was already filled. Cameras were at the ready, and videotapes were snapped in place by those who were there to record their pets' accomplishment. I looked down at Willy, and my eyes misted with tears. No one was there for him but me. No one to take a picture or applaud if he accomplished a sit-stay or ran through the tunnel. No one to smile from afar, turn to their neighbor, and proudly announce, “Do you see that little white Westie over there? That's Willy. He's so cute — and smart.”
I wanted to comfort him, put my arms around him and tell him it would be okay. But he could not have cared less. For Willy, it was party time.
Willy did receive his diploma that night, despite doing a less-than-average performance on the obstacle course. I was proud of him as he trotted up alongside me, sat down, and watched as I was handed his diploma and some treats tied up with ribbon. After we got home, he chased after a bunny in the backyard, came inside, and promptly fell asleep in his crate. The piece of paper hadn't changed him.
During the eight-week training program, there were nights when I returned from class exhausted and depressed that Willy was not meeting my expectations. On those occasions my husband would admonish me, “Just let him be a dog.”
Maybe he's right, I thought now, as I watched Willy sleep contentedly after his big graduation day. We humans spend our lives cramming ourselves into society's corset, worrying more about fitting in than being ourselves and in the moment, rarely taking time for peace and play and what's most worthwhile. We grow up wearing ties and tight-fitting shoes, and we wait obediently in line or to speak to a human voice on the phone. Though we might complain about the confines, we persist in fencing in everything around us: our spouses, our children, and even our pets.
Yes, maybe it is time to free Willy from the shackles of expected behavior that we humans seem so hung up on. Maybe he needs, at least once in a while, to return to that happy-go-lucky puppy with the adoring dark brown eyes who knew no tricks at all and yet captured my heart the moment I saw him in the mall parking lot.
˜ Lori M. Myers
Comrades
May 25, 1970
Marine Sergeant David A. Lummis thrashed about on his hospital bed. Unpleasant thoughts pestered his mind: This is wartime. Some of my buddies won't ever come back. I am one of the lucky ones. Some luck. When his nurse came to
check on him, he asked to sit up in his wheelchair, hoping it would chase away the nightmares. It didn't work.
Yes, he had made it back. During the three months since his return, there had been plenty of time to think — when his legs, what was left of them, didn't hurt too much. Today was his twenty-first birthday, but there wasn't much to celebrate. He refused to think about his future. Why bother? With two pitiful stumps for legs, it seemed nothing but grim.
He had asked Aunt Gertrude for only one gift, which he wanted desperately. He hoped and prayed she could get it for him. Throughout his childhood, she had showered him with love and attention. She'd always given him what he wanted for his birthday. For this birthday, he'd asked her to bring Buddha home.
For the thousandth time, his mind wandered back to Dan Nang and his first meeting with that dog. Was it only six months ago? It hadn't taken long for him to get attached to the scroungy mutt. He was a corporal then. She was a scrawny bag of bones, a Basenji with a broken tail and a bald spot between her eyes, where she'd been burned by napalm. One day she padded up to him, begging for his C-rations. One glance, and he knew she had received more abuse than food … or love.
A parade of mice, hamsters, snakes, ducks, and rabbits — all the pets he had as a boy — trooped through his mind as he ran an affectionate hand across the bald spot of the mongrel and shuddered. Dogs were a delicacy in Asia; this starving animal had come to him for food. He dipped in and presented the last scoop to the little beggar. Her tail wagged deliriously when he offered her the empty can. She polished it clean with her tongue and sat down at his feet as if to say “Thanks, mister. That tasted good.” Instant bonding.
As he headed back to his afternoon duties, the dog padded along beside him. A native villager, observing this, told him he could have the dog — which might or might not have belonged to him — for five American dollars and a can of C-rations. Sold. He named her Buddha because of her bald spot.
