A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  “Watching for Chuck?” I ventured to scratch under her chin, and she closed her eyes.

  Scratching and gazing out the window, I spotted the same red and black. A bearded, shaggy man ambled past, then doubled back, passing slowly — eyes locked on mine — until he disappeared from view. No doubt he saw I was alone. What would I do if he forced his way in? Glancing about, I thought, Get a grip. Chuck's on his way. Even if I had a phone, what would I say? — “Help, a man passed by?”

  A bang at the door caused Bell to jump to attention and bray. Two arms-length away, the man ogled me through the pane, hoisted his jowls, and leered.

  Adrenalin sparked lightning calculations: He could mean harm, so I shouldn't open the door. But then, his massive bulk could surely topple it with a single shove. At five-feet-four and 110 pounds, I surely posed no threat to this person, and he seemed not to fear Bell. My instincts commanded: DON'T COWER! I flashed a prayer for courage — or at least bravado.

  Hoping she'd forgive me, I gripped Bell's collar, pretending she was vicious, and threw open the door.

  “What?” I let my tone clang, irritated, hard.

  As if on cue, Bell downshifted from barking to a deep, businesslike growl.

  Good girl!I silently sang.

  “Manager sent me to fix your wiring.” Without a toolbox, he swept his eyes up and down my body.

  Risking Bell's biting me, I adjusted my grip on her collar, as if I had to work to hold her back. “The tenant's not here. Come back later.”

  “I'm s'posed to fix it now.”

  Thankful as Bell fixed her growl and eyes on the man, I too looked him straight in the eye and held my voice firm. “Later.”

  With my free hand, I started to close the door. A look of doubt crossed the man's face, but I kept my expression unruffled, bored, while my mind whirled. Would this stranger stick to his pretence and let me close the door? Would he hurt Bell? Would I see Chuck again? Would we get married, be a family? I knew with sick certainty that whatever this stranger decided now would forever change my future.

  His eyes brushed past Bell and me.

  He stepped forward.

  My ploy had failed.

  By the time his foot touched ground, Bellatrix transformed into a dog I'd never seen. Clutching her collar, unsure how long I could restrain her, I stared: teeth jack-hammered, saliva flew, toes splayed, nails clawed, fur spiked, every muscle taut for attack.

  The man froze.

  If he moved an inch, I'd threaten to let go — forewarning him as much for his safety as my own. Bell strained to leap. Whatever this stranger meant to do, Bell's intentions were clear.

  “Can you control that thing?” His leer slipped, his voice crunched like gravel under car tires.

  “Maybe.” My tone hit the mark of perfect indifference.

  He edged back, turned, and rushed away. I swung the door shut, locked it, and sank to the floor. Bell licked me frantically. I hugged her tight. Comrades-at-arms, we were buddies for life.

  That evening, across the restaurant table, Chuck — watching me set aside half my steak to bring home to Bell — frowned, “There's no wiring problem.”

  He squeezed my hand, attempting a smile. “You were saved by the Bell.”

  I squeezed back and raised my glass. “To Bellatrix, female warrior and my lucky star.”

  ˜Marla Doherty

  My Black-and-White Wonder

  It wasn't the combination of too much wine and not enough umbrellas. It wasn't the warm summer's evening or the satisfaction of having prepared a special family meal with no flops. My heart was full of bittersweet emotion over the sight of my mother and mother-in-law standing arm-in-arm for the first time in the more than a decade that my husband, David, and I had been married.

  I have never been able to put my finger on why these two loving and nurturing mothers have remained distant. They have so much in common. If nothing else, they share two incredible grandchildren. They both love family get-togethers and traditions. They glow with joy over fruitful summer gardens and the comforts of home and hearth in the dead of winter.

  Maybe now I'll never need to know. Maybe it wasn't that they didn't get along; maybe they'd never before felt the need to get together. Or maybe it isn't always the joy in life that brings people together; maybe sometimes it's sadness that is equally shared. After all, there they were now, locking arms over the loss of a shared love for an ornery, black-eared Dalmatian named Louie.

  Long before I'd met David, Louie was the guy who filled my heart and turned my little apartment into a home. He was the guy I came home to and woke up with, and the companion who gladly hopped in the car and came along on all of my errands. He was my partner and family, all in one shedding bundle of black and white. I took him on road trips through the mountains and on beach vacations. In December, we'd go sit on Santa's lap, and one year he even smiled for the camera.

  Louie filled me up when I needed it the most, and my parents had been relieved, I'm sure, that someone could do that for me. In kind, they gratefully took him in when we came back to the nest for a while. My stepdad, a retired marine, took him to the park every night for some basic military training. My mom gladly embraced him, even though all of her furniture (well, all of her everything) became accessorized with prickly white hairs.

  The morning after our first date, David showed up to take Louie and me out for breakfast. No kidding — we went to a sidewalk café, and David ordered a slice of Canadian bacon and a bowl of water for Louie. After David and I fell in love, David admitted that my black-and-white cupid had stolen his heart even before I did. Luckily, he came to love me as well. A year or so later, Louie was brought to the church for our wedding pictures, bowtie and all.

  During one snowy Christmas Eve drive to David's childhood home, I turned around to check on Louie and saw that the back seat was covered in blood. So many thoughts raced through my head: Do we turn back or keep going? Will David's hometown vet still be open? How will my mother-in-law react to having her lovely house exposed to a bloody dog on Christmas Eve? I shouldn't have worried. One phone call, and it was all taken care of. My mother-in-law wouldn't hear of us turning around. She arranged for the vet to stay open (I think she even paid the bill.), and she spread some old towels around her house. In a day or two, Louie was all fixed up and ready to run off his Christmas dinner.

  When it finally came time for David and I to have a more traditional family — a baby boy, then a baby girl — Louie became a reluctant big brother. He'd had me all to himself for so long, he initially didn't like those noisy, pink siblings that kept me too busy to play. Yet, he would dutifully hop in the minivan and go wherever it was that we seemed to always be going. There is a black-and-white blurred blob in every picture I snapped during those years, and these days, when I sit down to look at photo albums, I couldn't be happier to see him.

  Somewhere along the line, my Louie turned into crotchety old man. Rather than hopping into the car, he waited to be hoisted. He wasn't my familiar shadow on the many trips up and down the stairs; instead, he would look longingly up at me from the bottom of the stairs, willing me to come back down. When the day came that I found him eating his dinner while lying down, I knew I had to make the call.

  I slept on the floor downstairs with him that last night, hoping in the morning the vet would say I was wrong, that it wasn't time for Louie to leave us. So when I kissed him and waved as my husband drove away with him, I told myself, They might be back.… They might be back.

  David came back alone, very shaken. In hindsight, I shouldn't have asked him to do what I'd always considered to be my job. I just didn't think I could bear it.

  As it turned out, another thing I couldn't bear was to scatter his ashes anywhere until I was sure that we were “home.” The house we were living in at the time was our starter house, and surely we wouldbe moving on at some point. I wanted to have Louie with us always.

  So there we were, more than five years later, standing in the rain in the
wooded backyard of our new home, some 120 miles away from the house we'd lived in when we lost Louie. We had packed up and moved twice since then, each time bringing along the wooden box that held my first companion.

  My parents were visiting from Florida. My in-laws were happy to accept our invitation to dinner. And my vision of finally having a family night that included both of our children's grandmothers was in clear view. We would eat, marvel over the children, and then what? What if there was dead air and my mom and mother-in-law had nothing to say to each other? Worse yet, what if I could sense their discomfort over being in each other's company after a decade apart?

  I had a plan, one that fulfilled a long-held dream. Since we knew that we had finally found the home that would nurture not only David and me and our two children, but also a menagerie of animal family members for years to come, how about a pet cemetery?

  So on that rainy summer's evening, with full bellies and full hearts, two families finally became one as we stepped through the wet grass out to what would become Louie's final resting place. One by one, we each recalled our favorite memories of my first true love, each reminiscence bringing a smile or even a laugh. While looking at my two moms sharing an umbrella, arm-in-arm, it occurred to me just how strong the love of animals can be — in our case, stronger than hundreds of miles, two births, and over a decade of memories. That night, one family was finally born of two.

  ˜Julie Clark Robinson

  The Human Whisperer

  My husband likes to tell people that I married him for his dog. I always say that's ridiculous, but Kipper looks at me with a look on her intelligent face that seems to say, “Your secret's safe with me, Alpha Mom.”

  Six years ago, I was unaware of the magic some canines possess. As time went by, I discovered that dogs have their own language of romance, and it has nothing to do with Frank Sinatra or Godiva chocolates. When my husband and I started dating, his yellow Labrador retriever also began courting me. I never stood a chance. Whenever Tim would invite me over for a romantic dinner, Kipper would make plans to woo me with anticipation and play. I'd hear how much my presence meant when I'd arrive.

  “That dog has been lying in front of the garage door for more than an hour waiting for you,” Tim would say while Kipper would wag her tail and flash me a big dog smile. I'd scratch her behind her velveteen ears, impressed with such devotion. What man would ever wait by a phone or door? I'd wonder. While my beau would cook a gourmet meal and pour me a glass of wine, Kipper would offer me one of her dog toys, an equivalent gesture in her world. I'd offer her a doggie appetizer from her treat jar, and she'd sit politely and take it from my fingertips. She'd teach me interactive games such as fetch, tug, and chase-a-dog. I also learned that we shared a common trait — the ability to be silly. Meeting a man with a sense of humor had been wonderful; I'd never counted on meeting a dog with one too. Lucky me.

  As the relationship between Tim and me grew more serious, Kipper started expecting more commitment on her end. She would get more distressed whenever I'd visit and then leave to go home.

  “That dog has grown really fond of you,” Tim would say, shaking his head. “She doesn't understand why you're going.”

  I'd see Kipper's expressive face change from happy to disappointed. She would have been a great silent-movie star. Every time I'd leave, I swear I could hear her trying to persuade me to stay: “But wait. I was going to make espresso. Bow-wow.”

  I began experiencing my first pangs of dog abandonment guilt, a well-known affliction to dog owners, but a new feeling for me. I had it bad, and that wasn't good. How could I convince her I wasn't just a play-with-a-dog-toy-and-leave-'em kind of gal? I'd wonder.

  Fortunately, Tim proposed, and we were married the following year. During our wedding ceremony, I imagined the reverend handing me one of Kipper's toys during the exchange of wedding bands. “And do you take this yellow, rubber ring-a-ding as a token of Kipper's love?”

  Before we moved into our new house, I picked up Kipper one day and drove her there to introduce her to the new environment, hoping to reduce any shock when we moved in. I was worried that she'd be upset to leave the house she'd lived in since she'd been a puppy.

  “We're all going to move in here together soon, Kipperdog,” I told her, taking off her leash to let her walk around. “What do you think?”

  Her snout went crazy as she ran through the empty place, investigating every inch. She wagged her powerful tail, looking pleased. Later, I told Tim about our preliminary visit and how relieved I was at Kipper's positive response. He just laughed. “You spoil that dog. She'll be happy to be wherever you are,” he said.

  When we settled into our new nest together as husband and wife, I became an official dog mom. Kipper was thrilled to finally have me where she felt I'd always belonged, with her and Alpha Dad. We became one happy pack in her eyes, and after three years of marriage, the romance hasn't ended.

  This old dog is still full of surprises and willing to learn new tricks. She's twelve-“Labradorable”-years old now, and we have special rituals and a communication style of our very own. Every morning when I get up, she greets me with a big dog hug, nuzzling her furry body against me while I wrap my arms around her and tell her what a good dog she is. Every night at bedtime, she trots over to her big dog nest for flat-dog time. Tim and I give her a kiss and a tuck-in. If she were a cat, she would purr.

  Every time we come back inside after conducting dog business in the yard, she likes celebrating her achievement. She picks up a toy, puts all four paws to the floor, and takes off in wild circles around the couch, taunting me to try and catch her. This goofy behavior is also displayed after dog baths and towel rubdowns. We should all feel that good,I think, envious of her ability to live in each moment and truly appreciate it.

  Holidays and special occasions are memorable times for this festive dog. She enjoys wearing a black cape for Halloween and greeting trick-or-treaters at the front door. Birthdays mean presents, which also offer her another benefit. She loves ripping wrapping paper and gift bags to shreds, bit by bit, a messy indulgence we allow her on those days. It's a dog thing, I guess.

  She's also a dog of a thousand faces and loves posing for me. I keep a camera handy to catch as many of her expressions as possible. One of my favorite shots is of her wearing a jaunty St. Patrick's Day hat. Even though she's not crazy about hats, she'll wear them for me for special photo ops.

  Every time Kipper gazes at me with those big, chocolate, give-me-another-treat eyes of hers, I realize that it's a miracle that she doesn't weigh 200 pounds. In the kitchen, she's my cooking muse and sous chef, consuming leftover bites of chopped veggies and offering new recipe ideas, often involving pork. She'll sprawl out on her belly on the floor and eat a whole cored apple without using her paws. Wolfgang Puck, eat your heart out.

  Tim shakes his head sometimes while observing dog and Alpha Mom at work or play. As Kipper follows me around the house like a lovesick teenager, he sighs and says, “You're not Daddy's dog anymore.”

  “She's just protective of me,” I respond.

  “That's more than protection,” he says. “That's love.”

  Whenever I see the way she looks at me, I know he's right. Some days, I'm still amazed that we share our walls with this mysterious, four-legged creature, who seems to understand everything we say. We call her the “human whisperer.” Kipper, the Wonderdog, humbles me daily with her devotion and patience. She's a loving and empathetic soul who always has time to listen to us, even though we don't always have time for her. No scale exists that can measure the depth of her love.

  Dogs can do that if you're not careful — sneak into your heart over time and capture it forevermore.

  ˜Julie Matherly

  Sonata for Bach

  Every morning, bright and early, as golden rays of sunshine pierce through the white lace curtains of our kitchen window, I am greeted with the same string of musical notes, sung by my blonde cocker spaniel, Bach, named after my favo
rite composer, Johann Sebastian Bach. After his recital of high-pitched shrieks, Bach launches a barrage of lightening attacks with his nose and paws at the basement door, until I set him free.

  I sometimes wonder if he has an alarm clock in his head. Each morning, at the same time, he is by the basement door, waiting for me to come into the kitchen. When I open the door, he sits in the doorway for a few moments, licks his paws, and looks around arrogantly with his big black eyes, as though it were not all that important to be released.

  Usually I ignore him while I make my breakfast, though I can feel his eyes, watching, watching, watching. Only when I sit down at the table to eat breakfast does he take flight, and his journey around the room always ends up in the same place — on my lap, after a little ritualistic dance and a nudge of his nose at my arm. The nudge is to tell me to hurry up with breakfast. After the nudge, he nestles comfortably in my lap and waits patiently until I've eaten my breakfast, so we can go about the business of the day.

  Bach is my companion to the post office and grocery store and on my morning walk around the block. As soon as I say, “Let's go for our walk,” he dashes to get his leash and brings it to me. When we get to the path along the golf course, I remove him from the leash, and he leads the way. He knows the route by heart, well marked by every tree or post he relieved himself on the day before. Running ahead, he explores everything around him, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the birds singing in the trees. On rainy days, he refuses to stay under the umbrella with me, preferring to be out in the rain, dancing in the puddles, barking and biting at the raindrops.

  Bach sits beside me on the couch when I watch movies. He laughs with me through comedies and is terrified by horror movies, during which he cuddles up against the side of my leg for safety. When I have popcorn, he perches eagerly beside me, trying to eat his share. Sometimes I toss a kernel onto the floor, and he quickly dives down to fetch it. After a few times, he gets mad, takes the piece of popcorn, and hides it beneath the sofa.