by Colleen Sell
Bach always has a smile on his face and a sweet word to say in his own language, a language I am slowly starting to understand. When I go to the kitchen, he follows; when I go to the bathroom, I can see his shadow beneath the door on the other side, pacing back and forth. At night when I put him in the basement, he gazes at me with saddened eyes, like a small child who wants to sleep with his parents. However, my wife will not allow it. She often swears to God that I love that dog more than I love her. That is not true; I love them the same,but I would never tell her that.
The other day on the way to the grocery store, Bach started to jump around frantically on the seat of my old sedan, barking at the top of his voice. I'd never seen him act that way before. It was if he were having a panic attack.
“What's wrong, Bach?” I asked.
He looked at me as though I was supposed to understand his ranting, and then he jumped into the back seat, performed a little dance, and ran back and forth across the seat, barking loudly.
“Chill out,” I said with a little smile, not taking my eyes off the road.
Bach screamed again and again. I realized he was trying to tell me something important, but I could not understand what it was. He leaped back up to the front seat, ran to me, and pushed at my arm with his nose.
“Relax, take it easy,” I said.
He raced to the side window, sat with his paws on the edge of the door, and barked out the window frantically.
“What's wrong?” I asked again, growing concerned.
Bach turned quickly, gazed at me with a look that sent a chill up my spine and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I knew there was something wrong.
“Okay, you win,” I muttered, as I quickly pulled over to the side of the road. Just as I turned off the ignition, a big yellow cargo van appeared out of nowhere. It sped by the path I'd been on, hitting a parked car and flying up over the curb before coming to rest in the flowerbed of a big white house across the street.
I sat, wide-eyed and taking deep breaths. Bach sat on my lap, licking at my trembling hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel. The comforting stroke of his tongue finally made me relax, and I was able to get out of the car and run over to the truck.
I was relieved to discover that no one had been hurt in the accident. I also learned that the truck's brakes had given out and were making a high-pitched squeal as the truck raced toward me. It was this sound that Bach had picked up on and was frantically trying to warn me about. Though my wife is grateful to Bach for barking me out of harm's way and possibly saving my life, she still insists that he sleep in the basement. But I've decided he can have all the popcorn he wants when we watch movies together.
˜Robert Rohloff
Clod of My Heart
It was a beautiful Saturday morning in spring. The trees were dancing in the breeze, a cue to grab my windbreaker. I sighed as I slipped it on. If only I didn't need to get the mail. Going outside alone, for any reason, was no longer an option for me; it was a doggie event … a double-doggie event. When I sat down on my bed and started putting on my sneakers, both dogs scurried to their leash basket. As usual, Syco trampled over Butkus, smushing his arthritic back-end, causing it to go flat as a pancake, as if it were boneless.
“Stop stepping on your brother, you clod!”I yelled, shaking my head in disgust, for the umpteenth time.
Butkus was my favorite dog, and I didn't attempt to hide it. He was my heart. And Syco was … well, a royal pain in my neck.
I hadn't even wanted him, knowing Butkus was the only dog for me. I was so attached to my sweet old Labrador retriever that my husband, Chuck, would sometimes wonder whom I loved more: man or beast. Chuck was definitely not the top dog the day he uttered those awful words: “You know, Beth, Butkus is getting older. He won't live forever. We should get you another dog.”
No dog could replace Butkus!
Not long after, though, we welcomed … well, Chuck welcomed … home our new bouncing baby rottweiler. Poor Syco never stood a chance; the competition was just too great. My heart belonged to Butkus, and it never really warmed to Syco. For two years he'd done his best to emulate his favored step-sibling. But to me, he was still the pain-in-the-neck “Cinderfella” who never ceased to annoy me — like when he bowled over Butkus, again, in his zeal to accompany us to the mailbox.
I clipped on the leashes and headed down the driveway. Syco is a perfect soldier on his leash. He'd better be, after the bucks we forked out for the two-week doggie boot camp he'd attended to make him that way. Syco has the same disposition as Butkus. They are both sweet, gentle, loving dogs. But that's were the similarities end. While Syco is a handsome, energetic, slobbering, 150-pound tank of purebred rottweiler, Butkus is a generic black Lab, grizzled from age, with ten pounds of benign fatty tumors all over him — gorgeous only to me.
When the two dogs and I stepped outside, the children playing in our cul-de-sac headed toward us. I knew they were coming to look at the giant dog I hadn't allowed them to play with since he was a puppy. I put Syco in a sit-stay command. In one swift move, I unhooked his leash, looped it through the handle of one of the emptied Rubbermaid garbage cans sitting at the curb, and then reattached the leash to his collar. Knowing Syco was the better-trained dog, I figured he would stay put and visit with the kids while I went with Butkus to get the mail.
As I walked to the mailbox, I noticed there were kids everywhere. At least a dozen lived on the street, and they all seemed to have friends over today. I looked back at Syco, still sitting proudly in his sit-stay command, happily awaiting the arrival of his newfound friends. Ah, he'll be fine, I reassured myself. He's leashed to the can, and I'm only a few feet away. And thanks to that boot camp diploma, he listens to commands.
Derek's voice rose above the others. Seven years old and extremely bright, he wasn't the oldest kid on the block, but the others followed him like he was the Pied Piper. “Guys, go slowly, or you'll scare him. Remember what Beth taught us. Put your palm out so he can sniff it first before you pet him. And don't pet him on the top of the head. Petting a dog on top of the head is a sign of aggression. Pet him under the neck. Got it, guys? Now, one at a time.” He turned to me with a big grin. “Right, Beth? Did I forget anything?”
Complete self-confidence emanated from Derek's smiling face. I was dumbfounded. It had been ages since he'd been near Syco. I'd let the neighborhood children socialize with “the rottweiler puppy” twice, once when Syco was three months old and again when he was a year. Derek had sat in the center of the circle when I plopped the thirty-pound puppy down on my front lawn and spelled out the rules. At that first encounter, I'd told them Syco wouldn't be anything like Butkus — that he would be too big and gruff for them to play with. I'd been half-right. At a year old, Syco was huge. But he wasn't at all aggressive, and he loved people, including kids. The younger boys giggled and asked whether Syco would be an “attack” or “guard” dog when he grew up. Imagining the conversations at the dinner tables on my block that night, I gulped and answered no to both questions and then conceded Syco would be exactly like Butkus, only larger.
Now I watched from the mailbox as several other boys swarmed around Syco. Vince, Derek's older brother by two years, crept cautiously closer, as if Syco were a specimen in a zoo with a warning sign above him that read : Please do not touch. I kept one eye on Syco as I opened the mailbox, while Butkus circled himself around my ankles like a boa constrictor. I watched as Vince waved his hand back and forth in front of Syco's face, teasing him. Syco started to pant heavily and whimpered for a pet.
Succumbing to Syco's pathetic cry, Vince reached for the top of Syco's head to oblige, completely forgetting his brother's instructions. Syco, a timid dog, jerked back from Vince's hand, and when he did, his heavy back paw crunched down on the foot of Vince and Derek's little brother. Five-year-old Tony let out a high-pitched cry as Clod Dog proceeded to plop his entire butt down on the boy's foot. All eyes flew to a wailing, and now pinned, Tony.
Syco shot off like a cannon. The momentum knocked the garbage can off his head, and it crashed to the pavement with an explosive Bam! Syco raced around the cul-de-sac, with the world's ugliest kite — an airborne garbage can — tethered to his collar and flopping in the wind behind him! Vince got knocked down first; he was the closest. Derek dove out of the way onto the grass. Tony and another boy were knocked to the curb, falling one after the other like dominos.
Syco picked up speed, desperate to outrun the big, scary green monster chasing after him. Tony was crying. Vince was still screaming. I was mortified. Feet cemented to the ground, I stood in horrified disbelief, watching the train wreck I had inadvertently caused.
Phyllis, the mother of the three brothers, had her mom radar on and heard her boys' cries. She ran up the sidewalk, her head swiveling as she passed Syco, who was now galloping like a wild pony in the street. Her face twisted into a comic expression when she saw her crying, screaming kids.
Syco took a sharp right and headed straight up my next-door neighbor's driveway. The garbage can remained suspended in the air behind him as he zipped between the two cars parked in the drive. He hit a dead-end when he reached the closed garage. Instantaneously, he jumped up on his hand legs, pushed off the door with his front paws, and turned to run in the opposite direction, all in one smooth motion, like a synchronized swimmer. Because the U-turn slowed his speed, there wasn't enough air to keep the garbage-can-kite afloat, and now it bounced side to side, banging into the cars, first one, then the other. The loud booms could be heard down the entire block.
The noise brought other people running out of their houses. Everyone lined up on the sidewalk, staring with mouths agape and eyes wide, watching Syco race down the street, the big green monster hot on his tail. Butkus and I still hadn't moved. I made a feeble and futile attempt to call Syco; even Butkus gave me the “You've got to be joking” face.
“Beth, quick! Go get some dog cookies,” Derek said, shaking me out of my stunned stupor. “Hurry, Beth!”
Butkus and I ran into my house. I grabbed a handful of cookies, but tripped over my own feet and dropped them. I grabbed another handful and raced out the door, leaving Butkus behind to happily clean up the mess. Meanwhile, Syco went up another neighbor's driveway, did another about-face at the garage door, and repeated the boom-boom car trick. That inspired him to run even faster. When I handed the cookies to Derek, who gave me an “about time” eye-roll, he was already poised on his Razor scooter for immediate take off, like a runner being handed off a baton in a relay race.
I watched in horror as Syco ran straight toward the children on Rollerblades. That galvanized some panicked spectators to holler at their children to get out of the way. But the kids were too busy laughing. Their laughter quickly subsided when they realized Syco was heading their way.
Please, please, please, no, Syco, no, I pleaded wordlessly. When he veered and missed the kids, I breathed a sigh of gratitude. My relief was short-lived. As Syco rounded the cul-de-sac, the flying garbage can knocked down all of the kids like bowling pins. A perfect strike! Some rolled to the grass; others landed on their butts or knees.
Suddenly, Derek appeared alongside Syco on his scooter, like a little dog-whispering cowboy, and started tossing cookies. At first, Syco kept his head forward, afraid to look beside or behind him, but then Derek got ahead of him. He kept talking to Syco and tossing him cookies. Finally, Syco began to slow down and sniff. Derek jumped off his scooter and held a cookie in front of him. Exhausted, Syco came to a dead stop and plopped down into a full belly sprawl. His tongue hung out so far, it almost licked the pavement. The cookie just sat on his dry tongue. The dented green monster lay still behind him.
Derek unhooked Syco's leash and threw his arms around the big dog's head. They sat in the middle of the street, Derek hugging Syco and speaking to him in a soothing voice. I headed toward Syco and Derek — I had damage control to do — but before I reached them, Phyllis grabbed my arm and demanded I sit with her on the curb. I was shaking from head to toe.
“Relax, Beth,” she said in her comforting mom voice. “We have just a few Band-Aid situations here. Not a single car is dented. Everyone is laughing their butts off. The kids will be telling this story forever. Your garbage can is a goner, but everything else is fine. It's okay.”
“It's more than what just happened. Granted, today was the big Kahoona, but it's always something with Syco,” I said. “He's so hard to love…. I just don't love him like I do Butkus! I can't!”
“Well then, don't. Love them differently,” she said.
I took Phyllis's advice. Butkus may be my heart, but Syco is my comic relief.
˜Beth Rothstein Ambler
Strange Bedfellows
I am sixty-two years old and allergic to dogs. I never owned a dog before, much less a puppy. Yet these nights I share my lumpy mattress with a cockapoo named Buffy.
It didn't start out that way. She slept in her crate in the kitchen until an old diesel Mercedes caught fire in a driveway six feet from my leaky windows. Fumes permeated our small house. When I returned from treatment for smoke inhalation, I brought Buffy into my room to sleep; the air was slightly better there. Since then, she howls if she is not in bed with me. To tell the truth, I miss her too.
In a misguided effort to separate dog and woman, I created a special place for her at the foot of my bed, piling items for her comfort as follows: folded top sheet, waterproof pad, late son's old art project towel, and slightly chewed fleece bedding she had slept under in her crate. A smelly piece of braided yarn, a favorite toy, decorates her bed on a bed. Buffy has taken over half the remaining half bed, choosing to sleep parallel to, not atop, her special setup. I wrap myself around the remaining real estate like a disproportioned capital L. The top half of my body is positioned at a sharp angle from the bottom half, and important parts of me rest on a wayward spring in the mattress. If the spring pokes me,I wonder, will I need a tetanus shot?
People who live with dogs say their appeal is the unconditional love dogs give. But to me, the opposite is true. My dog's special appeal is her willingness to accept love from me.
I have always enjoyed simple physical intimacies: a firm handshake, a casual touch on the shoulder, a quick hug from a friend. These intimacies were taken from me when a BMW crashed into my life. No one touched me except doctors. As I became isolated at home, old friends faded away, and I had no chance to make new ones. There were no full body hugs, strokes, or casual embraces given or gotten. No one welcomed my caresses.
Now I have a pup who sits on my lap on occasion. I can touch her, pet her, and groom her. She rests at my feet so that I cannot move without her knowledge. She makes me burst out laughing. It feels so good.
Buffy is a social butterfly. My injuries had made me a hermit. Now, I return waves and smiles from passersby when we sit on the front porch. They're smiling and waving at her, but she takes me with her into the social world I had missed for so long.
To the amusement of folks around here, Buffy has two strollers. They are for my benefit, not hers, I explain in vain. Balance problems have kept me close to home; stroller handles are the right height to hang onto for support. So I pile the Buffer into a stroller and take off for widening circles around the block.
Sometimes it's a little too chilly for a dog just to sit in a stroller, so I put a red, quilted, fleece-lined jacket on her or maybe a pink turtleneck sweater with cable stitching and sequins.
“Fine dress,” laughs the neighbor down the block, new to English, but able to turn a phrase or two.
“Oh, so she can walk,” he said when he saw Buffy on a leash. His wife explains that the dog is a like a family member to me
, and I dispute her. But how can I make my case while wearing an outfit that matches the dog's?
I had some misgivings about getting a puppy, but my doctor encouraged me to try. “Everything is harder for you,” the doctor had said, “and this will be too. But just think of the possible benefit.” He knew that social isolation was one of the most difficult aspects of my injury and that caring for a puppy could be just the thing to ease me back into humanity. And so I bit.
I wanted to name the pup Beautyrest, because I used my mattress money for her. The breeder dissuaded me, saying, “Imagine calling your dog. Your neighbors will think you are calling your mattress.”She also vetoed Gussie as old-fashioned, even though both our grandmothers shared the name and made great stuffed cabbage. So my first-generation mix of cocker spaniel and poodle became Buffy — Buffarina Ballerina, in full.
Over the past decade of my younger son's death, two car crashes, cancer, and diabetes, I have felt my heart break. I hadn't known people could feel hearts breaking over time, pieces detaching from the whole and floating down to who-knows-where. Amazingly, Buffy is making my heart whole again.
Sometimes I just stare at her while she sleeps, trying to be quiet so as not to wake her. I search for the mechanism she uses to reattach the pieces of my heart. I like to think she works with fuzzy multicolored yarn, threaded through a wide-eyed needle, so much like the yarn and needle my mother used to finish afghans she made for anyone with a chill. Despite my search, I cannot find the instrument. But my heart heals.
Recently I stirred at night and became indignant when I felt Buffy too near to me. As close as we were together, she was clearly far out of bounds. I opened my eyes to move her, to whisper “place,” and to correct her for her faux pas. Much to my surprise, I found that Buffy was where she belonged. I was the one who had migrated to intimacy.
