It's a Dog Life

 

I peek around my dad’s torso as we speed down the dirt roads of Balkan Township on the four-wheeler. We’re getting close to the house with the scary dog, the one that chases us every time we pass and looks like he’s part wolf. As we pass the driveway, I spot him, teeth bared and jaws chomping, like he’s picturing us as his next meal.

“Faster, Dad!”, I shriek.

I close my eyes and bury my face into my dad’s back as we pick up speed, trying to ignore the dog’s vicious barking. I sneak a glance over my shoulder and see the dog only a few yards behind us, frantically trying to keep pace with maniacal eyes and spit foaming at his mouth. I turn around and squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to open them until I feel the four-wheeler slow down and make the familiar left turn into our driveway.

These are my earliest memories of dogs – mean, aggressive, hateful creatures that were always chasing us. I carried those memories throughout most of my childhood and was thus terrified of all dogs, often screaming, or shrieking when one got too close.

Over the years, my fear transitioned into indifference. We had dogs growing up, but they were my dad’s companions. Cocoa is the first one I can recall. She was a chocolate lab, and a bit of a nutcase. She chewed everything in sight including several pairs of shoes and even electrical cords. Her favorite pastime was chasing cars on the highway which, unfortunately, led to her eventual demise. When my parents delivered the bad news, I felt like I should be sad. I was, but equally I was carrying around some deep-seated resentment about her chewing up my favorite pair of jellies.

Fritz, a German Shorthaired Pointer, and Windsor, a Springer Spaniel, were both around during my teenage and young adult years. They were nice enough dogs, but I maintained my indifference, occasionally giving them pats on the head or leftovers from dinner. They spent most of their time hunting with my dad and brother or roaming the woods of Balkan.

It wasn’t until years later, almost into my thirties, that I learned what it means to truly love a dog. I met Quincy when I started dating my husband, JT. An old black lab with giant paws and a kind, endearing face, I don’t think there was a person that met “Q” that didn’t immediately take a liking to him. But it was still an adjustment for me at first. For one thing, he lived in the house. Growing up in the country, our dogs spent much of their time outdoors hanging out in their dog houses, sometimes taking refuge in the heated garage during the winter months.

“Dogs are social beings, hon”, my husband explained to me as he laid on his back on the floor with Q stretched out upside-down and on top of him, rubbing his belly.

It was my first peek into a different way of viewing the relationship between dogs and humans, one that not only involved a learning curve when it came to the concept of poop bags and walks on a leash, but also showed me how much embracing a dog as a member of the family could truly enrich one’s life.

Hanging on the deck with Q

I remember my first walk alone with Q. It was a beautiful winter evening, and we dropped JT off at a soccer match and made our way to Canal Park. Up until this point, Q’s demeanor on walks with me and JT had been what you would expect of a thirteen-year-old lab, slow and steady. As I flipped open the hatch of the Escape, all 80 plus pounds of Q came barreling at me. Thrilled by the new sights, smells, and people I barely managed to grasp the end of his leash before I was being pulled down the sidewalks of Canal Park like a yo-yo dangling on a string, both of us blinking away with our Winter walking lights. As we flew past Little Angie’s Cantina, Q came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street and proceeded to take the most giant poop of all time. I looked on in horror as tourists side-stepped us, crinkling their noses at the odor. I pulled a recycled cereal bag out of my jacket pocket and quickly realized that this was no match for the pile in front of me. I scooped up what I could, tossed it into the nearest trash can, and hurried away from the crowd towards the lake path, pulling up my hood to cover my face on the chance that someone may recognize me.

After a few minutes, Q and I found our stride and settled back into the slow and steady mode. As we walked along the path, strangers would stop us to ask if they could pet him, commenting on his kind face and sweet demeanor. Eventually, we made our way to a park bench and stopped to look out over Lake Superior. As we sat watching our breath mist in the cool evening air, Q turned back to look at me with his goofy smile, tongue wagging, and tail gently swishing in the snow. At that moment, I felt my heart crack open just a little.

“Alright buddy”, I said as I smiled back at him. “I think you and I are going to be friends”.

Throughout the next year, Quincy won me over. He didn’t ask for much, but he was amusingly vigilant about his routine – breakfast at 7:00 a.m., dinner at 4:00 p.m., and a couple walks in between. If you went too far past the 9 o’clock bedtime, he’d remind you with a signature three-bark announcement until you retired for the evening. 

As a senior dog, he didn’t have the best control of his bowels. There was 50/50 chance we’d wake up to a surprise turd on his bed in the morning. But in many ways, Q retained his youthfulness, enjoying swims in the river at Lester Park or Lake Superior and daily walks around the neighborhood. As the year wound down, however, the walks became slower and shorter, often ending in episodes where he struggled to breathe.

Having to say goodbye to Q was incredibly painful. I was surprised at the void his absence produced. I missed our neighborhood walks, the way he would pace around the table before mealtimes or thump his tail in greeting when you came down the stairs in the morning. I missed the way he genuinely seemed to listen (even if our conversations were a bit one-sided). The house felt empty. You would walk into a room and half-heartedly hope that it had just been a bad dream, that he’d still be just around the corner, smiling and thumping his tail.

About six weeks later, we found ourselves at the humane society, checking out a one-year-old black Lab mix that had popped up on their website. One of the volunteers led us back to meet her, and I looked around in nervous anticipation at all of these dogs that were in need of a home. As we approached her kennel, I felt something click. As she sat looking up at us, wagging her tail and pacing back and forth waiting to be let out, I knew instinctively that this was our dog.

“Well, what do you think?”, JT asked.

“Let’s do it”, I immediately responded.

“Ok, then, you better wait here. I think she’s going to go fast”.

We quickly agreed she was “Ziggy”, and we do not agree which of us thought of that first. 

Transitioning from living with a senior dog to a one-year-old puppy was a new kind of adjustment. We often joke that Ziggy is 98% sweet, 2% wild beast. There is a small part of her that is unpredictable. On more than one occasion, she’s managed to escape, taking herself on self-guided tours of the neighborhood and earning the nickname “Houdini” from one of the neighbors. The other 98%, however, is amazing. Her love of the water and playing fetch with the tennis ball, her athletic prowess, and her affinity for camping in the Boundary Waters makes for a really remarkable companion.  

Ziggy Adoption Day

For two years, we tossed around the idea of a second dog and found many reasons to talk ourselves out of it. After much pondering and a well-timed foster post from some good friends, we introduced Clifford to the family – a goofy, lovable, energetic pit/hound/retriever mix. While we didn’t enter the situation with idealistic notions that things would be perfect, introducing a five-month-old puppy to the family that loves to chew things, pee everywhere, and eat everyone’s underwear has been a test of one’s patience to say the least. But at the end of each day, when we’re all settled onto the couch, snuggled in with both dogs, it all feels worth it. 

More than that, even, I feel like the highs and lows when it comes to having dogs has made me a better person.

Clifford Adoption Day

I often think of that dog I feared so much as a kid and wonder if he was simply misunderstood. While it is obvious that dogs can bring much joy to one’s life, I think we underestimate the amount of work that goes into raising a happy, healthy pet. Understanding dogs is challenging when they can’t voice their needs. Imagine being in a situation in which you are angry, sad, or scared and feel as though you cannot do anything about it. It is unsurprising that these feelings will often manifest themselves in undesirable behaviors, creating challenges for pet owners that don’t always come with an easy solution. But in this challenge is an opportunity for us as humans to become better at understanding that which is not always obvious, to find occasions to invoke more patience, empathy, and kindness. Having insight into the inner world of animals has created a desire within me for greater understanding, respect, and harmony amongst the vast array of beings who share this planet with us.

Every morning, I take both dogs for a walk. Often, we will come across a deer standing in a neighboring yard, its eyes glowing like small lanterns in the dark. Sometimes, there is a brief moment where the dogs are preoccupied with sniffing, and I can take a deep breath and try to savor this - me, the dogs, and the deer, simply existing in the quiet of an early morning. I still have so much to learn about the strange and secret ways that animals perceive the world. What would they tell us if only we could understand them? I continue to collect these small, heart-opening encounters, each moment a new opportunity.