Portrait of a Dog
Up to this point, she is roughly nine or ten years old; she entered my life somewhere in the neighborhood of six, based on whatever metrics veterinarians use to guess the age of a dog unknown. For an undisclosed period of time in her past, she lived on the streets by herself. I can’t be certain of that, but I do believe she was alone. What can clearly be discerned, however, is that she took care of herself. She once tried to carry home a dried out, flattened rat carcass from the side of the road and appeared confused when I insisted she drop it. Another time, we spent several hours lounging in a hot parking lot, and she dug herself a hollow in the deep mulch under a tree to get to the cooler dirt below. I don’t know if she learned those strategies from another Texan dog, or if she just figured them out.
It is likely that at some point, perhaps many points, people were cruel to her. I used to think there were visual cues that she responded to, but now I think it is certain forms of energy and attitude that remind her of past wrongs. She just runs from some people, and there’s no common thread among them, leading me to believe many different people were mean to her in many different ways. She doesn’t run from brooms anymore, but she still shies away from large balls or ball-shaped objects raised overhead, such as motorcycle helmets or buckets. By chance, I met one of the people who captured her on the street and took her to the shelter where she began her almost-year in the clink. The gal said she had been so afraid when they found her, she had tried to bite them.
We read her very long doggy dossier at the animal rescue group that had taken her after she did poorly at the no-kill shelter. She hadn’t warmed up to people as well as she needed to, and she had gotten into a fight with another dog that had been broken up by throwing a bucket of water on them. The rescue group had rebranded her from the shelter’s probably erroneous “pit mix” with a rap sheet to the slightly exotic and equally improbable “Australian cattle dog mix.” They had put her into foster care with some friends of ours to get her away from the chaotic stress of shelter life, and she had already begun to open up. They told us she had heartworms, so we’d have to pay a lot of money to treat her as a condition of adoption. We agreed because she had expressive ears and a single brindle spot under one eye like a parolee with a tattooed tear. It turned out the heartworm diagnosis was a clerical error.
Because she is a smart, resourceful dog, she picked up being house-broken pretty quickly. We had Magni, a Very Good Boy, to help her get the idea, and she only peed and pooped next to the toilet a few times to my great dismay before she realized that dogs and humans don’t go to the bathroom in the same place. This remains her spot of last resort when nature calls, but she can’t get there, unlike the Very Good Boy who only pees on something extra absorbent so he doesn’t get his feet wet, like a mattress or a sofa.
After some truly frightening fights with Magni, during which they organized a happy detente, we all settled into home life, but she was still standoffish. It took a couple of months before she would sit with someone touching her in any way. This was, nevertheless, an improvement from the beginning when she would leap off the couch if anyone even looked like they might sit down. A few months after that, she began to climb up on the end of the bed even if someone was in it, only to run away if they moved more than a toe. Slowly, slowly, she stayed put for more and more movement, though even now she usually sleeps alone.
I was very eager for her to warm up to me, but she was the one to decide when she would sidle up to the fire. After almost a year, she started getting up early in the morning and resting her muzzle on the bed to watch me cuddling with Magni, who only rarely doesn’t sleep with whatever human he happens to be living with. I started inviting her to join the snuggle fest, and although she at first demurred, one day she finally gave in and tentatively climbed up at my invitation. I didn’t like the idea of her looming awkwardly over me, so I coaxed her into lying down and accepting some pets. A few weeks of that lead to stretching out at my side. A few weeks after that, she rolled over on her back and invited me to rub her tummy for the first time.
Since then, she has become so bold as to begin making requests using the language she has learned. She whines for me to invite her up for morning snuggles if she feels there is insufficient room for her. If I happen to be sleeping and miss my cue, she takes the initiative and skips that step. An earnest look with a glance at the door, accompanied by a little squeal when the need arises, initiates a bathroom break and maybe an opportunity to defend her precious yard from marauding dogs, babies, and old ladies on the sidewalk. Sometimes she just wants to be petted, and she comes over and puts her head in my lap. Snacks are also an important goal in her communications. She knows that sitting down results in food of varying quantities both large and small. Responding to the funny word, Jaina, sometimes results in snacks, as well, but with less theatrics, and is usually good for some pets.
If she believes a particularly tasty bite could be in the offing, she gives me a very intent look and sits down as smoothly as her slightly arthritic joints will allow. There is no malice or manipulation in her request. She is simply delivering a pure, unadulterated expression of The Desire for Snacks. Oh, to be so unself-conscious of one’s desire! She has realized I will listen and respond to her, just as she listened and responded to me, and she has chosen frequently to communicate, “I desire an endless supply of snacks, all to be delivered per the agreed upon initiating gesture of sitting down, which I am now doing to indicate that it is your turn to reciprocate the conversation pattern and deliver to my mouth a tasty bite of apple or cheese.” She usually only makes this communication in the kitchen, from whence she knows snacks come, but occasionally she gives it a try in other places just to test the waters.
We recently moved away from her native land of Texas to a house with a yard in a quaint Virginia town where she has grown fond of capturing small creatures. She looks so puzzled when I don’t let her consume her salamander tartar. I suspect she thinks she is giving herself a treat, far bloodier than all the green pepper bottoms I offer, which she rejects and Magni snaps up with zealous efficiency. She plays with toys more than she ever has before, although she still has not gotten the hang of fetch, and Magni likes it too much to let her learn. There are quiet rooms where she can be alone and sleep in peace, and plenty of space to lounge with Magni or her humans when she wishes. I am fascinated to see what she and Magni will think of snow, which they both may have seen only once or twice before and in no significant quantity.
She remains in all ways a dog with a gentle, assertive mind of her own. While Magni is pure id- his little butt strikes the ground with such force in the reactive belief snacks are forthcoming- she has a bit of ego. She considers my requests for a time before deciding whether to comply, as if she’s weighing the risks and rewards of the proposition and choosing the most prudent course of action based on her general memory of previous events. She still asks for things with hesitant subtlety, too, and I regret to admit I sometimes don’t catch her meaning. She is a stranger in a strange land of air conditioning and premium kibble. We muddle through, though, me and this contemplative dog.
