On Dogs

A Story of Love, Loyalty, and a bit of humor

I have always had a dog. The first one was a cocker spaniel named Candy. She was there before I was, which I suppose makes her senior to me in the household. My sisters tell me she appointed herself my guardian. She kept strangers away from my crib. She followed me everywhere. She let me pull her ears, drag her across the carpet, and sleep on her like she was a pillow. Dogs put up with things from children that no reasonable adult would tolerate for thirty seconds. I know most of this from family stories. But I remember her. And I remember the day she died.

That is the deal you make with a dog. They give you everything they have. Loyalty, affection, patience and company. In return, you get them for a small piece of your life. To you, they are one chapter. To them, you are the whole book.

When my son was about two, we got a silky terrier named Harry. Harry lived nineteen years, which for a dog is a full career and a pension. He had his routines. He sat in my chair with me while I watched football on a cold fall morning. He seemed perfectly content doing nothing in particular, as long as we did it together. People underestimate that. Some of the best company in life is the kind that does not need to talk.

Harry liked to run. He kept running long after a sensible dog his age would have quit. When he died, we did not just lose a dog. We lost a sound. The click of paws on the floor. You never notice it until it stops.

Now we have Eden. The wonder dog. She is my shadow, unless my daughter is sleeping, in which case I cease to exist. Eden sleeps with her until she gets up, follows us from room to room, and curls up next to whoever sits down. When someone is sick, she stations herself by the bed as if she has been given orders. Dogs understand pain better than most people. They do not try to fix it. They just refuse to leave you alone with it.

I have had others. Candy. Chipper. Popcorn. Half Pint. Harry. Sophie. And now I have my sidekick, Eden. That is the roster, in order. Some of those names made more sense than others.

Chipper was a cocker spaniel. A good boy. He stayed by my side the way Eden does now. When my mother died, we had to give him to a friend. That is a story for another day.

Popcorn was a springer spaniel who loved walking in the woods. She also had the unfortunate habit of catching flying things in her mouth, including, on several occasions, a bee. Her face would swell up, and we would have to get Benadryl into her, which she resisted with the dignity of a dog who knew she had brought this on herself. The trick was peanut butter. Peanut butter solved most negotiations with Popcorn.

Half Pint was named honestly. His legs were so short that when it snowed, he could not see over it, let alone walk through it. He tried anyway. He would launch himself after the other dogs, disappear into a drift, and come up looking annoyed that the snow had not gotten out of his way. A small dog with a large opinion of himself.

Sophie was my wife’s dog, the way Eden is mine. I was her second human, which is a respectable position to hold. She and Harry were a pair. They played constantly. When Sophie was taken from us, far too early, I cried like I had lost a person. And I think Harry missed her as much as we did. He looked for her for weeks.

Then there were the fosters. They came through for a few weeks or a few months and left their fur on the couch as a parting gift. Every dog that came into the house brought something with them. Every one of them left a hole on the way out.

I think dogs understand something we have forgotten. They do not care about your job title. They do not care how the meeting went. They do not care who you voted for. They are glad you came home. They forgive almost immediately. They live in the moment, which philosophers have written entire books about and never quite managed themselves.

Maybe that is why it hurts so much when you lose one. A dog asks for very little. Your presence. A meal. Possibly a spot on the couch that they are not supposed to be on. That is the whole contract.

I know some people say they do not like dogs. I understand being annoyed by barking, or muddy paws, or hair on a dark suit. Fine. But people who truly hate dogs? I have never trusted them. To look at an animal that loves you without conditions, and feel nothing, takes a particular kind of emptiness.

I have decided that people who hate dogs may not have a soul. Or if they do, it probably needs a dog to help find it again.