Dogs understand much more than people realize.
My mother’s husband once told me of an old friend’s passing after a long illness. Just before he’d died, his dog, Reilly, lay on the bed next to him, keeping vigil. The man smiled, touched his friend one last time, and let go. The dog would not be moved for a long time. He stayed with his master, eyes half-shut, tail still, sorting out what had just happened.
He had a rough few weeks, off his feed, too quiet, but not in seeker mode. His 89-year old master, who had insisted on Reilly’s presence at the end, had been right. “Better this way,” he’d said. “Easier on Reilly to be with me now. He’ll understand the way of things.”
After awhile Reilly began eating better, and would respond when called by his master’s children to enjoy walks in the woods again. He was adjusting, and coping.
Dogs are very good at this.
This memory popped into my head as I prepared to leave Bryn to board a flight to Florida. Joe and I would be gone just over a week.
My goodbye was understated. I handed 11-month old Bryn-dog’s leash to my relatives and told her to stay with them. She looked at them, then at me, cocked her head and sighed. Then I held her white muzzle, smoothed her lush whiskers and beard and said, simply, “I’ll be back. Be a good dog.” Bryn sat, head down, knowing things were changing, but clueless about why. I fervently wished I could explain. We’d never been apart before, so this would be quite an adjustment. Mostly for me. She’s my shadow, my confidant, my cheerer-upper, my dear, non-judgmental friend. I knew she’d adjust much more quickly if I ‘transferred the reins’ in her presence. Dogs are philosophical.
She would accept, and adjust.
Mary and Vince are experienced dog people, so it would be fine. I, however, was less sanguine. I slept fitfully the first night in Naples, missing her 20-second concerts when she’d settled into her nest for the night, then squeeze a favorite fat cloth hedgehog to make it grunt. Sometimes she’d sleepily toot her orange snake. Such silly sounds! So loved.
Naples was wonderful. My sister and her husband Joe gave us a special experience. We read, ate, talked music, biked, enjoyed sunsets on the Gulf of Mexico’s white sugar beach, and crashed on their comfy couches while waiting out 85-degree afternoons. My gaping ‘Bryn chasm’ got smaller. A week later, truly rested, we were ready for winter in northern Michigan.
Spirit Airlines made the trouble-free journey from Detroit to and from Fort Meyers in 2.5 hours.
We landed on time, at 7:30 P.M, and gasped when icy air hit our lungs. What a shock! We’d flown to Naples wearing long underwear, flannel-lined jeans and thick sweaters, and returned in summer clothes, to shiver and shake for our folly.
The next day I drove up from Saginaw on I-75 straight to Acme Creek Kennels, Bryn’s birthplace, located in Acme’s rolling countryside. She’d been boarded there for the last two days, as my relatives had had to leave for Alpena.
Bryn had known early that morning that something was up; she’d been whisked into the shampoo room, scrubbed clean and blown dry, then decked out in a bright red bandana decorated with tiny, cheerful snowmen. When I arrived she was brought into the reception area. At the door she stopped dead and sniffed the air. Those brown eyes widened: Oh! I’d come back! She rushed to me, claws scrabbling for purchase on the linoleum, her whole body wriggling with joy.
Though ecstatic, she never once jumped up on me, but contented herself with licking my hands, my jeans, and finally my face when I knelt to hug her. Little whimpers of happiness, mixed with my croons and pats, made for a marvelous reunion. Dog welcomes are simply the best!
All the way into Traverse City she snuffled my neck from the back seat, and ruffled my hair with her long nose. While waiting out a stoplight I felt a paw tap my arm. ‘Hello, Boss: Hello, hello…’
Bryn has another special way of expressing happiness; she bobs her head. It dips quickly, then springs back, over and over, exactly like a brisk nod (especially when we’re within a half-mile of dog parks). Now, as I watched her in the rear view mirror, she bobbed, over and over, and shifted her feet slightly, too excited to stay still.
Dogs do smile. After I’d parked in the garage I turned to her, chuckling. “Shall we go inside, Bryn?” Her long mouth turned up at the corners, just a little; fringed brown eyes shone with anticipation.
There’s no place like home!
My mother’s husband once told me of an old friend’s passing after a long illness. Just before he’d died, his dog, Reilly, lay on the bed next to him, keeping vigil. The man smiled, touched his friend one last time, and let go. The dog would not be moved for a long time. He stayed with his master, eyes half-shut, tail still, sorting out what had just happened.
He had a rough few weeks, off his feed, too quiet, but not in seeker mode. His 89-year old master, who had insisted on Reilly’s presence at the end, had been right. “Better this way,” he’d said. “Easier on Reilly to be with me now. He’ll understand the way of things.”
After awhile Reilly began eating better, and would respond when called by his master’s children to enjoy walks in the woods again. He was adjusting, and coping.
Dogs are very good at this.
This memory popped into my head as I prepared to leave Bryn to board a flight to Florida. Joe and I would be gone just over a week.
My goodbye was understated. I handed 11-month old Bryn-dog’s leash to my relatives and told her to stay with them. She looked at them, then at me, cocked her head and sighed. Then I held her white muzzle, smoothed her lush whiskers and beard and said, simply, “I’ll be back. Be a good dog.” Bryn sat, head down, knowing things were changing, but clueless about why. I fervently wished I could explain. We’d never been apart before, so this would be quite an adjustment. Mostly for me. She’s my shadow, my confidant, my cheerer-upper, my dear, non-judgmental friend. I knew she’d adjust much more quickly if I ‘transferred the reins’ in her presence. Dogs are philosophical.
She would accept, and adjust.
Mary and Vince are experienced dog people, so it would be fine. I, however, was less sanguine. I slept fitfully the first night in Naples, missing her 20-second concerts when she’d settled into her nest for the night, then squeeze a favorite fat cloth hedgehog to make it grunt. Sometimes she’d sleepily toot her orange snake. Such silly sounds! So loved.
Naples was wonderful. My sister and her husband Joe gave us a special experience. We read, ate, talked music, biked, enjoyed sunsets on the Gulf of Mexico’s white sugar beach, and crashed on their comfy couches while waiting out 85-degree afternoons. My gaping ‘Bryn chasm’ got smaller. A week later, truly rested, we were ready for winter in northern Michigan.
Spirit Airlines made the trouble-free journey from Detroit to and from Fort Meyers in 2.5 hours.
We landed on time, at 7:30 P.M, and gasped when icy air hit our lungs. What a shock! We’d flown to Naples wearing long underwear, flannel-lined jeans and thick sweaters, and returned in summer clothes, to shiver and shake for our folly.
The next day I drove up from Saginaw on I-75 straight to Acme Creek Kennels, Bryn’s birthplace, located in Acme’s rolling countryside. She’d been boarded there for the last two days, as my relatives had had to leave for Alpena.
Bryn had known early that morning that something was up; she’d been whisked into the shampoo room, scrubbed clean and blown dry, then decked out in a bright red bandana decorated with tiny, cheerful snowmen. When I arrived she was brought into the reception area. At the door she stopped dead and sniffed the air. Those brown eyes widened: Oh! I’d come back! She rushed to me, claws scrabbling for purchase on the linoleum, her whole body wriggling with joy.
Though ecstatic, she never once jumped up on me, but contented herself with licking my hands, my jeans, and finally my face when I knelt to hug her. Little whimpers of happiness, mixed with my croons and pats, made for a marvelous reunion. Dog welcomes are simply the best!
All the way into Traverse City she snuffled my neck from the back seat, and ruffled my hair with her long nose. While waiting out a stoplight I felt a paw tap my arm. ‘Hello, Boss: Hello, hello…’
Bryn has another special way of expressing happiness; she bobs her head. It dips quickly, then springs back, over and over, exactly like a brisk nod (especially when we’re within a half-mile of dog parks). Now, as I watched her in the rear view mirror, she bobbed, over and over, and shifted her feet slightly, too excited to stay still.
Dogs do smile. After I’d parked in the garage I turned to her, chuckling. “Shall we go inside, Bryn?” Her long mouth turned up at the corners, just a little; fringed brown eyes shone with anticipation.
There’s no place like home!