Note: Sunnybank Garden will be closed (until next season) on Tuesday, October 1, 2013.
My friend Les brought Emma-dog to Sunnybank today- a special event, as she rarely leaves her country home. She greeted me with joyful little moans, nosed my palms, and gave my cheek a quick lick while I hugged her. (This rottweiler/shepherd mix was saved, at the very last minute, from an awful death from starvation and thirst. She’d been abandoned in a locked, empty house for weeks in winter. No one responded to her barks for help. Finally, when there was only silence, a neighbor rang the authorities. See Emma's full story here.
For about four years now she’s been a cherished member of Les’s large, loving family.)
Emma now realizes that when he brings her here she’ll always return home, so she’s completely relaxed with me. (A couple of years ago, when she and Les turned into their driveway after coming here the first time, she gave an enormous, shuddering sigh of relief and comprehension. (Ahh! Away-time doesn’t mean forever!)
Emma always refuses treats if her beloved master isn’t present. (Recently, when I visited her home bearing a small milk bone gift, she politely accepted it, then raked a tiny depression in the earth by the front door, nosed it in, and covered it. No Les on hand, no eat. Her rule, not Les’s.)
If invited to climb my stairway to the second floor, she’ll study my face for confirmation. She hates making mistakes.
Emma never needs to be corrected twice.
I’ve not heard her raise her voice to bark-level. But she smiles a lot. Her tail swings freely, and she greets guests with great interest, instead of great fear. In this new life, booted feet merely clump by, and strangers’ hands are as gentle and non-threatening as her family’s.
She is the most intelligent dog I’ve ever met.
I invited her to walk with me across the street to Hannah Park so she could read the news on every bush and tree. What fun! During her delighted snooflings I found myself chatting about inconsequential things. Rabbits by the gross lived in those thickets, I told her, and there were always ducks, and sometimes swans, and, oh yes, raccoons, too…I babbled on about the salmon soon to fill the fast-flowing river, and even about the black bear that had sauntered down Sixth Street a few years ago. At that, Emma looked back at me and moaned softly, probably responding to the amazement in my voice as I described that event. (A DNR official tranquilized the curious beast and trundled it off to a forest.) Emma’s ears stayed flat against her head as she listened to every word while walking just ahead of me. The soul of consideration, this large dog never pulls at the leash, even when we jog together.
We arrived at the river’s edge, and she looked up at me. Would I mind? I laughed and said, “fine.” She waded in, thrilled, and lowered herself carefully into five inches of cold water. I let out a little more line and she moved further out, gleefully sinking to her chest. Swimming was out, though. So she settled for glide-walking carefully along the stony river bottom.
Later, after shaking thoroughly, she sat at the base of some tall trees and looked up. Way up. Ears perked, she scanned every inch of that high canopy; the tip of her tail twitched. “Are you searching for squirrels, Emma?” She looked at me, eyes bright. Then, after another long scan…she froze. I lay on the grass and followed her gaze. There! Two black squirrels scolded her from thirty feet above the ground. Emma was captivated. She never once took her eyes off those noisy tail-flickers. Later, after flushing another rodent in the wilder part of the park, she didn’t give chase. Looking is good. Prancing in place is fine. Rip-roaring off, however, will never happen.
Her rule, not mine.
A two-year-old girl and her mother, an acquaintance, spotted us, and the little one made a beeline for Emma, who dropped to her belly to make herself smaller and more inviting. They touched noses, and Emma licked her hands to reassure her. No amount of ear-tweaking bothered her. The toddler bang-patted Emma’s back as her Mom and I chatted. The happy dog rolled on her side to let the little girl examine her damp paws and tail. Emma adores children. She’d been a mother when a just a yearling, but her pups had been snatched away.
When we returned to Sunnybank I decided to sweep the front porch. Emma was sitting happily on the deck enjoying the view- until she saw the broom. Horrified, she rose quickly, tucked in her tail and began to back away. I belatedly remembered that brooms had once been a source of great pain, but before I could say anything she stopped short and looked at me; then, just like that, she relaxed, sighed, and settled back down. An old haunt had been dealt with. Brooms sweep, and that’s that. She’d just needed a minute to collect herself.
A beautifully dressed visitor was just exiting the garden. Her eyes widened. “Is this…?” I nodded. “I guess you’ve followed her story over the years.” She nodded, then gently said, “Hello, Emma.” Emma moved closer to greet her warmly, and soaked up lots of caresses in return.
This gentle soul has forgiven, carries no grudge, and has dared to trust and love again.
For me she’s a living reminder of what is truly important, and possible.
My friend Les brought Emma-dog to Sunnybank today- a special event, as she rarely leaves her country home. She greeted me with joyful little moans, nosed my palms, and gave my cheek a quick lick while I hugged her. (This rottweiler/shepherd mix was saved, at the very last minute, from an awful death from starvation and thirst. She’d been abandoned in a locked, empty house for weeks in winter. No one responded to her barks for help. Finally, when there was only silence, a neighbor rang the authorities. See Emma's full story here.
For about four years now she’s been a cherished member of Les’s large, loving family.)
Emma now realizes that when he brings her here she’ll always return home, so she’s completely relaxed with me. (A couple of years ago, when she and Les turned into their driveway after coming here the first time, she gave an enormous, shuddering sigh of relief and comprehension. (Ahh! Away-time doesn’t mean forever!)
Emma always refuses treats if her beloved master isn’t present. (Recently, when I visited her home bearing a small milk bone gift, she politely accepted it, then raked a tiny depression in the earth by the front door, nosed it in, and covered it. No Les on hand, no eat. Her rule, not Les’s.)
If invited to climb my stairway to the second floor, she’ll study my face for confirmation. She hates making mistakes.
Emma never needs to be corrected twice.
I’ve not heard her raise her voice to bark-level. But she smiles a lot. Her tail swings freely, and she greets guests with great interest, instead of great fear. In this new life, booted feet merely clump by, and strangers’ hands are as gentle and non-threatening as her family’s.
She is the most intelligent dog I’ve ever met.
I invited her to walk with me across the street to Hannah Park so she could read the news on every bush and tree. What fun! During her delighted snooflings I found myself chatting about inconsequential things. Rabbits by the gross lived in those thickets, I told her, and there were always ducks, and sometimes swans, and, oh yes, raccoons, too…I babbled on about the salmon soon to fill the fast-flowing river, and even about the black bear that had sauntered down Sixth Street a few years ago. At that, Emma looked back at me and moaned softly, probably responding to the amazement in my voice as I described that event. (A DNR official tranquilized the curious beast and trundled it off to a forest.) Emma’s ears stayed flat against her head as she listened to every word while walking just ahead of me. The soul of consideration, this large dog never pulls at the leash, even when we jog together.
We arrived at the river’s edge, and she looked up at me. Would I mind? I laughed and said, “fine.” She waded in, thrilled, and lowered herself carefully into five inches of cold water. I let out a little more line and she moved further out, gleefully sinking to her chest. Swimming was out, though. So she settled for glide-walking carefully along the stony river bottom.
Later, after shaking thoroughly, she sat at the base of some tall trees and looked up. Way up. Ears perked, she scanned every inch of that high canopy; the tip of her tail twitched. “Are you searching for squirrels, Emma?” She looked at me, eyes bright. Then, after another long scan…she froze. I lay on the grass and followed her gaze. There! Two black squirrels scolded her from thirty feet above the ground. Emma was captivated. She never once took her eyes off those noisy tail-flickers. Later, after flushing another rodent in the wilder part of the park, she didn’t give chase. Looking is good. Prancing in place is fine. Rip-roaring off, however, will never happen.
Her rule, not mine.
A two-year-old girl and her mother, an acquaintance, spotted us, and the little one made a beeline for Emma, who dropped to her belly to make herself smaller and more inviting. They touched noses, and Emma licked her hands to reassure her. No amount of ear-tweaking bothered her. The toddler bang-patted Emma’s back as her Mom and I chatted. The happy dog rolled on her side to let the little girl examine her damp paws and tail. Emma adores children. She’d been a mother when a just a yearling, but her pups had been snatched away.
When we returned to Sunnybank I decided to sweep the front porch. Emma was sitting happily on the deck enjoying the view- until she saw the broom. Horrified, she rose quickly, tucked in her tail and began to back away. I belatedly remembered that brooms had once been a source of great pain, but before I could say anything she stopped short and looked at me; then, just like that, she relaxed, sighed, and settled back down. An old haunt had been dealt with. Brooms sweep, and that’s that. She’d just needed a minute to collect herself.
A beautifully dressed visitor was just exiting the garden. Her eyes widened. “Is this…?” I nodded. “I guess you’ve followed her story over the years.” She nodded, then gently said, “Hello, Emma.” Emma moved closer to greet her warmly, and soaked up lots of caresses in return.
This gentle soul has forgiven, carries no grudge, and has dared to trust and love again.
For me she’s a living reminder of what is truly important, and possible.