A cold nose announced Emma’s commanding presence. Joe and I entered our friends’ home with difficulty, as she was right there, filling the doorway. What a difference from just four weeks ago! Her greeting then, while warm, had been reserved. A shepherd/rotweiler mix, she’d been rescued, barely in time, from starvation. Savagely abused the first eighteen months of her life she’d spent the past year learning to trade terror for trust, and finally, for love. Her skeletal frame and haunted eyes were an awful, but fading, memory. (Read my column dated 2-06-11.) Now her long tail—indeed, her entire hindquarters—wagged. I ruffled her luxuriant coat, and tweaked her ears. Emma gave my hands an appreciative wash.
She watched me remove my snowy boots, then escorted me into Sarah’s beautiful kitchen before ambling over to her bowl to drink, chomp a kibble or two, and sit among us, happy to be part of our laughter and chatter. The cat meandered downstairs; they touched noses. Dexter settled by the wood fire, and promptly fell asleep. Emma, though, caught my eye and returned to the front door. “Should I let her out?” The family issued a general chorus of yups.
Selecting an intact green tennis ball amid the graveyard of split, squashed ones scattered about in the snow she stared intently at the front window, motionless, knowing I was watching. She willed me outside.
Les came up behind me and remarked, “Emma’s dedicated to tennis ball retrieval. If you throw it she’ll charge down the hill to find it in meadow snow. Clap twice when she brings it back and she’ll drop it at your feet. The instant you reach for it, she’s off. Warning: she never tires.”
Ohboy. Intrigued, I hurriedly donned my coat and boots and went out into the late afternoon. Emma smiled as I approached. “Well,” I laughed, “lets do this!” She released her ball between my boots— and ran! I hurriedly grabbed it up and threw. By now she was halfway down the hill, looking skyward, plotting its trajectory. Plop! It rolled, bounced and buried itself. She snatched it from a deep drift and dashed back up to me. I clapped twice. There was a low moan of anticipation as she dropped it at my feet.
For 15 minutes I flung, before tiring. She was philosophical.
“Watch her,” Les prompted as I shrugged off my coat. Emma herself hurled the ball down the hill, then charged after it, pounced, then roared uphill again to throw it back down, over and over. Sometimes, after nailing it, she’d bat it around using her paws and long legs as hockey sticks, or leap straight up to land stiff-legged atop the frazzled ball, much as Dexter might toy with a mouse. Les chuckled. “Emma enjoys dropping it from the top of the stairs, then thundering down to grab it! At first we had no idea what was happening. It sounded like an earthquake!”
Darkness fell. She released the ball and waited by the door. We let her in to join Dexter by the fire. Socked feet stepped over the two dozing animals as we moved toward the dinner table. (Not long ago, Emma would have reacted with horror.)
“Sometimes, in the morning, we find Dexter asleep on Emma’s belly,” Sarah commented.
Once, during dinner, she stalked to the door, growling almost inaudibly. Somebody was walking down the road, a long way away. Les checked, said a soft word, and she immediately relaxed. No one comes near the farmhouse without her knowledge.
Emma is reborn. This beautiful dog’s happiness warms me to my toes.
She watched me remove my snowy boots, then escorted me into Sarah’s beautiful kitchen before ambling over to her bowl to drink, chomp a kibble or two, and sit among us, happy to be part of our laughter and chatter. The cat meandered downstairs; they touched noses. Dexter settled by the wood fire, and promptly fell asleep. Emma, though, caught my eye and returned to the front door. “Should I let her out?” The family issued a general chorus of yups.
Selecting an intact green tennis ball amid the graveyard of split, squashed ones scattered about in the snow she stared intently at the front window, motionless, knowing I was watching. She willed me outside.
Les came up behind me and remarked, “Emma’s dedicated to tennis ball retrieval. If you throw it she’ll charge down the hill to find it in meadow snow. Clap twice when she brings it back and she’ll drop it at your feet. The instant you reach for it, she’s off. Warning: she never tires.”
Ohboy. Intrigued, I hurriedly donned my coat and boots and went out into the late afternoon. Emma smiled as I approached. “Well,” I laughed, “lets do this!” She released her ball between my boots— and ran! I hurriedly grabbed it up and threw. By now she was halfway down the hill, looking skyward, plotting its trajectory. Plop! It rolled, bounced and buried itself. She snatched it from a deep drift and dashed back up to me. I clapped twice. There was a low moan of anticipation as she dropped it at my feet.
For 15 minutes I flung, before tiring. She was philosophical.
“Watch her,” Les prompted as I shrugged off my coat. Emma herself hurled the ball down the hill, then charged after it, pounced, then roared uphill again to throw it back down, over and over. Sometimes, after nailing it, she’d bat it around using her paws and long legs as hockey sticks, or leap straight up to land stiff-legged atop the frazzled ball, much as Dexter might toy with a mouse. Les chuckled. “Emma enjoys dropping it from the top of the stairs, then thundering down to grab it! At first we had no idea what was happening. It sounded like an earthquake!”
Darkness fell. She released the ball and waited by the door. We let her in to join Dexter by the fire. Socked feet stepped over the two dozing animals as we moved toward the dinner table. (Not long ago, Emma would have reacted with horror.)
“Sometimes, in the morning, we find Dexter asleep on Emma’s belly,” Sarah commented.
Once, during dinner, she stalked to the door, growling almost inaudibly. Somebody was walking down the road, a long way away. Les checked, said a soft word, and she immediately relaxed. No one comes near the farmhouse without her knowledge.
Emma is reborn. This beautiful dog’s happiness warms me to my toes.