My friends Les and Sarah invited Joe and me, along with ten other guests, to a Christmas party at their country home. Yay! I’d see Emma-dog again! Emma’s a rottweiler/shepherd mix whom they’d adopted as a skeletal, traumatized yearling. Her original family had packed up and moved away, abandoning her to die in their empty house. She’d barked for help for weeks, and starved nearly to death before being discovered. Now, two years later, she’s settled into a new life with her forever family.
Emma gently wound her big, trim body around arriving visitors, and greeted Joe and me with delight. (I’ve never heard her bark.)
Carrying her shredding tennis ball she mingled, happily accepting pats. Emma always keeps it close, in case someone might feel the urge to toss it for her.
During the evening’s festivities Les decided to add water to the big iron ‘humidifier’ kettle atop the blazing wood-burning stove, but in the candlelit room’s uncertain light he lavishly mis-poured. Excess water splashed onto the hot stove’s top, steaming and hissing loudly. He laughed ruefully and called out, “Uh-oh! I’ve made a small flood, here, folks; the floor will be wet for a minute.”
Emma, though, was horrified. She parked herself in front of Les, head down, and apologized for his mistake in the most abject way. Amazed by this unnecessary contrition, Les quietly reassured her. Emma listened, then raised her head and met his eyes. She didn’t tremble; this situation went deeper that that. Put simply, a memory of past trauma had overwhelmed her. Les rumpled her velvet ears, and Emma relaxed. Guests shook their heads. The dog’s awful history occasionally surfaced to haunt everyone.
Earlier that day Les was in the kitchen making repairs to a table, when his tool slipped, leaving a mark on the table’s surface. “Sh—t,” he muttered under his breath, disgusted with himself. Les rarely swears, so this was highly unusual. Emma, asleep in the adjacent room, heard it even so. With a low moan, she quietly fled upstairs. In a flash of insight Les realized her need to take refuge under the bed was ample evidence that that word had been part of verbal and physical abuse in her former life.
Shocked and chastened, he coaxed her down. Very slowly, she obeyed. When she sat before him he apologized. He’d try never to utter that word again. Emma sighed. She’d instinctively reacted, even though she knew people were very different here. Both felt a little foolish, and a lot wiser.
Males’ booted feet had once been used to brutalize; now, during the party, she lay on the living room floor half asleep. Guests stepped over and around her. Their boots were ignored. The men, especially, noted this with quiet satisfaction and pleasure.
There was one more little triumph.
Later in the evening one of the male guests, maneuvering toward the snacks in the crowded kitchen, trod firmly on her paw. Emma yelped and began a hasty exit, but then stopped abruptly and cocked her head, hearing the man’s “Sorry, Emma!” Wagging her tail once or twice she walked to him and gave his hand a quick lick. No worries, boss; accidents happen. He smoothed her paw, and conversation resumed. A year ago this little ‘oops’ would have been a major setback. Now she wandered over to her bowl to drink, the incident forgotten.
It was a poignant moment - a Christmas gift, really, for everyone. Unconditional love has redeemed her trust in people, while steadily dimming the awful sins her first family had committed.
We raised our glasses in a toast:
God bless us, every one.
Emma gently wound her big, trim body around arriving visitors, and greeted Joe and me with delight. (I’ve never heard her bark.)
Carrying her shredding tennis ball she mingled, happily accepting pats. Emma always keeps it close, in case someone might feel the urge to toss it for her.
During the evening’s festivities Les decided to add water to the big iron ‘humidifier’ kettle atop the blazing wood-burning stove, but in the candlelit room’s uncertain light he lavishly mis-poured. Excess water splashed onto the hot stove’s top, steaming and hissing loudly. He laughed ruefully and called out, “Uh-oh! I’ve made a small flood, here, folks; the floor will be wet for a minute.”
Emma, though, was horrified. She parked herself in front of Les, head down, and apologized for his mistake in the most abject way. Amazed by this unnecessary contrition, Les quietly reassured her. Emma listened, then raised her head and met his eyes. She didn’t tremble; this situation went deeper that that. Put simply, a memory of past trauma had overwhelmed her. Les rumpled her velvet ears, and Emma relaxed. Guests shook their heads. The dog’s awful history occasionally surfaced to haunt everyone.
Earlier that day Les was in the kitchen making repairs to a table, when his tool slipped, leaving a mark on the table’s surface. “Sh—t,” he muttered under his breath, disgusted with himself. Les rarely swears, so this was highly unusual. Emma, asleep in the adjacent room, heard it even so. With a low moan, she quietly fled upstairs. In a flash of insight Les realized her need to take refuge under the bed was ample evidence that that word had been part of verbal and physical abuse in her former life.
Shocked and chastened, he coaxed her down. Very slowly, she obeyed. When she sat before him he apologized. He’d try never to utter that word again. Emma sighed. She’d instinctively reacted, even though she knew people were very different here. Both felt a little foolish, and a lot wiser.
Males’ booted feet had once been used to brutalize; now, during the party, she lay on the living room floor half asleep. Guests stepped over and around her. Their boots were ignored. The men, especially, noted this with quiet satisfaction and pleasure.
There was one more little triumph.
Later in the evening one of the male guests, maneuvering toward the snacks in the crowded kitchen, trod firmly on her paw. Emma yelped and began a hasty exit, but then stopped abruptly and cocked her head, hearing the man’s “Sorry, Emma!” Wagging her tail once or twice she walked to him and gave his hand a quick lick. No worries, boss; accidents happen. He smoothed her paw, and conversation resumed. A year ago this little ‘oops’ would have been a major setback. Now she wandered over to her bowl to drink, the incident forgotten.
It was a poignant moment - a Christmas gift, really, for everyone. Unconditional love has redeemed her trust in people, while steadily dimming the awful sins her first family had committed.
We raised our glasses in a toast:
God bless us, every one.