Sunday, June 11, 2006

What I Love and Hate About Dogs

This was an assigment from my writing group. I think it was meant as a joke but as I wrote, I found myself paying tribute.

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Have I ever hated dogs? I remember as a kid in Africa, I was terrified to walk through the village because the dogs recognized me as different and terrified and they came after me. As a toddler, I got bit on the face by a small, white terrier and I haven’t much liked small dogs since. And there are some dogs at the dog park I don’t care for. But I generally have an affinity for dogs, mostly because of the great dogs that have been in my life.

Beeman was the first dog I ever knew. He was my grandparents’ dog, a Border Collie with a penchant for escape. I remember mostly him by the stories. Once, he jumped out of a second story window and lived. Another time, my grandparents forgot him on the other side of the city and a week later he showed up on their doorstep, starving, bedraggled but alive. Beeman was an institution, always there, like Grandma’s milkshakes or the smell of the linen cupboard in the hall. I was shocked when he actually died of old age.

Then I knew Josie, a crazy Malamute who my parents saved from certain death on a farm because she liked to kill chickens. She wasn’t a cuddly kind of dog and I certainly didn’t love her, but I developed a respect for her one day after school. There was a bully who used to harass me all the way home. I was terrified of him. That day he actually came into our yard. I wasn’t sure what to do until Josie suddenly appeared behind me from her crawl space under the house. The bully stopped in his tracks. Josie took a few steps towards him and he bolted. I felt so powerful having my very own monster.

Josie went on to birth two liters and then, when my parents couldn't handle her anymore, was handed off to relatives. She eventually died by impact with car.

Khotso, a Chow-Shepherd mix, was the first dog I really loved. I was a pre-teen. We were just back from Africa (his name meant “Peace” in Sesotho) and we got him from a farm. He was really my dad’s dog but he would have died to protect any of us, even if we didn’t always appreciate him. Quiet and patient, he was always there in the background as we went through some of the toughest years of our lives. My dad and my brother cried when he died from cancer. He now rests under the apple tree in my parents’ yard.

Maggie, a darling flat-coated retriever, was how I realized I liked being responsible for a dog of my own. My ex-boyfriend and I picked her out at the pound, and while I shared in her care, I insisted she was his responsibility. I was surprised when my heart crumbled for having to leave her behind after we broke up. Kiwi-the-cat and I shared grief over losing Maggie (Kiwi howled day after day. I almost gave him back to the pound, my ex, whoever would have him). As far as I know, she’s still happy and healthy and well cared for by my ex and his family.

Charlie is my first, real, Til Death Do Us Part dog. She’s mine, she’s Trevor’s, she's the first indication of our intentions to stick together for awhile. I searched far and wide for her and when she stepped of the transport truck (from Alma, QC), I had no idea that she was the dog I’d picked out (Cocker Spaniel cross, my ass!). But she turned out to be the best dog I’ve ever known. She is likely the first dog my kid(s) will know. Kiwi is much happier. Life is so much better with a dog, especially one like Charlie.

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