A Dog Story

It was shortly after our first litter of puppies was born that a friend showed up on our doorstep one afternoon.

            “I heard you had puppies,” she said, as I opened the door.

            I welcomed her in, inviting her to come see the pups in the back corner of the dining room near the heater, where the house is the warmest.  They were in the whelping box, snuggled against and nursing on their mom.  Lucy, our little lab/retriever mama calmly raised her head, and looked at our visitor.  She didn’t get too excited about anything with a litter of hungry pups to feed.

            We asked Lucy if we could borrow a couple of her puppies for a few minutes. And after receiving some sense of acknowledgement from her, I grabbed two sleeping pups and carried them back into the living room.

            Our friend sat down on the floor holding a puppy.  I sat a few feet away holding the other.  As the kids started busily retelling the miracle of puppy birth they had witnessed only a few days earlier, our friend sat quietly holding the puppy.

            Walker, our bigger yellow lab and the father of the pups, came over and nosed at our friend’s hand.  Maybe checking on his offspring.  Maybe just conveying his pride in his kids.  Even old Maggie, our black husky mix stood slowly from her rug and came over to our friend.  She poked her nose over our friend’s shoulder and nudged at her arm.

            I told the dogs to go sit down.  But neither did.  Which was unusual for them.  Our friend patted each of the dogs, and spoke a word or two to each of them.  But it didn’t suffice.  Neither dog budged.  Instead, they started licking her.  Maggie on one side, Walker on the other, they licked her hands, then her face.  I ordered them to go sit down, and apologized to our guest.  This was certainly not like them to be so intrusive.

            “It’s okay,” she repeated, and then spoke again to each of them.

            The licking continued.  Becoming more persistent.  Nudging her arms, her neck.  Pressing against her.  Intent on licking.  I was on my feet by then, irritated that they weren’t listening to my reproaches.  I snapped my fingers, calling them from the room.

            “No, it’s okay,” she repeated again.

            That’s when I saw her tears.

I sat back down.  Waiting.

            She set the puppy down on the carpet then and, head down, put an arm around each of the two big dogs, allowing them to comfort her.  Welcoming them to lick away her tears.

            “We lost Buddy this morning,” she finally whispered.

            Buddy was their dog.  Another gentle old soul like Maggie.  Old and irritable.  Adoring and loyal.  A week or so earlier he’d fallen through the ice of the lake where they lived, and had apparently never fully recovered from the shock and turmoil of it.  They’d done everything they could.

            I said I was sorry.

            She nodded.

            Then we both sat quietly.  Even the kids sat quietly.  Watching. As Maggie and Walker offered her the comfort she sought.

            After a bit, we returned the two pups to their mama.  And I assured our friend that it was fine to come by any time. The puppies would be here for the next eight weeks.  And with 12 dogs in the house, she could get her dog fix any time.  She said she would do that, and then left.

            And as I closed the front door I stopped and looked at Maggie and Walker who had been intently focused on her from the moment she’d come in the door. They were sitting in the entryway, watching as she left.  I walked over and patted each one on the head for a moment.  I told them again what great dogs they are, and apologized for scolding them when they wouldn’t listen to me and leave our friend alone.

            “I didn’t realize you knew exactly what you were doing,” I explained quietly.  “I didn’t know yet what I think you already knew.”

            They both graciously accepted my apologies and went and laid down.  And I returned to my day.  Once again humbled by my own short-sightedness.