My dogs could teach me a lesson. They could sit me down on their blanket in front of the gas stove and tell me everything they know. Their advice would be short like the barks of delight they offer at the mention of a car ride. It would be sweet like their paws on my chest during every morning wake up call. And then I would let my dogs teach me a lesson.
Yet, my dogs bark at the mention of a car ride and the sight of peanut M&M's and in response to the barks of dogs on TV. Their paws jump in my bed and in my parents' bed and on my cats and all around my yard and end up in mud or dead fish so that you smell them before you hear them. They are loud and naughty, but still my dear dogs. They are far too busy to sit me down and teach me anything.
For years I held this against my dogs, each and every one. There was Jonesie, who, when I was very young, got too ambitious and jumped over a fence that cut him so badly he was buried the next day. I never really knew Jonesie but he lived in my mind for years as the dog who could leap so high; he never taught me how to leap like that.
There was Sophie, "big sweetie," who let my sister and I ride her around the house. Sophie, who has inspired every computer password I've ever had, who slept with my father on the couch and carried dish towels around everywhere, for she was, after all, a retriever. She died when I was in second grade. She was there and then she was gone; she didn't teach me how to love and care for cargo as precious as her old rags.
There was Wally, who broke my heart every one of his last days for by then I was old enough to know that your heart can be broken. I was 16 when I had to join my father with the wheelbarrow and walk through the rain to our neighbor's yard where Wally could not get up, when we so carefully scooped him into the wheelbarrow and brought him home, his tail wagging the whole time. Wally never taught me to love unconditionally, to love us the same way every day, even when we brought home a small furry puppy whom we inevitably petted more and played with longer. Wally would hug even the traitors with the golden bundle in their arms.
The golden bundle, Gus, is now 90 pounds and arthritic. He too has watched his beloved family carry around a small furry puppy, a Wally replacement who came two years after his death, two years too soon for Gus. Homer and Gus are the dogs I hear now, barking at invisible foes. They are the dogs who seem unaware of their size and age as they sit in my lap in front of the gas stove. They are Gus who lets me lay my head on his stomach when I'm sad and Homer who has learned how to lick me when I purse my lips. They respond to me when I call their names or when I pet them for a solid hour or when I curse their fur stuck to every article of my clothing. They wag their tails; they stand perfectly still; they cry very quietly so as not to disturb anyone.
They respond but they do not teach. After years of responsive, sweet, slightly stubbornly distant dogs, I finally realized that in watching me watching them, my dogs have indirectly taught me.\nThe other day when my sister backed our golf cart into a muddy ditch I screamed and Homer barked excitedly. When I pulled off my shoes and stepped into the ice-cold mud, pushing against what I knew to be hopelessly stuck wheels, Homer ran around excitedly. When my sister threw her foot against the gas and mud sprayed into my hair and mouth, Homer jumped into the cart and licked my face. I pushed him away and rubbed my cold brown feet. We walked home and Homer ran next to us, never once losing the sense of excitement triggered by our screams of despair and frustration.
I was greeted at the front door by Gus who sat on my cold feet and looked up at me, eyes big and brown and tail thumping, each thump asking for a head pat, an ear rub, anything at all would be heavenly. Homer collapsed on the couch, exhausted from the adventure. They were busy, so busy in their dog heads wanting a petting and needing a rest that they whispered nothing to me.
And I stopped secretly resenting my dogs for all the lessons they weren't actively teaching me. They've all figured out how to share our attention with their pseudo brothers and sisters. They've learned to live with us leaving, especially my sister and me, coming into and out of their lives and expecting them to love us the same way as they always have. Did we teach them how to live like that? No one in my family is a dog whisperer; they had to teach themselves.
As seemingly simple as dogs can be, they still manage to aim too high, care so much, and love unconditionally while simultaneously capturing and breaking the hearts of the people around them. If they can do that without words and opposable thumbs, then surely I can, too. If Sir Gus and Homer Aristotle can make my day, every day, then maybe Connelly Hardaway can make someone's day every once in a while. I won't lick your face, but I may run alongside you when you're having a bad day and try my best to make you smile.
Connelly's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at c.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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