Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  “Of course,” the woman said. “I’ve got a couple of choices that would be just right.” She carefully explained the options and I chose a big bag of premium food that had high protein content, organic ingredients and was free of fillers. Next we picked out a big stainless-steel water bowl and matching food bowl. I also thought he should have his own bed, a warm, soft place to sleep. The problem was, despite an entire row full of them there weren’t many that were big enough. In fact, only one was Newf sized, and it looked (and cost) the same as a Sealy Posturepedic. I took it off the shelf and put it on the floor.

  “Come. Have a seat on your new bed.”

  He didn’t even glance at it.

  “He’s probably too distracted to lie down,” the woman said, trying to make me feel better. “But I’m sure he’ll use it in your house,” she added. “And it’s really sweet that you want him to have a nice bed.”

  Together we picked it up and hauled it to the checkout. Here’s the crazy thing: I couldn’t fit the bed into the small trunk of my car, so I had to jam it in the backseat then ask the dog, who was already cautious about the tight confines, to sit on top of it. He refused to get in the back, leaving me with no choice but to let him sit in the front. Once I opened the passenger door, he climbed in and stared straight ahead. His head was above mine and almost touched the roof of the car. We looked ridiculous, like a comical circus act. I prayed that we didn’t get stopped by the police on our way home. Fortunately my prayers were answered.

  Back at the house, I left the bed in the front hall after he walked right past it into the living room. I brought the bowls into the kitchen, filled one with water and set it just outside the doorway. He was lying at the far end of the living room, watching me, his head on the floor, tucked between his front paws. His eyebrows were up, and his big, droopy eyes were alert. Still, I couldn’t quite read the meaning of his body language. If dogs could play cards, he would be an excellent poker player.

  “You thirsty?” I asked, still crouched by the water bowl.

  Silence.

  “You hungry?”

  No reaction.

  I went back out to the hallway and grabbed the bag of food. In the kitchen, I cut it open and found a beat-up mug waiting to be reborn as a dog-food scoop. I filled the bowl and then gingerly padded into the living room with it. “Time for dinner,” I said, giving the bowl a shake. He tensed at the sound, as though preparing to get up and run. I’d never heard of a dog able to resist the sound of kibble hitting the bowl—but this dog was different. I put the bowl on the floor. Then I walked a few paces backward to give him some space. “Go ahead,” I said. “You can eat now.”

  He remained motionless.

  I waited … and waited. Then waited some more. The dog fixed me with a stare that said, “No way. Not a chance.” It was as if I’d put a box of nails on the floor rather than a bowl of tasty food. I waited a little longer and then relented. “Okay. Fine. Have it your way. I’ll just leave the bowl there and you can eat it when you want to.” I went into the kitchen again. And only when my back was turned while I searched for a place to store the dog’s food did I hear the sound of those giant paws, crossing the living room floor and stopping. Pause. A few seconds later, the telltale sound: the crunching of kibble. Music to my ears. I stood stock-still, listening, afraid that if I closed a cupboard door too loud or moved around, I’d spook him and he would stop eating.

  As I stood there listening, I thought of Jane, who loved dogs. I knew she’d adore him on sight. And I had to wonder if, unlike me, she’d have an instant rapport with him the way she did with pretty much everyone she met. In fact, the first time I’d encountered the Newfoundland breed was with her on our honeymoon. We were in Paris and had gone to visit the Eiffel Tower. In the park at the base of the tower, an elderly woman was walking a gently swaying mountain of black fur. Jane was totally taken by the dog and we rushed over to talk to the owner. For ten minutes we butchered the French language as we both knelt and patted the majestic animal. He was gentle and affectionate, leaning against our legs and into our hands. Jane was so moved she grabbed my arm and gazed up at me with a bright expression that said, “Isn’t this one of the most beautiful dogs you have ever seen?” Maybe if I called her and told her I got a dog, she’d—I cut myself off before finishing the hopeless thought. I carefully tucked the bag of food away in a cupboard and quietly closed the door.

  Out in the living room I could still hear crunch—crunch—crunch. I couldn’t resist any longer. I tiptoed to the entranceway and peeked in. The sound stopped before I’d even cleared the door frame. He was lying down in front of his bowl. He turned his face up to me with a look of apprehension.

  “Sorry,” I said, excusing myself. Why won’t he eat in front of me? I wondered. But at least he’s eating.

  Or was. As I went back into the kitchen and set about making a dinner of my own, I heard him get up and walk away from the bowl.

  I heated up some leftovers and ventured back into the living room with my meal. “Okay if I come in now?” He was lying in a corner of the room, fully alert, head up and chest out. Maybe he wasn’t ready to eat in front of me, but I was going to eat in front of him. I could feel his eyes on me as I brought the fork to my mouth, but every time I looked at him, he looked away. After I’d had a few bites he got up and left the room. Another dinner alone, I told myself.

  There was something deeply disturbing to me about this behavior. What would make a dog feel afraid of eating in front of a human being? The answers that came to my head made me feel even more concerned about the treatment this animal might have received.

  As I ate my meal, I listened to Kong padding around the first floor of the house, exploring it without me. It was astonishing. He had only been a part of my life for a few hours, yet everything felt different. Even when he wasn’t in my line of sight, the mood in the house was different. It was … no longer empty. It was occupied. It was full. Full of life. Which isn’t to say it was entirely comfortable. There was some tension and a bit of apprehension between this new arrival and me. Still, it was exciting to feel his presence and it was nice to have something, anything, to get excited about. For the first time since Jane left, I had company. And it felt great.

  When I was done eating, I grabbed the dog bed from the front entrance, carried it upstairs and laid it in a corner of my bedroom. I called for the dog to come up and see it, which felt a bit strange because I didn’t have a name for him yet. He moved to the bottom of the stairs and gazed up at me but wouldn’t climb them.

  “Come on, buddy. Come on up.” He glanced around, took a step or two, but then lowered his head and stopped. I descended the stairs and he backed up to keep that same distance between us. I got his leash from where I’d hung it beside the door and walked over to him. He let me get it back on him and lead him upstairs. When we made it to the top, I said, “Welcome to the second floor,” and eased off the leash.

  At first he didn’t move.

  “You can look around. Don’t mind the mess.”

  He put his nose to the floor and took a sniff. Then he slowly walked from the landing into the hall. I moved into my bedroom and settled myself on my bed, listening as he sniffed around the bathroom and guest bedroom. Eventually I saw a huge head appear in the doorway of my room. “Hey, big guy,” I said. “This is the bedroom. You can hang out here any time you want.”

  He sniffed the air like he was searching for clues. I was fascinated by how much his nose twitched.

  “Do you want to lie down in your new bed? It’s nicer than mine, so if you don’t like it, we can trade.” He didn’t get my sense of humor and stared at me, aloof, unreadable. I would have given a lot of money to know what was going through his mind at that moment. After a while he went back downstairs, and I followed him down a minute or two later.

  The rest of the night played out in slow motion. I was so absorbed with him that every tiny movement seemed significant. I called Matt back at some point.

  �
��I don’t know, Matt,” I said. “I think things are okay, but I don’t know if he likes me much.”

  “Can you blame him?” Matt quipped.

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “Relax. Things will be fine. Just don’t smother him and say ‘I’m your best friend, I’m your best friend.’ ”

  Was that what I was doing? Maybe. Probably. Yeah.

  “Let him draw his own conclusions in his own time,” Matt said. “That’s what I let you do when I suggested you get a dog. You took your time and figured it out. He’ll ultimately do the same thing.”

  It was good advice. Being overly attentive would only stress him out. But this logic went against every fiber of my being. I saw a creature that was scared and upset, and all I wanted to do was hug him and reassure him he would be okay from now on.

  “All right, Matt,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. See you at the office.”

  After I hung up I talked myself out of going to see what the dog was doing and turned on the TV, instead. A few minutes later there he was at the entrance. He looked at me once, then entered the room and lay down on the opposite side. I sat on the floor, not the couch, hoping he’d come over to me. He didn’t. We stayed like that for a while. At one point I got up to get a glass of water and he jumped out of his skin.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay! Ev-v-verything’s okay.” Of course I said it way too loud—and only made matters worse.

  I came back with my water and the dog paced for a while. Then that giant head appeared at the threshold yet again. My Newf crossed it and took up a new place in the living room, cautiously lowering himself as though he wasn’t sure it was safe.

  “You can sit wherever you want,” I said. I watched him in place of whatever show was on and eventually he fell asleep. Even asleep he seemed uneasy. His back legs were tucked under him and his head was resting on his front paws. Here was a dog that was physically imposing, with an uncommon beauty and presence, but meeting basic needs eluded him: how to eat, who to trust, when and where to sleep. Even when he was asleep, all I wanted to do was reach out and hug him. But I didn’t.

  Instead I went up to bed. He didn’t follow me. I whistled for him from my room. He didn’t come. But after an hour or so, I heard the click of his nails at the bottom of the stairs and then heard him start to climb them. A moment later he appeared in my bedroom doorway. “Hey there, big guy,” I said. “Come on in.”

  He entered the room, head down, swaying sweetly and looking up at me as though peering over the top of a pair of reading glasses—an expression I would later come to regard as one of his defining mannerisms. He walked past his expensive dog bed to the corner of the room opposite his bed and flopped down on the hard floor. It was a breakthrough. I wanted to rush over and tell him what a good boy he was, but I didn’t. I stayed perfectly still, smiling to myself with the sheets pulled under my chin. And at some point, we both fell asleep.

  SEVEN

  He was still there when I woke up in the morning. “Hey,” I called to him. “Hey, buddy.” He was alert, but he stayed put and watched me as I got out of bed and walked his way. I bent over, extending my hand so he could sniff it. After a few seconds he let me move closer, and I gently rubbed his head. “So, did you have a good sleep?” He appeared less tense than he had the day before, but his eyes were still wide and cautious. “Ready for a morning walk?”

  I went down the stairs and a minute or so later I heard the big dog make his way down. I got bundled up and then slowly clipped his leash on him, which he let me do without backing away. We went out for a walk, with me waiting in the cold while he sniffed at bushes, poles and trees, found the spots he liked and composed his messages to the world. He didn’t know how to walk on a leash any more than I knew how to steer him. He pulled me around from smell to smell. A few other dog owners observed the spectacle with raised eyebrows, but all in all, our second walk was successful. No broken bones and no runaway dog. At this early stage, that felt like an accomplishment.

  “Well done, big guy,” I said, as I unlocked the front door. Once we were back in the warm house, he continued his inspection of his new environment. I filled his bowl with food and called him over, shaking the bowl so he could hear it was full. He stopped to eye me as I lowered the bowl to the kitchen floor, but he did not approach. “Here’s your breakfast,” I added cheerily, like I was a diner waitress looking for a big tip. I have friends with dogs that jump with excitement when their food is poured, as though mealtime is the most exciting moment of the day. Not this guy. Nothing. Not even a tiny tail wag. Just two big, inscrutable eyes staring at me.

  “Okay. Suit yourself. It will be there when you are hungry,” I said. Then I went upstairs to shower. When I came back downstairs a few minutes later, he was standing almost in the same spot. His head was lowered and his big brown eyes were regarding me apprehensively. “What? What happened?” I asked, and then I noticed that half the food was missing from his bowl. I said, “Good boy. Eating is good. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Good, good boy.” Yet those wary eyes didn’t change.

  We spent the rest of the day, a cold and quiet winter Sunday, inside the house, moving around each other. I tried several times to coax him to sit beside me, but he eyed me as if to say, “I’m fine where I am, thanks.” I couldn’t take it personally. Even as he kept his distance, the same feelings I’d had the night before filled my chest: that it was so pleasant having him in the house and he was such good company, even if he was a bit aloof. Once again I acknowledged that the place was no longer empty, and instead of dwelling on Jane’s absence, I was thinking about this dog. It was a marked change for me, as different and foreign as it must have been for the big dog lying on my floor.

  I decided to invite a friend over to meet my new dog. When she arrived, I was reading in the living room, with the dog off in a far corner. She knocked on the door, and that’s when I heard him bark for the first time—a deep, incredibly loud bark—and I nearly jumped out of my own skin. “Jeezus that’s loud!” I said to myself as my heart pounded like a jackhammer. Kong and I both got up and walked toward the front door. He stopped after a few steps and then stared up at me. For the first time I noticed a slight wag of his tail. “That’s quite a voice you have there, buddy,” I said, giving him a pat on the head. In his eyes, rather than apprehension I thought I saw a hint of excitement.

  I opened the door and my friend rushed in, along with a gust of cold winter air. I watched as the dog appraised our guest, fortunately with curiosity and little else.

  “Hi!” she said. “So this is him? Wow, he is really big.”

  “Yup,” I said. “He sure is.”

  “He’s not going to attack me or anything, is he?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Nothing in the dog’s behavior suggested aggression. “He’s very gentle, and up to two minutes ago he’s been very quiet.”

  She didn’t look too convinced and was backed against the door. “That’s quite a bark he has. I wasn’t going to come in after I heard that.”

  “Yeah, that was interesting,” I said. “I don’t think you need to worry.” I coaxed her out of the doorway and we sat down in the living room, with the dog hovering in his usual faraway corner.

  She relaxed a little. “So, what’s his name?”

  “Well,” I began, “he doesn’t actually have one. At least, not a name that suits him or that he responds to.” I told her the story behind the girl at the foster place calling him “Kong.”

  “The name doesn’t seem to suit him.”

  “No,” she agreed. “He’s big like King Kong, but he’s not chained up or climbing the Empire State Building.” By this point the dog had lain down in his corner and assumed his sphinx-like pose.

  “That’s exactly why I want to change his name. He needs one that suits his personality, not his size.”

  “How about Thunder?” she asked. “Fits the bark on him, I’d say.”

  “Not bad,” I said, and looked over a
t the dog. “Hey. Thunder, do you like that name?” No reaction.

  “Or what about Spot?” she suggested next. “That’s kind of a cool, old-school dog name. And he does have that big black mark on his side.”

  “Spot! Here, Spot!” Again no reaction—just the laughter of my friend.

  “I think he needs a human name,” I said. “He has a lot of human features. He’s like the kid in school who’s so much bigger than all the other kids and is shy and quiet.” The dog laid his massive head on the floor between his paws, completing the image.

  “What about Oscar, like Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street?” I wasn’t sold. This was not a grouchy dog at all.

  We stared at him for a few more minutes in silence, until a name occurred to me. “George,” I said, and the dog immediately lifted his head and gave me his best Robert De Niro “You talkin’ to me?” look.

  “Did you see that?” my friend said. “He totally responded!”

  “Is that you, George?” I asked. “Is that your name?”

  Holding the look, he cocked his head and gave a slight wag of his big white tail—something I’d never seen him do. From that moment on, he was George.

  EIGHT

  The next day was a workday, which meant George’s first day home alone. I was a bit apprehensive about leaving him, but I knew I had to try.

  The morning walk, or should I say “morning drag,” went fine.

  That done, I grabbed my car keys to head out, but before I left, I got down on my knees to meet George at eye level. “Okay, George. So it’s like this. I have to go to work to pay for that food you refuse to eat in front of me. I’ll check in on you at lunchtime, but for now, you’re in charge.” George registered the keys in my hand and eyeballed me with his “I’m not going anywhere” look. When I made for the door, he did nothing, and when I was outside walking to my car, I stole a peek through the window. He remained exactly where he was, no spinning in circles with anxiety, no movement at all. I wasn’t sure if I should be reassured or worried.