Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  At the office things were fine, and for the first time in a while I had a bit of balance back. I had a great deal of affection and respect for the people I worked with. After Jane left, our CEO, Charlie Horsey, made a point of calling me regularly to check in and see how I was doing. I gave Charlie a quick call and got his voice mail: “Charlie, it’s Colin,” I said. “Just letting you know that someone moved in with me this weekend. Pretty quiet, but hairy and drools a bit. Call me back.” That would make him think. I walked over to Matt’s office and gave him an update on George.

  “That’s amazing!” he said. “I’m so glad you got him.”

  Matt was as thrilled as I was and had lots of tips and advice. After catching up with him, I spent the rest of the morning returning emails that had accumulated over the weekend. In the back of my mind I was hoping George was okay and not nervously trashing the house. At noon I headed home to check in on him.

  As I put the keys into the back-door lock, I heard a deep bark. I opened the door, and George was standing in the kitchen on high alert—head and ears up, chest out and nose twitching. As soon as he recognized me, he softened his stance slightly and sat down, but there was no coming to the door with his tail wagging—just a look that said, “Oh. It’s you. Fine.” On the plus side his food bowl was empty. “Hey, George. Did you have a good morning?” I asked, only to be eyed with suspicion. A quick tour around the house confirmed that everything was exactly as I’d left it—no “surprises” on the floor, nothing chewed up, no claw marks.

  “Time for a quick trip to the yard,” I said as I opened the back door. He stepped out cautiously and walked around a bit. It was an intensely sunny day, and his white fur stood out against the shadows cast by the fence. I was struck by how distinctive he was, and even with his challenges I liked him. “Okay. Time to go back in,” I said after a few minutes. I might as well have been yodeling into the Grand Canyon. George retreated into a back corner by the garage and sat down facing me, as if to say, “No way.” In a scene that would repeat itself in the weeks and months ahead, I slowly approached him and gently but firmly held on to his collar. It wasn’t that he was being stubborn, not exactly. It’s that he would move only if I came with him, like he wanted me to escort him. I was starting to sense there might be more to George than met the eye.

  I went back to work for the afternoon, and when I arrived home and put the keys in the door, I waited to hear that thunderous bark, but there was nothing. I opened the door to complete silence. “George?” I called out. More silence. He wasn’t in the kitchen. I searched the dining room—nothing. “George, I’m home. Where are you?” The blue glow from the street shed a bit of light on the dog. He was sitting in the living room, staring straight ahead. I switched on the living room lamp, and now saw clearly that he was in the corner, alone, alert and upright, like an owl sitting on a fence. It was weird and almost eerie.

  “Hey, buddy … What are you doing?” His eyes were so big and he didn’t blink at all. It was as though he were afraid of the dark but didn’t know how to get out of it. “Are you okay?” I asked as I knelt in front of him, putting my hand on the side of his big neck. Instantly he dropped his head, and for the first time ever stared down at the floor instead of at me. He looked beyond sad. He looked alone and terrified and hopeless. It was a look of total defeat.

  I had watched teammates hold their heads the same way after losing important hockey games. I knew that look well, and I knew how it felt. I had let my head drop that way, most recently the night Jane left. It takes a tremendous amount of character to be gracious in defeat, to surrender to someone. I gently rubbed George’s ears and brought my head closer to his. This has since become our thing, our secret way of communicating. “You’re okay, George. You’re safe with me. You’re a good boy.” He allowed me to whisper to him like that, face to face in a manner that was intensely personal, and even though he was sad, he was permitting me to move nearer. More than anything, I could see he was just tired of being afraid. After a few minutes I changed my tone and brightly asked, “Do you want to go for a walk, big guy? You’ll feel better after you have one of your giant pees.” He slowly lifted his head and off we went.

  Though technically the park across the street required dogs to be on leashes, a group of dog owners who regularly gathered there after work during the week let their dogs roam freely. As George and I started to cross the street from the house, he saw the dogs running and playing and he sat down in the middle of the street. “George, let’s go.” I gave the leash a tug and felt the “No way” ricochet up my arm. I was starting to figure out that sitting and watching was George’s big move. It was actually a sensible strategy I was beginning to respect. The only problem was that he was sitting in the middle of the road. George had sidled up next to me, breaking the perfect equidistance he kept in the house.

  “We can’t stay here, big guy. We’re going to get hit by a car. Let’s at least make it to the sidewalk.” Using all my strength, I “convinced” George over to the sidewalk, where he resumed his stubborn sit and continued to size up the people and dogs.

  There were about a dozen dogs of various breeds, sizes and colors. There were also about a dozen people of various backgrounds, sizes and colors. Several formed groups, huddling together to stay warm. They all knew each other and clearly they knew each other’s dogs, too. The young dogs were friendly and playfully wrestled, growling dramatically and posturing, tongues lolling. A few chased balls thrown or kicked by their owners, and the older dogs gingerly walked around sniffing and keeping their distance from the young pups. George was taking it all in.

  Eventually a couple of young dogs broke free of the main group and wandered over to us. As they sniffed at George, who seemed indifferent to them, their owners followed after.

  “Hey there. Nice dog. How long have you had him?” one man asked.

  “This is day number three.”

  “He’s so big!”

  The man got closer and George shrank back immediately.

  “Sorry,” I said. “He’s a bit wary of men still, even of me.”

  “No worries,” the man said. Then he waved and went off to join another group of owners nearby.

  A couple of women now approached. I happily explained that George was a Landseer Newfoundland and yes, his eyes were particularly droopy. And no, not all Newfs were black. And yes, he was a rescue. And no, he didn’t bite. But yes, he was cautious. And no, he wasn’t old, just over a year, even though he acted like an old man.

  “So you’re just a puppy,” one woman said to George, rubbing his ears and crouching. George’s giant tail slowly wagged behind him, and his eyes lit up in the dog equivalent of a goofy grin.

  Another woman walked over and gave him a pat. “He’s sure got a lot of fur,” she said. I had no idea how to respond to that. A poodle mix appeared and gave George’s rear end an aggressive sniff … and then just kept prodding, pushing and sniffing. “The poodle is mine,” she added.

  George’s shoulders stiffened. “You know, I’m not sure he’s used to being sniffed like that. Would you mind calling your dog away for a second?”

  The woman turned to me as though I’d slapped her, and with a bit of anger in her voice said, “Looks like someone’s dog needs training.” Then she marched her poodle away.

  Once she was gone, another woman nearby said, “Don’t worry about her. Your dog’s doing just fine.”

  I looked down at George, who had relaxed slightly after the poodle left. He softly bumped his shoulder into the woman who spoke, as if to say, “Pet me, please,” which she did.

  “You know, this is the most social I’ve seen him so far,” I said. “He doesn’t invite me to pet him like that.”

  “He’s very sweet,” she said. And at that, George’s tail kicked up again.

  “Have you thought about taking him to obedience school? It’s actually not a bad idea, you know, so he can get used to you and to other dogs.”

  “Obedience school?” It had cr
ossed my mind, but I certainly hadn’t done any research into it yet.

  “Yeah. It can really help a lot. And you might find that he learns to trust you more, too. Might be good for both of you—right, George?” she said, nuzzling his face. He closed his eyes and nuzzled her back. I couldn’t believe this was the same dog that sat in my house like a statue, afraid to move.

  The woman suggested Who’s Walking Who, a school in the southeast end of the city. The irony of the school’s name wasn’t lost on me.

  “Thanks, I think I’ll give them a call,” I said.

  George and I returned home soon after, and I set about making dinner. I laid out his dinner bowl in the living room. “There you go, George. Eat up … when you’re ready.”

  I went back to the kitchen table and started in on my own plate. But George lurked at the edge of the room.

  “Come on. You have to be hungry,” I said.

  Nothing. Just that wide-eyed stare.

  “All right then,” I said. I ate a few bites of my food and opened my laptop. I Googled “Who’s Walking Who.” The school had great reviews. It offered a ten-week basic obedience course for dogs of all ages, shapes and sizes—which was great, considering George was an XXL. The next start date was two weeks away. I signed us up on the spot, and just as I did, I heard the crunch of kibble from the other room.

  “You ready for school, George?” I asked. The crunching stopped.

  As a kid I was never all that nervous about the first day of school, but when George and I arrived at Who’s Walking Who for his—and my—first obedience class, I’ll admit I had butterflies. The obedience class was held downtown in a high-ceilinged room that could have been mistaken for a dance studio if not for the rubberized floor. We arrived close to the start time, which didn’t help my nerves, and the pure canine chaos that greeted us made George step back and try to tuck himself behind my knees.

  The first thing I noticed was the sound assault, as the yapping of a dozen or more dogs ricocheted off the concrete walls. The fresh smells of dog breath had mingled with the permanent funk of puppy accidents to create a poignant aroma challenging for human nostrils. The place was a frothing sea of dogs sniffing, sprinting, panting, circling and wrestling their way around the room. There were pugs, bichons, toy poodles, Jack Russells and a solid contingent of mutts. I looked down at George, who was wide-eyed and leery. He was by far the biggest pupil in the room.

  “You okay, George?” I asked as he cowered behind me, a response that could be read only as a definite no. “We can do this. We’re in it together,” I said, while I gently pulled him into the room.

  As we made our way, there was a noticeable stir. People stared at the big kid moving to the front of the class. George kept his head down, sniffing the floor. He ignored a medium-sized doodle-something that came charging at him. We passed a tall, skinny guy and his black-and-white bulldog, and George gave them both a wide berth. I led him over to the instructors—a man and woman wearing WHO’S WALKING WHO T-shirts and sporting fanny packs full of dog treats. The woman was finishing registering an older lady with a terrified dachshund. George found an especially appealing patch of floor and dropped to his belly to lick it.

  “This must be George,” the female instructor said when our turn arrived. “Aren’t you a handsome boy!”

  “Thanks,” I said. George didn’t look up, but at the sound of his name, his tail began thumping. The instructor bent to pat his head as George stayed focused on licking invisible delights off the floor.

  “Stop licking and say hello,” I said, giving him a quick tug on his leash. “Sorry about that.”

  She laughed. “Trust me, I’m used to it.”

  I launched into a long-form “history of George,” even though I’d written all the info down previously when we registered. “He’s a rescue, and he may have been abused, and he seems scared of men, and I’m worried that he doesn’t take much interest in other dogs, and he kinda pulls a little—well, a lot—when I take him for walks, and—” I was rambling, and greatly relieved when the instructor cut me short.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I read everything you wrote about him. He’ll be just fine.”

  I looked down at the giant fur mound on the floor. He was still ignoring everything around him—the barking, the people, the dogs coming closer—and he was still stupidly focused on the rubber mat.

  “Is this normal?” I asked.

  “All part of the process. He’ll get used to everything with time,” she said. “You will, too.”

  Me? What was that supposed to mean?

  “You can let him off his leash now. We’ll start the class in a few minutes.”

  Let him off leash? Was she out of her mind? I’d never let George loose in a public place before, but who was I to argue with a professional? I unclipped him, half expecting—hoping—he wouldn’t stray too far from me. However, he immediately exercised his freedom and began exploring the room, while I wondered what to do with myself.

  Observing him was revealing. He steered clear of all the men, but he wasn’t shy with the ladies and boldly introduced himself to them all, approaching with his head lowered and his big tail waving like a fan. The women who weren’t afraid of him gave him some pats and hugs, which he obviously enjoyed since he leaned his whole body weight against the women, causing a few gasps and peals of laughter. He also showed a sudden and passionate interest in the class’s smallest dog, a teacup Australian terrier running figure eights through George’s feet. George joyously bounced up and down on his front paws as the little dog tore circles around him.

  Worried that he would accidentally step on the smaller dog, I yelled, “No! Careful, George!”

  I was about to put the leash back on him, when the little dog bolted off to the other end of the room and George, unperturbed, moved on to a nearby fluffy, white bichon frise. The bichon probably weighed all of nine pounds to George’s 140, but she wasn’t scared at all.

  I watched with trepidation, knowing that with one swipe of his paw, George might maim someone’s beloved best friend, but again George surprised me. He lowered his massive head, his big tail wagging, and he gently touched the little dog’s nose. He was as happy as a gorilla with a kitten, and he spent the next few minutes before class following the bichon around to the exclusion of everyone and everything else in the room, including me.

  A few minutes later the instructors both turned to face the room. “If I could have everyone’s attention,” the male instructor shouted above the canine cacophony. “We’re going to get started now, so if you could collect your dogs and form a line along the wall opposite the door—from smallest dog to largest—that would be great.”

  There were twelve dogs and twelve owners, and George and I were the biggest kids in class by far. The dachshund owner quickly found her shy, nervous dog and made her way to the opposite wall first.

  “George!” I called out, but he was cavorting with the bichon and didn’t even turn around.

  The Jack Russell and a couple of Boston terriers dutifully followed their owners when summoned and found their rightful places in the line. The Frenchies, a lab and pugs, were easily corraled by their people and added to the line. The mutts did the same. George was still tailing the bichon, and as I made my way across the room to grab him, his new best friend was picked up easily by her owner and deposited in line beside the skinny guy with the black-and-white bulldog. With his new friend gone, George gazed up in confusion and then, totally spooked, ran away to a corner opposite the line.

  “George!” I called out again—in vain. I didn’t want to run to him and appear like a hapless owner who couldn’t control his dog, so I sauntered over to him and said, “It’s okay, George. Come.” He summarily ignored me, arcing wide around me and then, like a queen greeting dignitaries, walked over to each pair in the lineup, tail wagging, and said hello.

  “George! Come here. Now!” Nothing. I could feel the color spreading to my cheeks. I considered breaking into a jog, but I
felt I might only make matters worse. As George continued licking hands and receiving pats on his big head, the whole line of humans started giggling. Finally the owner of the bichon took pity on me and hung on to George’s collar long enough for me to catch up and take control.

  “Thanks,” I said as I dragged George to the big-kid end of the line.

  “Okay,” the male instructor said. “Looks like we’re ready to begin … almost.” He directed a small nod at George and me, and that was followed by a chortle from the group.

  He and his co-instructor began the class by teaching the most basic of dog commands: “Sit.” After showing us the correct way to address our dogs, complete with a hand signal to accompany the verbal command, we were asked to practice in a synchronized fashion. “Let’s start with the wee one at this end and work our way down the line to … the big boy, George,” the female instructor said.

  From the bichon right on down to the Labrador beside us, every dog in line executed the move with ease—every dog, that is, except George. When it was his turn, I went through the proper motions, but he refused to comply. Not that he couldn’t. George loved to sit and watch and look at things in his own good time. He just wouldn’t do it when given the command.

  “Sorry,” I said, when the first try didn’t work. “We’ll give that another go. Sit, George. Sit. Si-i-i-i-i-i-it. George, SI-I-I-I-I-IT-T-T-T-T-T!”

  Eventually, looking uneasy, he sat—for a second. Then his giant back end rose up and the giggles started anew. The other owners, it seemed, found this funny; I, however, found it far less so. The female instructor came over. “Try getting down to his level, and command him in a strong, authoritative voice,” she said. She demonstrated, and of course George’s rear end descended as obediently as though attached to a trained show dog. In my nine or ten tries afterward, he did the move a grand total of once. Just once.

  “Good!” the instructor said in an overly bright voice. “You’re doing great. Don’t give up. Just be patient,” she said, smiling at me and patting George for his “brilliant” performance. George wagged his tail happily and the second she walked away to help another dog, his caboose floated back up again to spite me.