Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  “Good boy! You did great, George!” I said, as I wrapped him in a bear hug. He wagged and licked harder, and when released, he walked back to the instructor and the rest of the group with that same chest-puffed-out swagger he’d shown after doing the sit-and-stay drill. He found me quicker and with more intensity than any of the other dogs in the class that day had found their owners. I was so proud. All the frustration of the early classes fell away in that moment.

  Later that night, when the final class was drawing to a close, awards for skills were handed out—such as “Best Sitter,” “Most Consistent Stay,” “Best on Leash.” I was not expecting George would win any awards, and I was quietly making small talk with the owner of the bichon, who had just won an award for “Fastest Learner.” George and the little dog lay side by side at our feet. Suddenly I heard “George!” followed by loud applause and even some cheering and scattered barks. George heard his name, too, and jumped to his feet and yanked me over to the beaming female instructor. She held an official-looking certificate in her hands, except that it had two cartoon dogs on the corners. At the top was the logo for the school and in the middle, written in big, red, felt-pen letters:

  George

  Most Improved Student

  In the lower left corner was a hand-drawn heart. George dropped into a shoulder roll and showed his big belly to the room. “Good boy! You did great, George!” the instructor said as she rubbed his belly. He lapped up the praise and the applause from the rest of the group.

  “And well done to you, too,” she added, giving me a big smile.

  “Thanks,” I said, smiling back even harder.

  Over the years I have been fortunate to win a few awards, both as an athlete and as a professional marketer. But of all the awards I have won—or co-won—I can honestly say that this handwritten certificate is the most satisfying award of all.

  NINE

  Just like that, we were making progress. George and I were becoming a little closer, and we were both starting to trust each other—a little. Over the next few months our time together at home was characterized by two kinds of interactions: slow, deliberate movements and gentle, encouraging utterances.

  I handled George with a degree of delicacy that probably was a bit too much, but in exchange he started to reveal his personality and unexpected quirks, beginning with the fact that he definitely had no clue just how big he really was. He knocked over chairs in the house, and would turn around and look at them as if to say, “Who did that?” He seemed completely unaware of the location of his own tail or shoulder—even his head. The tail, in particular, had many magical powers in the early days, with George blissfully oblivious of all of them. It could sweep, knock, smash, break and swipe almost anything placed on the coffee table. A glass vase, plastic water bottles (opened, of course) and the occasional half-consumed bottle of beer or glass of wine became acquainted with the floor, courtesy of George’s enchanted tail. He even discreetly swept my keys off the table. I only found them unexpectedly, under the sofa, an hour after I needed them and had given up the search.

  George also had a habit of wedging himself into spaces that would make the trunk of a smart car look expansive. He’d wedge himself between the coffee table and the couch, and then, immobilized, look at me as if to say, “How come I don’t fit?” Occasionally he would venture under the dining table and get his body and legs caught in the jungle of chair legs and rungs. He would then issue one of his rare barks, which I’m fairly sure would translate into English as “Help me! I’m stuck under the table and I can’t get out!” If I didn’t come right away, he would start walking out on his own, dragging the chairs and the table with him.

  In complete contrast to his size, he ate like a tiny, dainty dog, bit by bit, nibbling and then walking off for a while. “George, are you a ballerina in a Newfoundland’s body?” No response.

  Best of all, though, was the way he slept. Unlike most dogs, who usually circle and then carefully lower themselves to the floor, when George decided he wanted to lie down, he dropped and rolled his shoulder like a Hollywood stuntman. Once down, he would settle flat on his side for a few minutes and then perform the coup de grâce, pitching himself over onto his back with his legs splayed in all directions, belly aimed straight at the ceiling. “Very dignified, George. That’s a noble pose.” But the truth is it made me very happy to see him relax in front of me. He was no longer afraid that I would hurt him.

  Once he’d stretched out for a while, his gangling limbs would find their way back under him and he’d curl up on the floor, taking up most of it, of course. Now it was time for a nap. When he was comfortable, he would drift off into the heavy sleep of giants and stay that way for hours. Then, once the epic snooze was over, he’d bounce back into being and give me a refreshed and surprised look that seemed to say, “I don’t know what happened, but I sure feel rested. Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Sure, George,” I’d tell him. “It’s park time.” And we’d both head to the front door, where I’d slip on his leash with ease while he wagged his tail to the tune of a rhythmic bonking as it hit the door or the wall or me.

  At the dog park I’d even started to take him off leash. The first time had been a bit nerve-racking, because even though he’d done well at drills in obedience class, there was no way to really know what he’d do with his newfound freedom outside. I wasn’t worried about him getting into it with other dogs, but I couldn’t shake the fear that he could get startled by something and go running off, full tilt, into traffic on the busy cross street below the park. I built up to it, letting the other owners in the park know I was going to let him loose and asking them to keep an eye on him a good ten minutes before I finally took him by the collar and unclipped the leash.

  For the first few seconds he just stood there looking up at me: “What now?” Then he dropped his nose to the ground and started sniffing. Though he wasn’t driven by his stomach like other dogs, George was like a beagle when it came to smells, basking in them more than most dogs do. Nose down, he ran over to a bunch of bushes and began inhaling them. Then he moved on to a tree and then another, some more bushes, a piece of playground equipment and back to the trees, breathing everything in like the Big Bad Wolf in reverse. A few other dogs approached him at various points, sniffing at his face and his rear and then bouncing into the bowing pose dogs use to say, “Let’s play.” George seemed confused by the body language and uninterested in his fellow canines. He eyed each potential playmate quizzically for a second and then got back to his sniffing.

  I gave him roughly five minutes on his own before calling him back. He returned to the first clump of bushes and buried his nose in them for a while and then started walking farther from me. When he was about thirty yards away, I got a little anxious and I started to walk toward him. He glanced back at me but continued on his merry way. He didn’t run, and it didn’t seem like he was trying to escape; he was just being defiant, as though he was saying, “Look, I’ve got more sniffing to do here, so lay off, man.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Don’t go too far.” I let him get a bit farther, but when he showed no sign of stopping, I picked up my speed. “George!” He still didn’t come to me, but this time he stopped and waited. I closed the rest of the gap between us as he gazed up at me with a big question mark in his eyes. “You can’t go wandering off on me, George,” I softly scolded. “I get worried about you.” He leaned into me and licked my left hand. I took his collar with my right. “Come on, let’s go,” I said. I led him back to the spot where the other dogs were playing. He didn’t resist and stuck by me until it was time to go home.

  The next few days were somewhat better, and George was able to come when called—eventually. It usually took him a few repeats, but I was feeling good that he actually listened, and the visions of my beautiful, big Newf running out into traffic began to fade from my mind. The dog park became a place we both were excited to visit. George enjoyed the sniffing and meeting new dogs, and I had a chance to soc
ialize with people in my neighborhood. Small talk about dogs or the weather was actually helpful in getting me back on track socially. With the focus in our community on four-legged companions, no one asked me about Jane. The outing was low stress, and it was slowly starting to become comfortable. As well, our daily walks had begun to replace my solo stints outside on the back porch with a drink and multiple cigarettes. I was beginning to feel a bit better about myself. And it was hard to have a bad day when at the end of it all, George was wagging his tail at the front door, ready to lick my face and wash my anxiety away.

  At night when I was ready to crash, he’d jump down and take up his usual spot on the floor, near my bed. No matter how uncomfortable he got, though, he never once used his expensive dog bed. It continued to collect dust on the floor like a museum piece.

  Our only setback came a week or two after I first started letting George off his leash at the park. There was a man who frequented the park to walk his dogs but who never talked to anyone or even approached the main group. He was of medium height, and he wore tinted, thin-framed glasses, but apart from the glasses he was among the most nondescript people I’ve ever seen. His one distinguishing feature was the pair of snow-white Pyrenees, both nearly George’s size, that he walked side by side, never letting them off their leashes.

  This was maybe the fourth time I’d seen him in my two and a half months of twice-daily park visits. He entered the park from the street I lived on and cut into a soccer field about forty yards away from where I was standing and talking with a handful of other owners. George was already in the field, exploring by himself, and as the man made his way across it, George took an interest in the dogs and strolled over to them. Trusting George more now, I stayed put as he went to say hello. George was about ten feet away, when one of the Pyrenees made a run at him. It reached the end of its leash in short order and stopped, snarling, baring its teeth and straining to get at George as the man held it back. The second dog stood back, staring at the commotion.

  George had shown himself to be only a sweet, shy and gentle soul, despite his size and strength. He’d displayed no aggression at all in obedience school or when off leash at the dog park. Whenever he encountered an aggressive dog, even one a fraction of his size, George would always back away, leaving the other dog without a target. He never stood up for himself and never barked when confronted. Except this time.

  George thundered a deep bark back at the Pyrenees. When I heard him, I began running toward him and the man, who was yanking on the leash to maneuver his one angry dog away from George and back beside its calmer partner. I’d taken no more than five steps, when I heard the man yell something at George that sounded like “Go away!” Then he ran at George and aimed a violent kick at his head.

  George saw the blow coming and managed to duck it, the boot missing him by inches. I was still thirty yards away, so I broke into a run, yelling, “What the hell are you doing?” George had turned and bolted, wide-eyed, toward me, but not before the guy tried to take another kick at him.

  “Get your dog on a leash!” the man yelled as I got closer. “This isn’t a leash-free park.” His two dogs were now growling and baring their teeth as I approached. George, meanwhile, ran right by me and stood ten yards behind, terrified.

  “Are you out of your mind?” I said. “Your dogs are being aggressive, and you’re going to kick my dog for barking back?”

  “My dog’s on a leash. He can do whatever he wants,” he yelled. “Your dog’s off leash! I’m going to get you fined!”

  Not that having spent a year in therapy makes me an expert, but I would be wholly willing to testify that this guy was nuts. I turned around to make sure George was okay. He was still standing a ways off, watching the scene. “Do whatever you want,” I called over my shoulder in disgust as I headed to George.

  When I reached him, his head was down and his tail between his legs. He was shaking all over. The guy and his two big dogs started walking toward us and kept yelling, but I ignored him, bending to talk to George, instead. “You’re okay,” I told him, rubbing his head. “Everything’s okay.” George leaned closer, as though he wanted to hide underneath me. I tried to soothe him, but the shaking didn’t stop. I clipped his leash back on.

  “I’m going to call the police!” I heard. I felt the anger bubbling up inside me.

  “Yeah? You tried to hurt my dog. It’s a minor miracle I haven’t beaten the crap out of you.”

  My threat wasn’t serious—though I would’ve loved to see it through—but it had the desired effect. The man finally turned around with his dogs and fled the park. George had lain down behind me and buried his head between his paws, still trembling. I sat down on the ground beside him and bent over to hug him.

  “It’s okay, big guy. No one’s going to hurt you. Never again, George. I won’t let that happen.” I felt a big head nuzzle my chest, trying hard to disappear under me. Everyone else in the park had seen at least a chunk of the encounter, and as I sat with George burying himself into me, a group of people walked over.

  “Is George okay?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah, I think so. The kicks didn’t connect, but they came close. I think he’s just really scared.”

  “That guy’s crazy,” someone else said. “He’s done stuff like that before.” I didn’t find this particularly comforting.

  I gave George some time to collect himself and then coaxed him up and took him for a slow walk around the park. Other owners arrived to check on him and lend some words of comfort and support, and many of their dogs seemed to do the same, which was nice, but George was rattled. He kept looking behind him and was no longer interested in sniffing, or in meeting new dog friends. I walked him back home, and when we got there, he crawled into a corner of the living room and lay down on the floor.

  When it was his dinnertime, I brought his food bowl over. “Here you go, George.” He turned his big droopy eyes to look at me, and when I put the bowl down, he sighed and turned away.

  He didn’t eat that night. No crunching at all, even when I was out of the room. And the next morning, when I grabbed his leash to tell him it was time for his walk, he trailed behind me on our way to the door.

  “What’s up, big guy? Don’t want to go to the park today?” No eye contact at all.

  “We’ve got to get back out there, George. If we don’t, the bullies win. Come on,” I said, giving him a good pat and clicking his leash on.

  I decided to take him around the neighborhood instead of straight to the park, and he seemed quite pleased that we weren’t headed in the usual direction. We didn’t run into any familiar faces—welcome or otherwise—George did his business, and when we got back home, I heard him crunch away at some kibble before I went to work.

  That night I knew we’d have to face the park again. I let him get acclimatized for a long time before freeing him from his leash. When I finally did, he stuck close by me and literally just stood around. He didn’t sniff or play with the other dogs, and when I clipped his leash back on, he actually seemed relieved.

  It took George a couple of days to get back to acting like himself. All the progress we’d made since he’d arrived at my house seemed lost—he barely ate, hid in corners around the house and was noticeably anxious. There was one important distinction, though: he didn’t shrink from me. In fact, quite the opposite. He lay beside me on the couch at night while I worked or watched TV; he climbed into bed with me and slept right beside me. Out in the world, he stayed glued to my side in the kind of perfect “heel” position I’d always wanted him to adopt in obedience class. Maybe in the light of some crazy person who wanted to kick him, I suddenly didn’t look so bad. Or maybe he was just happy I’d stuck up for him. Either way, after a few days of walking on eggshells, he found a way to let me know when he was finally feeling better.

  I was in the living room watching TV and heard a growling from the second floor of the house. George never growled, so I was kind of confused, and then my confusion turne
d to concern. I climbed to the second floor and popped my head into the bathroom at the top of the stairs, which was roughly where I thought I’d heard the sound coming from. The toilet and shower and deep soaker tub were all right where I’d left them, but George was nowhere to be found.

  I headed to the guest bedroom and then I heard it again—a rumbling loud enough to shake the house on its foundation and most definitely emerging from the bathroom. I walked back into the bathroom, and this time I went right in. I looked over the edge of the tub, and there was George, fast asleep, flat on his back, his gangly legs akimbo. His huge head was angled to one side, and his big, open mouth and wet nose were pushed up against the tub wall.

  He took in a big breath, and when he let it back out, he snored right against the side of the tub. The whole thing vibrated, amplifying the noise, and there it was—that deep foghorn blast I’d heard from downstairs.

  I laughed so hard I woke George up—how his own snoring hadn’t, I’ll never know. He leaped from the bath, tail wagging, and looked up at me curiously, as if to say, “What did I miss? What’s so funny?”

  I bent down and gave him a giant hug. “Feeling better … Sneorge?” I said. When I heard the thump, thump, thump of his happy tail against the floor tiles, I knew the answer was a resounding yes.

  TEN

  Living with George brought some balance to my life, balance that I hadn’t had in a long time. I actually had a reason to leave work every night and something positive to focus my energy on when I got home. And George continued to improve. We were much more relaxed around each other, and I could tell he was happy to see me when I walked through the door at the end of the day. I sure was happy to see him, too.