I kept my promise to Don as well. Upon my return to the States, one of the first things I did was mail off one of the bronze shi. Don’s e-mail of thanks, telling of his surprise and joy at receiving such a gift, remains a treasured thing, and the bytes had the weight of pen and ink on parchment. Yet even with all my best of intentions, a little bronze figurine cannot change fate. Bear passed away the following month.
Don, for the first time in so many years, was alone. How quiet his surroundings must have been. No more the gentle wheeze and groans of elderly dogs lulling him to sleep. I wish the little shi could whine just once for him.
What happened to the other bronze Foo dog? I had kept it for myself, a source of comfort and protection. I remember unpacking and unwrapping it, but now it seems missing. Just before I fall asleep, I imagine it somehow patrolling my apartment, looking into the dark recesses, keeping me safe. I often wonder, If I let my hand slip over the side of the bed, my fingers just an inch or so from the floor, would I feel warm metal brush against them?
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Lev Raphael: INTO HIS EYES
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Prolific novelist and essayist Lev Raphael has the keen ability to peer into the heart of any situation. When we asked for his insights on the canine-human bond, we had no idea how deeply he had already explored this topic, through his relationship with a beloved West Highland White Terrier.
His choice of a Westie is intriguing, as the terrier breeds have a reputation for being independent and stubborn, and a challenge to train. The West Highland White Terrier Club of America says about their breed, “If you want a cuddly lapdog, a Westie may not be the right breed for you.” Like so many terriers, Westies are tough, feisty, and, according to the breed standard, “possessed of no small amount of self-esteem.”
But Lev Raphael has met many challenges in his life, beginning in a childhood with parents who were Holocaust survivors. His memoirs and his “second-generation” novels explore the ongoing impact of the Holocaust, a tough subject about which he writes movingly, and often humorously, in a way that illuminates the human condition. And here, as he gazes into the eyes of his beloved Westie, he illuminates for us the connection between man and dog, one that is often so deep no words are necessary in order for full communication to occur.
Author Edward Hoagland wrote, “In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn’t merely train him to be semi-human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming part dog.” By training his dog to maintain eye contact, Lev Raphael entered into a communication beyond words.
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I’M READING IN MY STUDY, where books climb up every wall, and Kobi pads in, glancing at me, so I say, “Go ahead, ” and he jumps onto the comfortable golden velour armchair opposite me. Sometimes it seems less that he’s asking for permission and more that he’s simply interacting with me the way a human would say hi or touch someone’s shoulder in greeting.
Identical to the chair I’m in, it’s his favorite chair—in this room, anyway. He has two other favorites. One is a cocoa-colored Scandinavian leather recliner in the living room. The other’s a small blue tub chair in the bedroom I share with my partner of seventeen years in a heavily treed mid-Michigan suburb filled with 1950s ranch houses.
If someone’s sitting in this particular chair, he’ll wait and stare. He can be deferential at such moments, but he’s very clear about what he wants. He’s a Westie, and as they say, Westies will not be ignored.
He spends so much time on this chair—when he’s not out terrorizing squirrels in the large backyard—that we call it “his chair.”He likes to snooze with his head off to one side, cushioned by the chair arm.
When my partner and I leave him alone at home, we say, “Kobi, it’s time to guard the house, ” and he heads right to that chair. When we need to de-mat him or do any other grooming and health maintenance like brushing his teeth, we say, “Kobi, it’s time for grooming, ” and he heads for the chair.
He could manage to jump onto it when he was tiny, but he was scared to jump off, and he would pace back and forth and whine. Like a father encouraging his child to dive into a pool, I would pat the thick brown rug and say, “Jump!” and praise him when he did. I’m always remembering what he used to do and used to be because, like any parent, when I look at Kobi, the past is a pentimento, creeping out from what’s on the surface. I see him at different ages whenever I look at him, so that each moment is many moments and I enjoy who he was just as much as who he is right now.
Sometimes he sits up in this chair after he has climbed onto it, looking at me, and it’s clear he wants something: to be petted or spoken to. I’ll stop what I’m doing to comply. Then he lets go, lies down, and disappears into sleep. If he’s a bit restless, I give him a hand signal from my chair, my right hand out, palm down, lowering it as I say, “Rest, rest.” It’s what we did when we were crate-training him as a puppy and he needed to get used to being in his crate at night. Only back then we lay down outside his crate to mimic what we wanted him to do. We were doting, dotty parents.
But it paid off because now it always works. As if he’s being hypnotized, his eyes start to flutter shut with each “Rest” and he sinks down into the chair. His chair.
Today, however, he doesn’t need coaxing, he needs something else. Though he seems to be settling in for a snooze, his eyes are still wide open. I meet his gaze, hold it, and we stare into each other’s eyes as we have ever since he was a six-pound puppy. It goes on for half a minute. It goes on forever.
“I love you, ” I say quietly, as I did when he first came into our lives, over and over, and slowly his eyelids droop and he falls asleep. In their dog-training books, the Monks of New Skete strongly believe that accustoming your puppy to eye contact from the very beginning will lay a strong foundation for future training, but even more important, it will build a deeper relationship, a “real exchange between animal and man.” These are moments as rich with connection as when a parent gazes into the eyes of a suckling infant and a whole world of mutuality opens up between them.
Did Kobi seek this extra level of connection right then when he looked at me from his chair, or did he just accept it? I can’t be sure. But as always, I marvel at the way he is entwined around my heart.
I grew up with a pedigreed, medium-sized German Shepherd whom we rescued from a pound at seven months, but he wasn’t really my dog; he belonged to my father, adored my father. As the youngest in the family, I was tolerated and played with. I did my share of walking and feeding Rippy, and I played with him and brushed him sometimes, but I wasn’t deeply involved in his upbringing or care.
Kobi is the first dog I’ve raised from a puppy, and I was completely unprepared for the depth of the relationship that we established with each other from the very first weeks, the sense of intimacy.
It started with his physical closeness. When we first adopted him, he was small enough to be held in my hands. He was also small enough to sit on me, even stretch out on me. He quickly made up his mind that sleeping on my chest when I was sprawled on the living room couch was a good thing. He’d clamber up, pad over, plop down, and tuck his chin in as close to mine as possible. As he’d fall asleep, we’d be breathing each other’s breath. The scent of his coat enveloped me—a cross between popcorn and cardboard—and I felt a level of peace and contentment I’d never experienced before, as relaxed as if I were meditating. I’d wonder if being surrounded and sheltered by me was for Kobi a return to the litter, analogous to what it felt like to lie against his mother. He could even fall asleep on me if we were playing and I stretched out on the floor on my back. He would climb up, plant his chin between my pecs, and then his eyelids would start fluttering closed.
On the couch, he simply did what he wanted, and because I wanted it, too, that was fine. But just as I learned during potty training him the signs that meant he had to be whisked outside, I also soon learned to pay c
lose attention to everything he did and “said.” Our Westie breeder, Janet, would often respond to our questions about dog training by advising us to “ask Kobi, ” and so we learned how to ask him, and he in turn learned how to tell us.
Like all puppies, he was curious and playful, and within the first month, he initiated a game. One evening while I was chasing him around the house, he dashed into my study and slid under a skirted hassock that hid him completely. I stood there laughing and then said, “Where’s Kobi?” He poked his nose out just enough for it to be seen. I laughed even more, and it seemed he was waiting for me to do something. So I reached in and started to wrestle with him, and he play-growled and mouthed my fingers. In a few days the game developed variations. If I didn’t ask “Where’s Kobi?”quickly enough, he would grunt louder and louder to get my attention. And soon I was reaching in from all sides as he twisted and turned to “get” me.
This game was something we co-created and each can initiate. He’s three years old now and weighs twenty-one pounds, but if I say “Where’s Kobi?” or “Do you want to go under?” he’ll slither under the hassock (it’s not as comfortable a fit as it used to be). If I’m at my computer and resisting his blandishments of barking or squeaking a stuffed toy, he’ll dive under the hassock because he knows I’m guaranteed to respond. He also created the bedroom version of “Where’s Kobi?” by crawling under the covers and scooting around there while play-snarling at us as we tickle him.
I didn’t expect that we would be interacting like this, but the communication kept deepening because I kept watching him and studying him, and he learned that he had a responsive audience. The first time he sat down next to his water bowl rather than drinking from it, I knew without looking that he wanted fresh water. Kobi quickly learned the words “fresh water” and started following me to the kitchen sink when I’d ask if that’s what he wanted, and I refilled his dish.
He barked when he wanted to go out into the backyard, but the first time he didn’t rush through the open door and instead reared back with one front leg up, I was sure he wanted me to come with him (the gesture even looked like an excited “After you!”). I was right, because outside, he started to play “keep away, ” where he grabs a toy, brandishes it at us and runs off daring us to get it from him. Now if I hesitate at the door when he wants a companion, he’ll either push at me or refuse to go out unless I lead the way.
Our bed is too high for him to jump onto, so we keep a hassock from one of the bedroom chairs alongside it as a “ladder.” Once I’d forgotten to move it over and found him sitting in the bedroom by the bed. He looked at the hassock, then looked at the bed, then looked at me. I knew what to do.
I’m a writer and work at home, so I look forward to walking him through our subdivision rich with hundred-year-old trees, but sometimes I can get distracted and forget I’m out there for his health and mine, and walk too fast and don’t allow Kobi enough sniff time. After all, smelling is the main way he experiences the world. Kobi doesn’t just stop when he wants to keep sniffing, he puts a paw down on his leash, and if I still don’t get it, he puts two down and glares at me, his head lifted in what looks to me like challenge or annoyance. I listen.
Despite all the dog books I read, Websites I visited, and conversations I had with our breeder and other dog owners, something simple but beautiful was never entirely clear to me. Bringing Kobi into our home was creating a new relationship, one that evolved between us. He has taught me what he wanted, and I have taught him that when he expressed his needs, he would be understood. This has built confidence and trust between us and made Kobi a well-adjusted, balanced dog. And one who seeks out eyes. Another Westie parent down the street often remarks on the way Kobi is studying us, watching us.
And merging with us. As when he climbs onto our bed at night, settles down next to me, then lifts his head up and looks right into my eyes for one last shot of connection before he tucks his head in and disappears into his dream world while I go off to mine.
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Andy Zeffer: DISCOVERING THE DOG LOVER WITHIN
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Are we born loving dogs, or is that something we learn? Can the right dog convert even the most ardent cat lover? When journalist Andy Zeffer moved in with a roommate in Fort Lauderdale to save on rent, he discovered that the apartment came with a catch: there was a third roommate, an Eskimo-Chow mix named Colby. Their relationship, which began with shared interests (walking and treats), has blossomed, as Zeffer has discovered the dog lover inside himself.
Loving dogs can have significant health benefits, too. Studies at the University of Missouri–Columbia have shown that just a few minutes of petting your dog can increase the levels of several types of feel-good chemicals in the brain, including serotonin, prolactin, and oxytocin. This supports research in South Africa that demonstrated that fifteen minutes of quietly petting a dog can cause beneficial hormonal changes in both dog and human.
Anatole France, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1921, wrote, “Until you have loved an animal, a part of your soul remains unawakened.”Andy Zeffer’s passage from being uninvolved with dogs to coming to love one, is a story of that awakening.
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I’VE ALWAYS BEEN a cat lover. Growing up I had a cat that I loved like crazy. As a small child my family would pass by a store called Pepee’s, which I couldn’t quite pronounce right. Hence we named him Pebee. That cat was so cool. I had him from age three to eighteen, and when he passed, my whole family was heartbroken.
You see, my sister and I were not allowed to have a dog: too much responsibility. My parents didn’t want to nag my sister and me to take a dog for a walk on freezing winter mornings. Plus, if we wanted to go away for a weekend, a cat was no problem. Just be sure to leave enough food and water, and any feline is more than happy to be the ruler of the castle. As a family, we entirely appreciated the independent streak in cats.
I often found myself defending the attributes of cats to sworn dog lovers, arguing their superiority.
“Cats are standoffish, ” a dog lover would spit.
“That’s not true. They’re just independent. In that respect they’re more like people. They don’t appreciate being pushed around.”
“Well, cats are dumb. They can’t roll around and fetch a paper.”
“They have too much pride and dignity. If you think cats are dumb, you haven’t seen my cat the minute the can opener hits the tuna. You haven’t witnessed him leap at a doomed rodent.”
“Cats aren’t affectionate!”
“That’s crazy. You should hear my cat purr like a motor when I pick him up. Or see him curl up on my chest when I’m sleeping.”
“They’re gross. They lick their own butt hole.”
“That’s because they are capable of cleaning themselves, unlike dogs that start to smell like toilets if you don’t throw them in a tub of water after a few weeks.”
So the back-and-forth arguments with dog lovers ensued, with surprising frequency and passion.
As a young adult, I have done my fair share of moving around, nixing owning a pet whether it be a cat, fish, or turtle. My animal-free time span came to end when I moved back to Fort Lauderdale after spending a season in Provincetown. I landed
in a studio that looked cute and charming during the day but at night turned into one giant bug trap.
When a colleague of mine was looking for a roommate, it seemed serendipitous. The office was a short drive from his apartment. Our interests and friends were different so we were never in peril of getting on each other’s nerves.
His only concern was how I would get along with his dog. Understand, I have never been a dog hater, though sometimes the tiny yappy ones grate. There is a soft spot in my heart for animals. This might be shameful, but when I hear about bombs going off left and right on the news, I’m calm. But if a report of animal abuse or even a beached whale flashes on the screen, it
’s too much for me to bear.
I consider myself pretty adaptable; however, I was a bit concerned about how well I would tolerate Colby.
Colby is a beautiful dog. Part American Eskimo, part Chow, he has the most gorgeous, fluffy cream coat with orange undertones. His deep-brown doe-shaped eyes gleam when he looks up at you and boast rows of tiny white lashes. His black nose is truly as cute as a button, and his snout is noble and handsome. When he is happy, his mouth lights up in a smile from ear to floppy ear.
Except that wasn’t the expression greeting me on the day I moved in. My roommate is quite the man about town—and not around when it came time to trudge my stuff inside. What I got from Colby was a snarl and a not-so-attractive curl of the lip, which translated to “I have sharp teeth. Watch out.”
Adorable as he was, at forty pounds Colby was quite capable of hurting me if he wanted. My first move was straight to the kitchen for a dog biscuit. Thoughts raced through my head of kids I had known in school who bore scars from dog bites, pit bull attacks on the evening news, even that poor lesbian in San Francisco mauled to death by her evil neighbors’ Presa Canarios. (Admittedly, I’ve always leaned toward the dramatic).
Paws and Reflect_Exploring the Bond Between Gay Men and Their Dogs Page 6