I admit I’ve spoiled Two since that first day when she comforted Abigail. If I leave the table and a half-eaten meal disappears, I know who the culprit is. But I don’t have the heart to punish her for being an opportunist. I’m indebted to her, and losing out on several bites of cold food is a small price to pay.
Two is still part of our family, and although we all dote on her, there is an unmistakable connection between her and Abigail. Now nearly twelve years old, Two has more than her share of aches and pains. During winter, she often rests in front of the heat register. When Abigail wakes in the morning, she covers her dog with her old baby blanket and fusses over her. And when Abigail wanders away, Two trails after her, the tattered blanket dragging along on the floor. Two still considers Abigail her special charge, and I’m happy to have her help. I hope they have many more days together, looking after each other with such loving care.
Christine Henderson
Two Old Girls
Wobbles was a fragile, shaken fistful of fur that slipped and slid across the green marble floors of my grandmother’s house, her eyes tightly shut to keep out the terrifying sight of our concerned family crowding around her. My grandmother was unimpressed and remained unaffected at the sight of this forlorn, abandoned pup bought from a village lad for the ransom of one rupee (one-fortieth of a dollar). We knew her thoughts on the matter: a dog’s place is downstairs, preferably outside the house. Human space could not, by her stringent standards, be shared by an animal, however dear!
“But she’s not a dog yet; she’s just a puppy,” my brother and I cried.
Gran was unmoved by our wails and pleas, as were my two bachelor uncles, who were sticklers for cleanliness and order. A dog of any size, pedigree or shape was still a dog. And ourWobbleswas definitely of an undistinguished family tree.
Still Wobbles came to stay—outside only!—growing from a scruffy puppy with unsteady footwork into a medium-sized white mongrel. We grew, too. Time lowers guards, increases acceptance levels and brings patience. A dog in our lives eventually rearranged our inner mental complexities into simpler expressions of affection and emotion.
This was especially evident in Gran. Every afternoon at 1:30, before she ate her own lunch, she’d call for the cook and ask in a vitriolic and imperious tone: “Has any one thought of her lunch or are we only interested in our own food?” “Her” referred to Wobbles, the name being quite unpronounceable in the Indian tongue. Gran’s English was rudimentary, and she hadn’t gotten as far as W. My brother and I would smile secretly at each other over our own half-eaten lunches.
When the cook—a moody but brilliant concoctionist— disappeared for a week, we watched in amazement as Gran covered her nose with one hand and carefully took out Wobbles’s lunch every day. This was remarkable since Wobbles’s lunch consisted of a meat mush or stew. Normally, our rigidly conditioned vegetarian Gran wouldn’t consider going close enough to inhale its offensive odor, but she not only smelled the lunch, she also warmed it, then laboriously panted down the twenty-two steps and gave the “lunchtime” signal: banging Wobbles’s dish twice on the shed’s cement floor, at which sound Wobbles, wriggling joyously, would appear fromnowhere.
“You move away from me, you stupid dog. Don’t touch me or I’ll have to bathe in this afternoon heat. Do you want to kill me with two baths in one day?” Gran asked shrilly, waving her fragile arms as Wobbles whined and wagged her ridiculously curly tail.
But as I looked down fromthe balcony, I thought I saw— or was it the sun in my eyes?—Gran pettingWobbles with her slippered foot before slowly going up the stairs to the safety of her cool, incense-scented living room.
Several summers later the monsoons came down with a fury. For weeks streets were waterlogged, traffic held up, and pedestrians found themselves in a quandary. One day our family jalopy, trying to make its way through the crowded city in one such rainstorm, became stranded. Two glum-looking uncles, three squirming, sweaty nephews and nieces and our worn-out mother in an after-work state of exhaustion, satwaiting for the already harassed, out-of-control traffic cop to regain his breath and create some semblance of order. Gran was the only family member at home. This meant that, except for the half-blind watchman who was as old as the foundation stone, there was no one to look out for Gran. The grown-ups worried about her as the lightning and thunder crashed and the children giggled and squirmed.
At home, the downpour steadily increased, its volume crashing down on the parapets and balconies, as the old watchman struggled to close the windows against the elements. Once he had accomplished this, the old man sat patiently within range of Gran’s call, nodding off as my grandmother counted off prayers on her prayer beads.
The old watchman was Gran’s unacknowledged favorite. Tall, snowy-haired, soft-spoken, he had stories by the trainload to tell in his nasal twang—and oh, he loved Wobbles to a fault! The first hot leavened bread rising on his mud-baked oven was always Wobbles’s breakfast. This religious old man seemed to see some divinity in this pet of ours. Though Wobbles snarled at the arrogant, swearing cook and snapped at me for tweaking her tail, her behavior was always angelic with the watchman.
The storm continued to rage. The water kept rising, flooding the driveway and then entering the ground floor landing. Gran and the watchman heard a sound: pattering paws and a very wet whine. Suddenly a dripping nose with drooping wet whiskers peered into the room. My grandmother let out a small scream of surprise. The entire three years Wobbles had livedwith us, thiswas only the second time she had trespassed and entered Gran’s spotless living room. The old watchman got busy with his head cloth wiping Wobbles, whilemy horrified Granwatched the puddle fromWobbles’s dripping coat grow ever larger on her precious marble floor. What could she do? None of her kitchen rags could be used for the purpose of swabbing dog water off the floor!
All of a sudden, there was a large crack outside the window as lightning brought down a sizable portion of the blackberry tree in our yard. Ears flattened, Wobbles howled piteously and crawled from under our watchman’s caressing hands to lie shivering near Gran’s feet. The terrified dog refused to budge. Gran, solidly ignoring the errant gate-crasher, continued counting her beads. This was the scene that greeted us when our tired, fidgety lot finally returned home.
After that day, although no one ever spoke of it, whenever there were thunderstorms, the dog came to lie at Gran’s feet. Wobbles had won Gran’s crabby old heart!
Seven years later, Wobbles passed away quietly—lying on the driveway, just like that—on a scorching May afternoon. The watchman, blinder and older, came to tell my grandmother that the gardener and cook were taking Wobbles away. I was sitting beside Gran doing homework. At the news, Gran lay motionless with eyes closed.
All she said was, “Give her some water to drink.” (Hindu last rites include wetting the lips of the dying with holy water.)
The old watchman nodded and shuffled off. The room was silent. From her tightly shut eyes, protected by her horn-rimmed spectacles, a solitary tear coursed down Gran’s wrinkled cheek—and then another and another.
I knew it was up to me. I stood up and prepared to go out and say good-bye to Wobbles. From me—and from Gran.
Atreyee Day
A Dog’s Love
After two months of my puppy playing tug-of-war with me, one day he just stopped. No matter how much I dangled the rope in front of Rusty, he would not pull on it. The most he would do was take it and chew on it, but the second my hand touched the rope, he would drop it.
Several days later he began to lay his head on my stom-achwhen I sat on the couch. Thiswas cute until he began to growl at my husband or daughter when they approached me. It was irritating, but didn’t seem too serious until he actually nippedmy daughter for jumping onme. After that, my husband and I decided that we needed to find Rusty a newhome, probably onewithout any children. We thought it was very odd because he had been so very friendly and good with our daughter up until that incident.
Wee
ks later when we had finally settled on a new home for our puppy, I discovered I was pregnant. My husband and I felt that Rusty had somehow sensed that I was pregnant before we did and, with his odd behavior, was only trying to protect the baby growing inside me. I was the happiest I had been in weeks. We called the people we had found to give Rusty a new home and told them we had changed our minds.
Later that day I called our veterinarian’s office and told them what had been happening. Apparently, this is normal for dogs who have developed a strong attachment to females. They suggested that my husband and daughter approach me at a slower pace and try to be gentler when they touched me.
We tried this, and after a week or so, Rusty began to ease up and let them sit by me. He continued to rest his head on my stomach and acted protectively when he felt I was threatened. As time went by he began to bark at me if I lifted anything heavier than clothes or if I started to clean the house. By the time I was three months pregnant, he even pulled on my pant leg if I was on my feet for too long. As soon as I sat down, Rusty would let go and lie at my feet or next to me with his head on my stomach. He often fell asleep this way and would wake up if I moved. Until that time I had no idea that dogs could be so protective or so sensitive to their humans’ needs.
When I reached the four-month point in my pregnancy, Rusty’s behavior toward me changed abruptly. One night, I was sitting on the couch watching TV when he got up on the couch and laid his head on my stomach. Nothing unusual about that—until he jumped back up and started barking, looking directly at my stomach. My husband and I were baffled.
After that Rusty would not go anywhere near my stomach. He let me pet him for a few minutes but no more. He no longer seemed comfortable around me for any length of time. I grew increasingly nervous as the days passed. I just knew that Rusty was trying to tell me something. My husband insisted I was being silly because I was not having any problems with my pregnancy and there were no signs to indicate that anything was wrong.
A week later Iwent to an appointmentwithmy doctor— and discovered that the baby’s heart had stopped beating.
It was what Rusty had been trying to tell me.
I was crushed, left to wait out the miscarriage I would soon have. After returning home from the doctor’s, I could tell that Rusty sensed how upset I was, but he still kept his distance. It was the same wary distance he had kept for the last week.
My husband was still at work and my daughter at school. Miserable, I sat down on the couch and began to cry. Rusty slowly inched closer and closer to me. Finally, he jumped on the couch. I could tell that he was tense. He sat stiffly, making sure to stay away from my stomach. As I continued to weep, he sat beside me, watching me, his eyes full of concern. Then slowly, he leaned over and I felt his tongue on my face, licking away the tears that rolled down my cheek. This released a fresh flood of tears. I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly. He stayed close, licking me and letting me cry my heart out into his warm, furry neck. His body slowly relaxed and soon I felt better, soothed by his loving presence.
It took me two weeks to miscarry. The whole time Rusty would not leave my side. He followed me wherever I went. If I sat on the couch, he was right there next to me, doing all he could to comfort me. Whatever deep natural instinct had kept him away from me had been overridden by his care and concern for me. I was so grateful. Rusty’s love was the bright spot in that dark time in my life.
Kelly Munjoy
Lady Abigail
“Why don’t you get a better job?”
“Why don’t you get up and clean the house?”
My boyfriend hurled these insults at me during yet another of our frequent fights. I had heard it all before:
“You know, if you’d just lose ten pounds, you’d be really pretty.”
“I don’t care what you do tonight; I’m going out with the guys. . . . No, I don’t know when I’ll be back, why don’t you go out with your friends? Oh, yeah, I forgot: you don’t have any. Look, do whatever you want, just quit hassling me, would ya? Oh, and don’t forget you’re going to have to cover rent this month, I’m gonna be a bit short.”
During these sessions, my mind always raged from beneath my apparently cool exterior. You know he’s wrong, why do you put up with it? Out with his friends? Yeah, right— wonder how many of those are women. You’re the only one who’s paid rent in almost six months; why don’t you just kick him out?
They were all compelling points. The only real argument my heart had was: What if he’s right? What if I am too fat or too short or too quiet for anyone else to love me? It was this single fear that kept me clinging by my fingernails to a miserable, failing relationship.
At twenty-two years old, I found myself on a battleground, waging war with my constantly drooping self-esteem. To escape, I did animal-rescue work—going to the shelter, as well as fostering numerous cats and small dogs and finding good loving homes for them all, oftentimes maintaining contact through pictures and e-mail. I sometimes thought that my frequent trips to the shelter were really a form of therapy rather than a true offer of volunteerism. Sure, I always had Milk Bones and tennis balls to hand out, but I got just as much—if not more—from the animals’ attention as they got from mine.
After our fight that day I headed to the shelter. Walking up and down the rows, I stroked soft noses, saying hi to the more excitable and offering treats to any and all who came forward. It was not uncommon to see four or five dogs in each pen—the sheer number of animals that came through the system every day never failed to blow my mind. While passing out goodies, I came to a pen where there were four large dogs, three of whom were jumping and yipping at the door, wiggling in their excitement, while the fourth, a large black female, remained huddled in the far corner, folded in on herself as if she was trying her hardest to disappear altogether. She looked exactly like I felt.
“Hello, sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you,” I murmured, hoping to stir some reaction from her. I received a slow thump of the tail for my effort, but it was apparently not enough to warrant an actual glance. Persisting, I knelt down, speaking softly and offering encouragement.
“Come here, sweetie, come get a treat.” I dangled the Milk Bone tantalizingly in front of me, but still just outside the cage door. One chocolate-brown eye peeked at me from the large mass of black fur, and she slowly uncurled, revealing the boxy frame of a startlingly large Labrador.
“That’s it. Good puppy, come here and say hi.” One of her pen mates took that opportunity to snap at the timid female, sending her scuttling back to her corner in fear. Her current living situation seemed to mirror my own.
Frustrated, I yelled for one of the other volunteers.
“That’s Abby,” the volunteer offered when I inquired about the Lab. “Her owners moved and dumped her off about a week ago. She’s an adult spayed female, probably between three and seven if you want my guess, not terribly friendly, but doesn’t cause any trouble. She doesn’t seem to want to eat much, just sort of hangs out in that corner all day. Not a bad dog really, just not too much personality if you know what I mean.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I snapped at him. “Maybe she’s just frightened. Look at the poor thing!” I clamped my mouth shut, my eyes growing large. Oh, for goodness sake! It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why I had tried to bite his head off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, just been a bad day so far,” I added hastily. “Could I go in and see her?” As I watched the poor dog, my heartstrings were stretching, becoming more and more taut as my conscience eagerly plucked away at them. Though the thick black tail thumped twice at the continued attention, Abby still refused to lift her head or venture toward the door.
My mind was in a whirl: If you bring this dog home, it’s going to beWorldWar III! Just one more thing to fight about. Little dogs are one thing, but a dog this size is a lot of work. Besides, someone will adopt her, and if not, maybe she’s better off anyway.
Who kn
ows where you’re going to be in a month, six months? You can barely make your rent as it is, and the landlord will definitely kick you out if you come home with a big dog like that. It wouldn’t be fair to her. Just forget about it.
The volunteer nodded. “You’re welcome to go in, but I doubt you’ll get much response. Don’t get too close too fast, she might be snappy. Let me get the other three outside for you.”
Stepping into the mass of furry bodies, the volunteer pulled Jerky Treats (otherwise known as “bits of heaven” in dog terms) from his ripped jean pocket and tossed them into the far side of the divided kennel. The Mexican jumping beans followed with lightning speed and within seconds they were devouring their treats in the exterior section of the run. In their wake, he slowly dropped the heavy plastic divider, then turned and stepped out, leaving the pen door open for me.
Stepping into the tiny square of space, I squatted across from Abby, offering her my hand as I did so. It was then that she lifted her regal head and looked me full in the face, spearing me with the most heartrending pair of doesn’t-anyone-in-the-world-care-anymore? chocolate-brown eyes that I had ever seen. I felt my gut drop to my knees. “Oh, sweetheart . . . you lost your whole family, didn’t you? Your whole life. I’m so sorry,” I whispered, tilting my head down toward her ear. Uncurling slowly, Abby took a hesitant step forward, then another, and then suddenly she was pushing her large head into the warmth of my jacket, tucking herself up under my arm with her tail thumping wildly. My hand passed over the dusty black coat, picking up flea dirt, malnutrition and heartbreak all in one swipe.