Lat week, as I sat on my porch in a huff, my old dog performed a feat of emotional alchemy. I don’t remember what I was stewing over. Probably my kids were fighting each other or fighting me or someone was melting down. Probably it was the eighth time that day and I was past my limit. I’d been sitting there a minute or two, brooding, before I turned my head and noticed that my dog had wedged himself between my body and the porch wall. His head rested on one of his front paws. He fit like a sardine. Who knows how long he’d been there or how he’d managed to squeeze himself in so tightly without me even noticing. I’d been totally engrossed in my conflict, but noticing him—his brown eyes, his greying muzzle—pulled me out of myself. I transformed from a human stuck in her head to a human on her porch with her dog.
Over the past year and half, our old dog has often rescued us from hard moments. I confess that pre-pandemic both our dogs always felt a little extraneous to me, two extra beings to feed and look out for. But this era of anxiety and social distancing and home-all-the-time-with-each-other has taught me to appreciate the way dogs transform difficult feelings into calm connection. I think that old dogs may be especially gifted in this. Or, at least, my particular old dog is.
Sometimes my children worry over who our old dog loves the most. They despair if they call him and he doesn’t come to them immediately. They fear that they’ve lost some measure of his loyalty. The cool thing about dogs, I tell them, is they aren’t very complicated about who they like. They’re not petty, and that’s kind of the whole point. If you want his devotion, I say, just give him treats and pet him.
What I don’t tell them is this: our old dog’s primary devotion is to me. If I sleep downstairs he sleeps in his downstairs bed. If I sleep upstairs, he sleeps in his upstairs bed. Right now, as I write this he is sharing the sofa with me, breathing sleepy breaths. If I lay a hand on him he perks up and taps his tail. He is so deeply quiet, he enhances the silence. When my kids request his company in their room, I need to secure the door behind me or he will leave them and follow me. I’m careful not to call their attention to this. One time I whispered to my wife, “You must never let them know he loves me most.”
I tell myself that his devotion to me is because he knows I’m the heart of our family, that I track everyone and feed everyone, and so he has decided that he will be the one who looks after me. He is so steadfast and quiet in his service, it took me a while to notice and appreciate it. Now that I do, I try to make room for it, to allow space in my body to receive his quiet attention.
In truth, my dog’s loyalty to me is likely because I am the human who puts kibble in the bowl. Honestly, I can’t decide. I believe what I told my kids that dogs aren’t complicated, but I also believe they are perceptive. Anyways, it doesn’t really matter. Devotion is devotion and I’ll take it.