An Ode To Dogs (Patricia Potter)

Several recent events/happenstances have compelled me to sing the praises once more of rescue dogs, or any dogs for that matter. They are simple everyday things, but coming so closely together made me realize again what a complete joy and comfort dogs are.

Just a few days ago, I was leaving the nursing home where Ting Ting – my elderly, almost-blind Shih Tzu –and I go every night to see my mother. Another visitor stopped to pet my preening dog. Ting Ting loves to go to the nursing home because everyone stops and admires her, even when her coat is matted and she can’t exactly see where they are. Her tail flips up, and she makes those strange Shih Tzu noises which are part purr, part snorts, and all happiness.

The stranger asked me about her, and I said she was a rescue dog, that I acquired her at approximately six years old after she obviously had gone through a traumatic experience. She'd had a broken jaw, a skin disease, a kidney stone the size of an egg and other assorted ailments. He said I must be a nice person to adopt a rescue dog. He left before I could reply, but if I had, I would have told him no such thing. Adopting a rescue dog is the most selfish thing a person can do. Most of the time they are housetrained, have gotten over the puppy stage and are so incredibly grateful that they will do anything for you.

I’ve had rescue dogs – often two or three at a time – for more than thirty years and each has been the best dog I’ve ever had. Now I have three:Ting Ting and the Wild Indians, two mostly Australian Shepherd sisters I could not bear to separate (I intended to get only one). Sometimes I take them for granted. And then something very simple makes me realize once more how lucky I am.

For instance, Ting Ting expects her daily walk every morning. (The other two are unwalkable and thus must content themselves with racing around my yard and knocking down furniture in the house until I have time to better train them). But little Ting Ting is quite demanding about her morning constitutional. She would prefer leaving at 6:30 a.m. but she doesn’t start scolding me about my slothful ways until seven. Then she won’t stop barking until I show signs of grabbing her leash. We go in the summer in 100 plus temperatures, we go in the snow (rare in Memphis but it does happen), and we go in the rain. It cannot rain too hard for our walk. For me, maybe, but not for Ting Ting. This is HER time, a reprieve from the Wild Indians, and she treasures every lovely, sniffing moment.

Usually we encounter few people at seven a.m. but in the fall things seem to change. In the cool, crisp air, more people are walking their dogs before heading out, or they take a moment to say hello before getting into their cars. It seems a friendlier time, as if everyone is waking from a long hot summer and taking long breaths of that autumn-perfumed air. You know, that smoky, tangy scent that is so unique to the season.

I meet for the first time neighbors who have lived six houses away for three years,and it reminds me of how much I miss the neighborhoods of my childhood, when they were more than a small piece of a city map filled with strangers. You knew everyone on the block and certainly all the kids, regardless of age. The kids played games in the street. Softball games-- unorganized catch-as-catch-can and open to all regardless of age or genre -- were held nightly in the middle of the street. Imagination and spontaneous gatherings ruled, instead of scheduled classes and disciplined sports.

I miss that. And the older I get, the more I miss it. I feel deprived that I do not know more neighbors, that I am missing something really important in my life.
Ting Ting brings me back in touch with them, and I relish those pieces of conversation that I hope will add to more. Plans begin to form in my mind for an informal Christmas open house.

I must admit I probably would not indulge in such simple pleasures as daily walks had I not my demanding friend, and I appreciate her even more.

And then I return home and am attacked by a flu bug, brought on partly, I think, by one of my twenty-hours-a-day deadline marathons. I’m not sick often. But when I am, I can think of no better way to survive than to bury myself in a bed surrounded by three dogs and shut out the rest of the world. They want nothing more than to be there with me. They are ecstatic when you lean over and pet them, or just content to be there when you don’t. They know in their mysterious canine way that you are not feeling your ordinary self and they make allowances.

Even my walk-oriented little Ting Ting. No barks to go outside. Instead, she satisfies herself with a quick trip to the backyard, then asks politely to get up on the bed where she huddles as close as possible to ward off evil spirits. The Wild Indians are momentarily tamed. They lay with the heads on each other, looking angelic, again content to be there only to give comfort.

I look at the piles of black and white dogs and think of the man who thought I was the generous person. If only he knew.