As I finish up the preparations for my second joyous Christmas in the Lone Star State, this year our family will be larger by one - and that one is one of the great gifts we've been blessed with this year. Allie.
Before you drop to the floor from shock or start pricing cigars, No! My beloved and I didn't have a baby. But we have a new addition to the household nonetheless. Allie is a dog. An 8 year-old black Lab to be more precise, who came to stay with us mid-summer. One of Cinnamon's relatives had to move and his new accommodations didn't allow for pets, so long story short, a couple of days later the dog ended up in our living room as her 'daddy' drove off. Allie was likely least distraught one in the room about it.
The Kiddo doesn't much like dogs and was scared when Allie first came in and ran up to her. My sweetheart is very allergic to fur and thus wasn't too enthralled. That point and my own allergies only heightened my displeasure about our new guest. Dogs have never ranked high on my list of favorite creatures. It was no coincidence, it seemed to me, that one of Stephen King's most horrible monsters was Cujo, not Mittens; that the most famous and scary Sherlock Holmes novel was “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, not the kitty. I grudgingly accepted little dogs; I figured an ankle-biter could only inflict so much damage, and in turn they by and large never minded me. Big dogs though, are another story. I can never remember liking them or not being afraid of them and doubtless they typically sense my apprehension and respond in kind. By luck or God's grace, I've only been bitten by a dog once, and that was only a somewhat minor wound to my thigh, but the painful memory stays with me some thirty years ago later. As it happens, that evil hound was a big, black dog that looked rather like Allie. As if the pain of the bite itself wasn't enough, I had to then suffer a tetanus shot and wait until police found the mutt and ensured it wasn't rabid. For years, I could barely even listen to Led Zeppelin's “Black Dog” without grimacing.
After the first night in the house, I was relatively relieved Allie hadn't run around or destroyed the place. But our floor was littered with clumps of black fur, my chest felt a bit tight and Cinnamon had severe shortness of breath. Clearly, the dog had to be an outdoor dog. A backyard dog was better than a house dog, at least. So for several days, she was confined to the backyard. She got her food and I'd change out the water in her dish, but she was otherwise forgotten. Mostly Allie just lay down and slept. She hardly touched her food. When she woke up she looked sad, except for times when any of her new adopted family went out there. Dog or not, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, plucked from her regular master and home and dumped into a new yard in a new city. I spent a little more time in the backyard again; my tomatoes were out there still after all. She seemed to like having someone to keep company with her. Her leash had been dropped off, and after a week or so I decided to try it. She sat quietly as I attached it to her collar and then jogged around the garden with me. The next day we went out of the backyard, and walked along the sidewalk for a block or two. She seemed much perkier. She ate more. So began a new routine.
In time the summer heat was broken with some rain, and it seemed cruel to leave her out getting soaked; but dangerous to have her and her shedding fur in the house for too long. A corner of the garage was cleared, several blankets and towels placed on the floor, a makeshift water dish taken in and our dog had a warm, dry spot to avoid the weather.
Soon, Allie and I were going for walks every afternoon. We'd walk down the road to a city park, around it and back. Actually, usually we'd run-- for a middle-aged dog, she has the energy of a puppy whose just sucked back a Red Bull. Neighborhood kids seem to love her almost as much as the swings and jungle jims and call out to her: “puppy!” , “el cachorro”, “can I pet her?”. Allie is just as fond of them, and of the various exciting smells of the park. Some days , Cinnamon joins us too and we get our fresh air as a family. Allie is usually dignified on those days, walking elegantly.
Nights got cooler as fall set in, so now Allie gets to come in every night to her little corner, where she seems perfectly content.
If the walk to the park has become a highlight of her day, so too has it become one for me. The weather's seldom nasty enough or me sick enough to skip taking her out. I don't mind the exercise, to be sure, but mostly I hate to disappoint the pup. The minute Cinnamon or I step outside the back door, Allie's like a grade school child in an amusement park. Sheer joy as she runs around, leaps, runs circles around us and leads me to the gate (just in case I forgot which way we walk!). It doesn't matter what mood I might be in, the dog is always happy to see me. It's hard not to come to love that.
I was worried about having a dog in our house. Now, five months later , the biggest canine concern was our Christmas tree. It's up on a coffee table, against a wall, this year, just in case Allie did a brief run through of the living room to say “Hi!!” on the way to her spot in the garage. We didn't want her wagging tail to knock it over! Because that's the type of dog she is.
Sometimes, the best gifts are the unexpected ones; the ones you didn't ask for or know you wanted. For us this year, it's been a big, waggy-tailed dog. May you be fortunate to have your own unanticipated present this year.
Before you drop to the floor from shock or start pricing cigars, No! My beloved and I didn't have a baby. But we have a new addition to the household nonetheless. Allie is a dog. An 8 year-old black Lab to be more precise, who came to stay with us mid-summer. One of Cinnamon's relatives had to move and his new accommodations didn't allow for pets, so long story short, a couple of days later the dog ended up in our living room as her 'daddy' drove off. Allie was likely least distraught one in the room about it.
The Kiddo doesn't much like dogs and was scared when Allie first came in and ran up to her. My sweetheart is very allergic to fur and thus wasn't too enthralled. That point and my own allergies only heightened my displeasure about our new guest. Dogs have never ranked high on my list of favorite creatures. It was no coincidence, it seemed to me, that one of Stephen King's most horrible monsters was Cujo, not Mittens; that the most famous and scary Sherlock Holmes novel was “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, not the kitty. I grudgingly accepted little dogs; I figured an ankle-biter could only inflict so much damage, and in turn they by and large never minded me. Big dogs though, are another story. I can never remember liking them or not being afraid of them and doubtless they typically sense my apprehension and respond in kind. By luck or God's grace, I've only been bitten by a dog once, and that was only a somewhat minor wound to my thigh, but the painful memory stays with me some thirty years ago later. As it happens, that evil hound was a big, black dog that looked rather like Allie. As if the pain of the bite itself wasn't enough, I had to then suffer a tetanus shot and wait until police found the mutt and ensured it wasn't rabid. For years, I could barely even listen to Led Zeppelin's “Black Dog” without grimacing.
After the first night in the house, I was relatively relieved Allie hadn't run around or destroyed the place. But our floor was littered with clumps of black fur, my chest felt a bit tight and Cinnamon had severe shortness of breath. Clearly, the dog had to be an outdoor dog. A backyard dog was better than a house dog, at least. So for several days, she was confined to the backyard. She got her food and I'd change out the water in her dish, but she was otherwise forgotten. Mostly Allie just lay down and slept. She hardly touched her food. When she woke up she looked sad, except for times when any of her new adopted family went out there. Dog or not, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, plucked from her regular master and home and dumped into a new yard in a new city. I spent a little more time in the backyard again; my tomatoes were out there still after all. She seemed to like having someone to keep company with her. Her leash had been dropped off, and after a week or so I decided to try it. She sat quietly as I attached it to her collar and then jogged around the garden with me. The next day we went out of the backyard, and walked along the sidewalk for a block or two. She seemed much perkier. She ate more. So began a new routine.
In time the summer heat was broken with some rain, and it seemed cruel to leave her out getting soaked; but dangerous to have her and her shedding fur in the house for too long. A corner of the garage was cleared, several blankets and towels placed on the floor, a makeshift water dish taken in and our dog had a warm, dry spot to avoid the weather.
Soon, Allie and I were going for walks every afternoon. We'd walk down the road to a city park, around it and back. Actually, usually we'd run-- for a middle-aged dog, she has the energy of a puppy whose just sucked back a Red Bull. Neighborhood kids seem to love her almost as much as the swings and jungle jims and call out to her: “puppy!” , “el cachorro”, “can I pet her?”. Allie is just as fond of them, and of the various exciting smells of the park. Some days , Cinnamon joins us too and we get our fresh air as a family. Allie is usually dignified on those days, walking elegantly.
Nights got cooler as fall set in, so now Allie gets to come in every night to her little corner, where she seems perfectly content.
If the walk to the park has become a highlight of her day, so too has it become one for me. The weather's seldom nasty enough or me sick enough to skip taking her out. I don't mind the exercise, to be sure, but mostly I hate to disappoint the pup. The minute Cinnamon or I step outside the back door, Allie's like a grade school child in an amusement park. Sheer joy as she runs around, leaps, runs circles around us and leads me to the gate (just in case I forgot which way we walk!). It doesn't matter what mood I might be in, the dog is always happy to see me. It's hard not to come to love that.
I was worried about having a dog in our house. Now, five months later , the biggest canine concern was our Christmas tree. It's up on a coffee table, against a wall, this year, just in case Allie did a brief run through of the living room to say “Hi!!” on the way to her spot in the garage. We didn't want her wagging tail to knock it over! Because that's the type of dog she is.
Sometimes, the best gifts are the unexpected ones; the ones you didn't ask for or know you wanted. For us this year, it's been a big, waggy-tailed dog. May you be fortunate to have your own unanticipated present this year.