For the Love of a Dog

Because of a ruptured ligament, one of my dearest friends is having surgery today. Recovery will be relatively slow and difficult because of her old age, arthritis, and apparent past ligament tears and the general limitations required for recovery. Though I ultimately agreed with the veterinarians that this surgery was Chance’s best option, I am still afraid of what this long recovery will be like, of how depressed she might become and what mobility and strength she might lose because of the required lack of exercise—of how that might alter what time she has left. And though she could very well have three more happy, relatively healthy years to live, I fear the possibility that she does have only a little time left, and I’ve committed her to spending a large portion of it in restrictive recovery.

She is an irreplaceable friend who has sat beside me (literally) during my darkest moments, who has provided daily laughter and joy, whose life is in its final chapter, and whose decline and aging are a source of ache these days. I realized last night, as I watched her sleep, as I cursed how quickly morning would come and bring pain and restrictions that she won’t understand, that there was nothing else that I could possibly write about this morning.

I have watched this old dog do extraordinary things for others over the years. I have watched her serve as comfort and friend to souls who aren’t sure they can trust others. In a nursing home, Chance elicited smiles and laughter from my fading grandmother and from other residents we encountered whose faces looked solemn until this odd-looking but adorable dog came prancing through, sniffing their feet and licking their hands. When we lived in Champaign, I watched her act the role of something between mother and friend to two young beings, one a puppy down the street and the other a little boy who lived across the alley from us, in a house where baseless screaming and cursing (at the boy) were common sounds and sights but where affection seemed rare. When his mother was not around or paying attention, and he saw us outside, he liked to sneak over to visit Chance. Despite being an energetic and rambunctious kid, he was gentle with her, and she was gentle in return. She was happy (and quick) to roughhouse with both children and other dogs, but she seemed to know that play wasn’t what this particular boy wanted or needed. He needed quiet patience and gentle affection, and she provided it.

She has been an even greater source of consistent comfort for members of her own species. When two households merged, and Chance inherited a ready-made pack made up of a greyhound and a black lab mix, there was initial nervousness about how Sara, the lab, would handle Chance; she was notoriously anxious and sometimes defensive around other dogs. But almost immediately, she started following Chance around like a young child might follow an older sibling; the affection has been obvious and constant. And when loose or stray dogs have found their way to our house or into our car, Chance has been the one dog of the three here who can be always trusted to serve as a calming presence or keep the new dog company until we locate his or her home.

But no dog has relied on Chance more than Mabel, the pit bull who became the resident foster dog upon appearing on our street this last May, injured, sick, malnourished, and terrified of humans. The bond was instantaneous. They are an odd pair of constant companions—a 2-year-old, 60-pound, leggy, perpetually playful and clumsy, blind-in-one-eye pit bull and a 12-year-old, 40-pound, absurdly short-legged, increasingly slow and less playful corgi-lab mix, who is adored by her comparatively tall friend. Never before Mabel’s arrival had I been so impressed with and proud of Chance. What she has tolerated and the ways in which she has helped Mabel’s progress have been incredible to witness. And Mabel shows her gratitude and love relentlessly, cuddling up on the same bed with Chance whenever she can and almost obsessively licking at her friend’s face (a sign of affection and submission), even going so far as to regularly part Chance’s lips with her own mouth so that she can lick the older dog’s teeth, which is tolerated quietly by the old girl. Their interactions remind me often of mother and daughter.

Mabel acted confused when I returned from the animal hospital without her beloved friend this morning, searching the house over for her. And the confusion will continue when Chance comes home tomorrow and suddenly is essentially bedridden for several weeks and then still mostly housebound for weeks more. Neither Chance nor Mabel will understand why Mabel is suddenly not allowed to even try to play with Chance and why suddenly Chance cannot accompany Mabel out into the world full of scary humans. As emotional as I am about the idea of my losing Chance at some point, it’s going to be similarly heartbreaking to watch Mabel lose the precious friend on whom she so depends, the friend who I imagine understands Mabel better than any human ever could.

There are people who believe that nonhuman animals do not have emotions, personalities, thoughts, and relationships. And I pity them. I am sorry that they have never had the privilege of really getting to know an animal who doesn’t look just like them—that they don’t know how unique individual dogs are; that they can’t appreciate the striking (greater than canine) intelligence of pigs; that they aren’t impressed by the language of chickens and the monogamous, lifelong mating of geese; that they aren’t touched by the loving, lasting bond between mother cow and calf; that they don’t know that turkeys have memories and personalities. I hope that they will someday know the privilege that others and I have known of spending each day with beings who are as capable of joy, sadness, affection, fear, elation, and pain as you or I, while being incapable of the intentional cruelties so often perpetuated by a supposedly superior species. I hope that they someday find a way to look at the dogs and cats they know with newfound respect and at the food on their plate with newfound questions about who exactly it is they're eating.

The old dog who, at this moment, is probably going under anesthesia has meant a great deal to a great many beings. And though her mind and emotions operate differently from the way mine do, I hope that somehow, on some level, she knows her importance. I hope she feels loved. Because she is so deeply loved.