Last night after dinner I settled down on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea. After a few minutes, I heard Chloe’s footsteps on the stairs. As she walked into the room, I patted the arm of the sofa, indicating that she could perch at my side like she usually does. She jumped on the sofa arm as usual, but instead of sitting at my side, she stepped deliberately into my lap, staring full into my eyes.
“You can lie in my lap, if that’s what you’d like,” I said, scratching her back. But instead of lying down, she pulled herself up to her full height, hiding the book from my view. “Lie down, Chloe,” I said again, pushing down a little on her back. She began to butt the book with her head, knocking it out of my hands. Then she turned again and stared into my eyes.
“OK, I’ve had it. No lap for you!” I stood up, knocking her to the floor. She got up without complaining, strode purposefully to the stairs, turned around and stared again. It was a classic “Lassie” moment. “What’s wrong, Chloe? Show me what’s wrong!”
My friends with dogs tell me that they prefer dogs over cats because dogs can communicate with their owners. Specifically dogs have empathy and a sense of humor that cats seem to lack. “When I come home, he seems so happy to see me,” John says about his Labrador retriever. “He jumps up, barking happily, with those expressive brown eyes. He looks as though he’s smiling. Cats always have the same poker face. You can’t tell what’s on their mind.”
I think back to the dog my family had while I was a teenager, a setter mix named Lucille. It’s true she seemed beside herself with happiness when family members came home after a long absence. She greeted us, capering with joy. When the returnees finally sat down, she would place her head gently in one person’s lap and gaze lovingly with her big, brown eyes. Clearly, she really liked us.
But her real passion was not for any member of our family. She saved her adoration for another, a public figure she had never met. She was mad about Richard Nixon. Whenever we turned on Walter Cronkite and Nixon appeared on the evening news, Lucille would run to the television and press her face right to the tube, leaving drool marks on the screen. Usually a gentle dog, she would growl and snap at anyone who tried to pull her away from the T.V. until Nixon was no longer on the broadcast. We never knew if Lucille’s love of Nixon was grounded in her concern about the Cold War or if she just was grateful for the Checkers speech, but nothing would keep her from her hero.
One evening we had guests in the living room. My grandmother, who had her own suite, had left the company to retire for the evening. Lucille lay on the carpet at my mother’s feet. Suddenly she leapt up and streaked toward grandmother’s room like lightening. “What happened?” asked the guests. “Is your grandmother OK? Does the dog sense that something is wrong?”
“Oh no,” said Mother. “I forgot. The State of the Union is being broadcast tonight. Mom must have it on T.V., and Lucille wouldn’t miss it.”
One winter Lucille got bronchitis. She coughed, had a fever, and moped around the house. The vet gave her antibiotics and suggested we cover her chest. “You don’t have to buy one of those pricey dog sweaters,” he said. “Just use your imagination.”
Mother took a warm, grey child’s sweat shirt and cut off the sleeves. She put it on Lucille, belting it with a piece of fabric. Lucille was used to being dressed up for Halloween, so she took her new outfit in stride. Besides, she was too sick to object. My sister decided to dress it up a little. She painted a formal suit with a bow tie, shirt front and lapels on the front of the sweatshirt. Since Lucille could respond to a modest number of commands, family members had fun telling her to sit up. She would show her suit front, waving her paws in the air with a goofy doggy grin and she’d get a treat in return. One evening Lucille was out in the yard when a call came in from a neighbor. “You have to get your dog out of the driveway. She’s a menace in that stupid shirt. A driver almost had a wreck in front of your house”
We rushed out to see what was happening. Lucille was sitting at the foot of the driveway, looking intently up the street. Whenever a car appeared, she would wait until the driver had a clear view of her. They she’d sit up on her haunches, waving and smiling. The driver would hit the brakes, staring and laughing. We pulled her back inside. “Can you imagine the call to the police after a wreck?” we said. “I’m sorry I drove off the road, Officer, but I was flashed by a laughing dog in a tuxedo.”
Chloe may lack Lucille’s sense of humor and her keen interest in politics, but it’s hard to be lighthearted or concerned about world events when you are the only bulwark between an orderly life and the end of the world. Tonight while I washed the dinner dishes, Chloe patrolled the perimeter. Food in the food dish, check! Water in the water bowl, check! Annie asleep in the upstairs bedroom, check! Clean litter box, check! Assured that we would make it safely through another night, she waited for me to sit down on the sofa, knitting in my hands, smooth piano jazz in the background. She sat beside me on the arm of the chair and we watched the sun set slowly. I sighed, she sighed. I patted her rump and she licked my hand. Thanks to Chloe’s vigilance, we made it through another lovely day.
No comments:
Post a Comment