Dawg, Part 1

I’m told that I had three dogs before Dawg. I don’t remember them. Dawg, I remember. I’ve had a dozen since, but none taught me the lessons that he did. Maybe that is because he was the first “pet” that was really “mine”.
Some people are examples of animal magnetism. I, on the other hand, am an animal magnet. They gravitate in my direction. Dogs, cats, horses, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, pigeons, and turkeys all imbed their fur and feathers into my life. I am not complaining. Life is infinitely richer with God’s creatures a part of it.

Animals somehow sense that I have an emotional soft spot for other life forms. Then they take advantage of me. I am not a vegetarian. I like to eat beef, pork, lamb, and poultry. I’ve even tried horse, bison, deer, moose, rattlesnake, and grasshoppers. I think that I have some special smell, or possibly a taste, that attracts animal’s attention. I have noticed that the ones that adopt me generally first take a strong sniff, and many also add in a wet lick.

Yes, there were dogs before and after, but the one that stands out, and that I remember most clearly, was the earliest, Dawg. It was not an exactly inspired name. When he showed up, and I started to talk to him, that is what I called him. Dawg. It kind of stuck. It was unpretentious, and he was an unpretentious Dawg.

He arrived in our yard, gray and old and starving with every rib in sharp contrast. He also arrived very wary. When I spoke to him, he dodged back into the tall, thick weeds that lined the back line of our yard. Any creature that thin got my sympathy. I went inside to get him some scraps.

We always had leftovers. Mom liked to cook, and Dad always said that if she didn’t boil, bake or fry it, it wasn’t real food. That wasn’t exactly true, but there was always food around for late night nibbles and hungry critters. If nothing else those ribs needed some bread, or biscuits, and some bacon grease. I piled on mashed potatoes, mixed veggies, a splatter of gravy, and topped it off with a couple teaspoons of Mom’s precious bacon grease.

I took it out to the back step. He was watching me, but he wouldn’t get close. I moved it out into the yard a bit, and went back inside. After a few minutes, he slowly crossed the yard as I watched from a kitchen window. He sniffed the plate from a little distance and whipped his head from side to side before moving in. He didn’t eat so much as he inhaled, and then he licked the plate.

Next, I took out a big pan of water. As I exited the screen door, he exited the yard for the weeds. I replaced the sparkling plate with the water pan, and looked at the wall of weeds. Nothing. I went back inside. The water disappeared as quickly as the scraps, and Dawg went back to the safety of the weeds.

Wall of weeds is not an exaggeration. Some of those weeds had stems two and a half inches in diameter and were as tough as oak when dried. Some species reached well over twelve feet in height. What the weed patch had was one clear pathway straight across from our back yard to Neer’s General Store a half block away. That path was kept mowed by yours truly, on a twice weekly basis, with my trusty one boy-power lawn mower. Then there was the spider web network of string narrow paths that I’d created out there in that half-block sized weedy forest of my own.

To no one’s surprise, next day, Dawg was back. This time, as he ate, I stayed visible, but inside the kitchen screen door and talked to him. He watched me with one eye until the plate and pan were empty and he disappeared again.

As feedings continued, two things happened. I was able to closely observe him, and he certainly observed me. Dawg was old. His general dun brown color had gray around his muzzle. He had been heavily muscular, and had that kind of bone structure. That muscularity was coming back very rapidly. He was covered, especially his head and neck, with white seams and old rippled scars. His hound ears were ripped and tattered into wide ribbons. He’d had a hard life, and had been in a lot of fights.

He had an old leather collar that was starting to look a bit tight. That collar had two links of chain still attached.

A couple of weeks of regular meals, and special handouts tossed his way from time to time, had him looking much better, much healthier. In all that time I never presumed on our relationship. I talked to him, I did not approach him, or reach out to him with a hand. I let him make any and all decisions about the distance between us.

As I remember it now, it was a month before he allowed himself to come within my arms reach. I figured it was a test and didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. I just fed and watered him and talked to him. I was just sittin’ closer all the time, but that was his choice. I was afraid I’d lose all of what I’d already gained. I stayed on my best behavior.

As events progressed, Dawg began staying closer to the house after his meals without disappearing into the weeds. I would talk to him as I did my chores around the house, and he followed me along to keep an eye on me and as if to listen. My regular outside chores were weeding the flower beds and mowing and trimming the lawns. If anyone else came out of the house, like Mom to hang the laundry, or Dad to walk to the garage next door to play dominoes, or my sister Patty to play with her toys, Dawg disappeared again like a foggy mist in hot weather.

My Dad was a believer in big lawns. Our back yard got bigger every year as he encroached on the weed patch a wide strip at a time. He said the weeds were a fire hazard better kept at a distance from the house. The lawns also kept me busy and out of too much trouble.

(c) Copyright 2006: George Wallace recently published a book on religion which lashes out at nearly all of the comfortable ideas about God, the trappings of organized religion, and the priesthood. His pithy comments and suggestions for a return to a God-centered personal religion will interest everyone. This article may be freely reprinted so long as all copyright attributions, and the full content of this resource box are included. www.OhGodIsThatYou.com

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