My family have always been Dog People, capitals necessary. My sister and I, especially, have worshipped at the altar of various canine denizens, with the current matriarch (Waffle, a 15.5 year old labrador) ruling the roost with an iron fist and faltering gait. The family WhatsApp group remains abuzz with constant questions about Waffle’s welfare, her sleep, her pain medication, her diet, and the timely purchase of her (munificent) snacks. My parents traipse back and forth between my sister’s house and their own to provide dog-sitting services, as Waffle is now at the cantankerous age where she barks all day unless someone is sitting next to her and patting her (rendering work-from-home arrangements untenable). My father is a more tolerant man than I ever thought possible —and has learnt to monitor the stock market while sitting on the floor and absentmindedly patting Waffle with one hand. He was, of course, once adamant that he Did Not Want A Dog.
I, on the other hand, have always wanted a dog. I did not have one for ten cruel years, because the vicissitudes of studying three psychology degrees, part-time jobs, rentals, share houses and the general poverty of student life meant that I could not commit to a pet. Having once had to rehome a much-loved dog at the end of a relationship, I was determined that I would not again introduce a dog into my life until I was fully stable in life and hearth. While those ten years felt interminable, I did finally adopt a dog over three years ago, after talking relentlessly about my plans to adopt a rescue greyhound for a full 12-months prior. I don’t know how my friends and colleagues tolerated me as I walked the streets of Melbourne with lovelorn eyes, sidling up to every long snoot I saw. “Can I pat your dog please? I plan to adopt one next year”.
Despite growing up with labradors, I settled on greyhounds because of their general lazy lankiness, their sad histories in the racing world, their capacity to fold themselves into small spaces, their effortless style, and their quirky and calm demeanours. Also, I once watched a YouTube video of a greyhound who went quite mad with excitement when it’s owner said “food for greyhound?”, and I found myself well able to empathise with that level of enthusiasm for food.
I have now had my sassy princess for three years. I often look into her eyes and tell her that she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and that she is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I mean every word of it. She is lanky, laconic, playful, smart, stubborn, so shiny and soft, demanding, loving, independent, mellow, grumpy, grumbly and sociable. “My little grumblestiltskin”, I say, as I rub her tummy and she half-growls-half-rumbles in equal parts annoyance and pleasure every morning.
It isn’t hard to make friends everywhere we go, as she thrusts her snoot at people who walk past, seeking pats. She is happiest at a cafe, or smack dab in the middle of a party. It makes me so glad to watch her blossom, as I remember the anxious and shy girl she was when I first picked her up from her rescue. She often froze on walks, and we did many small circuits of streets until she built confidence and started gazing enquiringly into every house that we walked past. She remains incredibly curious and often hits her nose, as she bounces and lurches in an attempt to look over fences and gates (probably to see if she can spot an errant cat). She is both fascinated by, and terrified of cats, and looks for them ceaselessly until she actually spots one, at which point she looks away and pretends that she cannot see it. There is a metaphor in there about life.
I did not expect that I would live through a pandemic, nor did I forsee the central role my hound would play in keeping me sane, loved and somewhat emotionally limber, as Melbourne lurched from one lockdown to the next. Work was difficult during the pandemic, as the normal structures that separated home from work fell down, as isolation took a toll, and clients came to see me in increasingly large amounts of distress.
I was exhausted and I had no routine, in the absence of the usual work commute, dinners with friends, yoga or the gym. My hound got me out of bed every morning for a walk, and helped book-end the work day with another evening walk. She stopped to sniff every nature strip, dragging me out of my head and forcing me to look around and feel the briskness of the air on my face. That daily walk became my highlight and the only novelty I had during Stage 4 lockdowns, as we ranged farther afield from home in search of our morning coffee. She snoozed during most of my therapy sessions, but was always available for a cuddle between clients. Occasionally, she would climb off the couch, huff, and lie at my feet, looking up at me somewhat disdainfully. She has many more grey hairs now than she did at the start of 2020, and I joke that some of these are because I kissed her so much that the pigment in her fur has worn right off.
She provided me with physical comfort and closeness when social distancing meant that fellow humans were met with suspicion —and the requisite 1.5 m perimeter. She made me laugh too —notably as she did big stretches off the couch, typically stopping to fart at the apex. She was always available, always consistent and always calm. The daily COVID case numbers did not faze her. As long as we were together, were sharing snacks regularly, were walking, were playing musical chairs with our favourite spot on the couch and gently touching toes in bed at night, she was happy. The world was very large and very complex, and I had no answers for many of the dilemmas we faced, but when I looked into her eyes, I didn’t need to. I knew we loved each other, I knew that we had constancy and a gentle rhythm to our lives, and momentarily, that was enough.
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Previously Published on medium
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