Ideally, all of these former wolves would love you just like they did way back when humans were living in caves. Thousands of generations later and we’ve got big ones, little ones, and thousands of middle size ones.
Some are fed expensive Kobi beef and others forage through overturned garbage cans to find their next meal.
Many are like cats. They do not seem to love at all and patiently wait for humans to love on them. Others have been so badly mistreated that the love has been beaten or kicked out of them. They either slink away, furtively, at a human’s approach, or bare their yellow fangs with a menacing growl.
Then there’s Barney, my Barney, rescued from a no-kill shelter. He is a mix of Jack Russell and Rat Terrier, high energy and always at my side. Barney is lying on the carpet as I write this story about my love affair with him.
I sometimes feel as though God put Barney in that cage to wait for me to come along. It took five visits to the shelter before the adoption was final. My six-year-old grandson fell for him instantly. My wife was a much harder sell.
Upon first meeting him, “Honey, we’ve never had a dog that big.” She was right, of course, but there is always a first time.
The director of the shelter told us a little about him, as much as she knew. Barney was maybe five years old. His previous owner had been a homeless veteran who fell ill and could no longer care for his companion.
Barney played with our chihuahua to prove to the director that he was amiable. I walked him with a leash to prove that I was not a klutz. We made him a part of our family that very day.
Barney could love. Oh, how he could love. If I came home from work tired, Barney understood. He would get a toy and head to the bedroom. I would change into a par of jogging shorts and tell my wife that Barney and I were going to take a nap. I close the door to keep the other two dogs out. He noses under the blanket and curls at my knees and falls asleep. I quickly doze off for an hour or so. When I awake, I ease out of bed, trying not to wake him. I make it as far as my recliner before he races into the family room and jumps into the chair before I sit. We bought this chair a year ago.
I still recall the salesman asking, “What are you looking for, sir.”
My simple reply, “I need one big enough for me and my dog.” Barney has learned to lie at my left thigh while the lap top is open on my legs. I sometimes have to tell him, “Keep your feet off the keyboard.”
Barney will sit at my feet with his head cocked with a tiny, high-pitched whine coming from his throat, staring at me. I can almost imagine him saying, “Let’s go. I promised your doctor I would see that you exercised every day.”
Shoes laced, earphones on, Pandora rocking, a leash, some poop bags, and some treats in my pocket and we are out the door.
I am positive there are dog owners who feel as strongly about theirs as I do about mine. But I don’t know if it is quite as intense.
Mine and Barney’s first meeting was a divine appointment. I am convinced. We rescued each other.
Death for all of us is just as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. I am very selfish. I hope that I die before Barney does. I do not think I could survive losing another pet that has become as much a part of me as my right arm.
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