Going to the Dogs

Who would have thought that the phrase "Going to the Dogs" during this long year of pandemic would have a new, more positive meaning? For years, I've heard folks use the term "Going to the Dogs" as a sign of a downward spiral. But not in the year 2020!  I can't help but believe that the dogs I know and love have saved me and many others from depression and gloom during 2020.

God bless our furry friends for their unconditional love and occasional mischief that has made us laugh out loud during these dark days of a relentless virus. As an outgoing person nearing my eightieth year, my family urged caution from mid-March 2020 throughout this long year of pandemic. Caution meant no more dining out with friends, no more enjoying concerts, no more attending church services and much more. A mild form of gloom set in when I found that reading was not enough and a return to cooking for myself was boring. Soon, sleep was becoming elusive because news coverage of politics and the virus were upsetting rather than enlightening. 

What was my antidote to gloom? A physician could not have prescribed a better medicine than happy puppies and loving dogs that surround me. I live in a small condominium complex in Nashville where working neighbors were forced to set up equipment to do their jobs from home. Soon, those who didn't already have dogs decided pandemic-time was a great time to buy or adopt four-legged pets. No more lonely puppies or dogs in my neighborhood. Owners working at home enjoyed their canine companions full-time while pets flourished with almost constant attention from their humans. 

Those same home-bound neighbors soon began to share their precious pets with me; I've become Granny to a whole host of puppies and grown up dogs. What could nourish the soul better than the company of contented pets? And when they need to be fed, trained or disciplined, back home they go! What could be better?

I already loved Bascom, the sweet twelve-year old miniature Schnauzer next door. He's solid white and a little bit grouchy, but he's learning to be more playful now that his human is at home all day.

In October, my friend one door away acquired tiny Reggie, a French bulldog puppy. Despite his muscular build and huge rotating ears that pick up every sound, Reggie remains a sweetheart whose friendly welcome always makes me happy. Watching him grow from puppy stage to behaving like a brash teen-ager has been more fun than making homemade ice cream on Fourth of July. Reggie's only significant bit of mischief occurred when the teething pup chewed a big chunk from a corner baseboard in his human's kitchen. 

Next in November came Oliver, a Cavapoo puppy, to join his 'older brother' Bascom. Oliver, with black and gray spots plus furry tail and curly ears like his mother, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, comes to play at my house almost every day. I sit on the floor while Oliver pulls his favorite toys from a basket in my living room. First out is a long fleece raccoon with three squeakers. I enjoy playing tug-a-war with Oliver's raccoon as much as he does; occasional squeaks complement my laughter.

Despite my age, I became a child again when Oliver's human drove across town to pick up this six-week old puppy. I shouldn't admit it, but, for more than an hour, I waited like an excited little girl beside my kitchen window so I could get the first glimpse of the tiny pup. Now Oliver has become a really smart love bug. He's learned to scratch on the front door when he needs to go out. I have forgiven the puddles he made on my floor only a few months ago. Same for little bite marks made by sharp puppy teeth on my hands and arms. Oliver has brightened my life better than a ride in a convertible on a warm Spring day.

Not long ago, the couple in an upstairs apartment acquired a tiny white fluff ball they call Juju. She is a Maltipoo, so cute and full of energy that she sometimes gets expelled from home when her female owner is on a conference call. Juju is the newcomer in the complex, but she has her own set of adoring fans, including me. 

I can't leave out my family's pets. My daughter and family live nearby and I love them dearly, but I would understand if they are a bit jealous of my affection for Jake, their elegant red merle Australian Shepherd, and Charlie, their cuddlesome eighteen-month old red Cavapoo with curls like a too tight perm. I am proud to be their Granny and I don't think my human grandchildren mind the competition one bit. 

Jake takes his job seriously as guardian of the sheep, in this case his family. When I visit Jake, he only seeks a quick pat and a kind word so he can get back to his job of protecting home and people. But every now and then, when I'm sitting down, Jake sneaks up to deliver a hug that makes me feel better than the first sip of a good cold beer. A Jake hug happens when he stretches up to place his front paws on either side of my neck, just the kind of hug I'd like to get from Robert Redford. 

Red-haired Charlie is the opposite of Jake. He can't get enough love and attention. When he was a puppy, I was never happier when Charlie was napping in my lap, squirming as he dreamed and sometimes curving his lips in a big sleepy smile, I swear it! At eighteen pounds he's actually too large to sit in my lap now, but he jumps in place almost every time I sit down. Having a grown up Charlie in my lap still makes me happy. I also love his warm kisses since such affection is not likely from Robert Redford.

My son in Atlanta has red-coated Ida, an adopted dog of uncertain heritage, who is a very generous kisser. My three adult grandchildren share their apartments with fawn-coated Yoda, the French bulldog in Texas; Olive, a petite tri-colored Welsh Corgi in California; and Clifford, a lanky Golden Retriever puppy in Nashville, who loves to wrestle and sometime nap with Charlie. 

Clifford, the baby of the bunch, will eat anything organic, from sticks to things unmentionable. He gave his Granny quite a shock a few weeks ago when I saw what looked like a dark string hanging from his clinched jaws. What a surprise when the so-called string was attached to the body of a recently deceased mouse. Clifford ambled around the back yard, very proud of his catch.  Once I washed my hands in anti-bacterial soap, I praised Clifford for a job well done.

Being a dog lover is instantly discernable to dog owners who tend to like me whatever my other faults. Perhaps it's a stretch to call these people dog owners because I see evidence that the dogs are really in charge in much the same way a human baby rules his or her household. So, of course, I really enjoy the friendships of humans and their dogs. To name a few more of my canine friends in our condo complex, there's Pup Dog, a medium Golden Doodle, and Willie Nelson, a large Golden Doodle, on the first floor. Both, true to breed, are happy and friendly. Two smaller dog friends on the first floor are Ozzie, an older long-haired Dachshund with beautiful silver hair that drags the ground as he waddles across the courtyard. Tiny ZsaZsa, a fluffy white Maltese, sits regally in her human's arms, two little eyes peeping from behind a curtain of silky white hair. I think ZsaZsa knows she's beautiful. I agree.

And so it happens that the affection of puppies and dogs in my life this year has offset much of the sadness stemming from the life-changing time of the pandemic. But let me be honest enough to admit I'm not always filled with joy. I'm certainly not a person who is laughing all the time. But I've been blessed this trying year to be surrounded by good people and great dogs. No longer is the term Going to the Dogs a negative; this year it's very much a synonym for happy!

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By Sandra Plant