Dog People

My sister, affectionately known as Bomb-Bomb, got a puppy for her birthday when she was 4 or 5. She named it Clifford, after the giant, red dog from the beloved series about “Emily Elizabeth”. The name would’ve been totally appropriate for Bomb’s new pup--except that he was less of a big, friendly giant and more of a jet-black attack dog lying temporarily dormant in briefly puppy-sized form. But she loved him anyway. Because Bomb was no fragile princess. This was a girl who preferred her plastic Rambo rifle over Barbie dolls and regularly introduced herself as “Mark” so that boys her age would let her play. She wasn’t afraid of blood or dirt or contact sports--or this rescue from the local pound that appeared to be a lethal mix of Doberman, Rottweiler, and maybe ½ a percent of Labrador--just a hint of a breed benign and friendly enough to convince yourself that Clifford wouldn’t one day rip her face off. I remember Bomb trying to play with Clifford in her bowl-cut and boy shorts, as he rapidly progressed from a boneless stuffed animal to razor-toothed savage-in-training, easily knocking her down and mercilessly nipping at her skin. It didn’t take long for my parents to reconsider Clifford’s adoption and regretfully inform Bomb that her new pet would be returning to the shelter. Bomb understood, having realized all on her own that Clifford wasn’t so much playing with her as he was actually trying to eat her. But I’m sure she was sad. Giving back a puppy is like checking Santa into rehab--necessary in the case of problematic behavior, but a crushing disappointment, nonetheless.

Unfortunately, Clifford was not the last flawed, misunderstood puppy Bomb would have to give back. In fact, it seems like the threat of her dog being taken away has become a recurring theme over the years, for one reason or another. Her current partner in crime is Bear, a tumbleweed of black fluff with legs that, unlike Clifford, looks exactly like her name implies. Bear is completely devoted to Bomb and totally docile with her. In fact, Bomb might more likely choke to death on airborne chunks of Bear’s regularly shedded fur than be mauled to death by her fluffy companion-gone-bad. Bear is not, however, a huge fan of my kids and has been known to growl at them at least once per visit for their high-pitched voices and sudden movements. I can’t say I blame her, since I chew my own kids a new asshole for pretty much the same reasons every day. Still. I can’t help but keep my guard up for fear that Bear’s patience will unexpectedly wear out (much like Mommy’s often does).

Besides the occasional scare that she might eat my kids, I have no real beef with Bear--but I know she recognizes the heartless stench of the non-”dog person” I am--and I readily admit I’m probably not the most welcoming breed of person she’s come across. I know that my kind is kinda out-numbered in the world and I can already feel the day fast approaching when a dog will reside in my house, after years of my children’s relentless begging and flimsy assurances that, while they regularly miss the toilet when they pee and just walk away, they’ll instantly take full responsibility for the bathroom habits of a four-legged dependent the second we get one. Until then, stolen moments with Bear (and my parents’ dog, Mojo) are all the canine interaction my boys have, and they celebrate each encounter like a special event in history. My 3-year-old still talks about the time he got to see Bear drop a series of small turds in the grass for Bomb to then pick up with the inside-out grocery bag she wore on her hand like a glove. And neither boy has ever felt threatened by Bear’s fleeting growls, probably because they so closely resemble my own. In spite of myself, I give credit to Bear for her charming ability to entertain my kids and her unwavering loyalty to Bomb, who is so unquestionably deserving.

Because Bomb is a “dog person”. Devoted, welcoming, and open-hearted. She’s willing to look past occasional bad behavior to embrace more endearing qualities, which makes her a valuable friend to both dogs and people. We worked at several different restaurants together in our younger years, so I got to see first-hand how Bomb so quickly became a beloved fixture of her surroundings. Ask someone at work about Bomb, and they’d immediately laugh or smile or tell you how much they loved her. Ask someone at work about me and the response was more like, “Who?...That girl who’s always filling up the ice machine? The one who looks constipated during the dinner rush?” There’s an ease and a friendliness about Bomb that people respond to right away, even if she can’t always see it.

Growing up, our house was surrounded on 3 sides by the kind of fairy tale forest you’d expect Hansel and Grettel to stumble out of, on the run from the wicked witch. Our natural view of the setting sun was always fractured and filtered through tree trunks and undergrowth. So Bomb and I would drive a few miles outside of town, to where wide, rolling pastures had been cleared for dairy farms and the rise and fall of the land allowed a less obstructed view of the sunset. We liked to park my inherited ‘83 Tercel on the dirt shoulder where two roads intersected at the very top of the highest hill and watch the sky fade from orange and pink to a smoldering pinpoint on the horizon. We mistakenly assumed the view was our own personal discovery, until we returned years later to find that the dairy farm we’d apparently been trespassing on had built an ice cream shop on that very spot, with a west-facing porch where local patrons could awkwardly lick their ice cream cones while gazing upon the same late-afternoon light-show that had originally brought us to that hill. We haven’t been back...yet. But damn. What a fantastic idea.

I did recently treat Bomb to a scoop of ice cream elsewhere, as a meek consolation prize for having accompanied me and my two boys on a series of thankless errands--the kind that take 20 minutes on your own but devour an entire afternoon with children in tow. While cattle-prodding the kids out of the car for the third time, my youngest paused for so long half in and half out of the car that we watched in slow motion as bits of trash from the my floor panel spilled out and blew away. Bomb looked at me with wide eyes and cocked her head to the side with a tell-tale expression that practically screamed, “Really?” But she never openly lost her cool, exhibiting as always, the eternal patience of a person who’s accustomed to standing in the cold, heat, or rain for undetermined lengths of time while a four-legged animal looks for the best place to shit.

Bomb loves my boys. She’s become increasingly wise to their shenanigans in recent months and brings the hammer down ever-so-gently as needed, but she loves them. With all the strength, loyalty, and humor of the person both dogs and people gravitate toward. And in return, my boys are starved for Bomb’s attention and may literally crush her one day with the weight and force of their love for her. Because that’s what she deserves. A love that’s ferociously loyal and strong, that growls in the face of anyone who threatens or devalues her, but always greets with her a warm, welcoming face and is happier to see her than anyone else in the world.

I may never be a “dog person”, but like the overwhelming majority of people she meets, I am a "Bomb person"--who embraces not only her endearing humor but that welcoming peace about her that settles in after the silliness, less like the frantic panting of a puppy and more like the quiet warmth of the sunsets we watched together.