“Please, please let’s go for a walk”. Her eyes fixed on mine, never wavered.
“But Sable, it’s nearly 90 degrees outside and the humidity is hovering around 70 percent. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please,” she repeated with those expressive eyes.
“Ok, a short walk. Go get your leash.” I gave in. It was early enough on a July Saturday that the pavement hadn’t become too hot for her paws. I pulled out of the drawer her soft, protective paw boots, which she doesn’t like but will accept if that is the price for a summer walk.
Sable pirouetted and ran to the laundry room, where her harness and leash are kept on a blue wooden peg, two feet from the floor, just the right height for her to reach.
Sable is a dog of indeterminate ancestry. She is neither wolf nor shepherd, hound nor terrier. She is approximately 20 inches tall and weighs 25 pounds, with short fur of a rich, deep brown hue, hence her name. She has a narrow white collar that dips onto her chest like a small white pendant, and a short black velvet muzzle. Her small black ears stand at attention as if waiting for a signal. The mold was definitely broken when she was born. I don’t think there can be a duplicate. I wish I could have her cloned because she is the most perfect companion ever, and I know she has an expiration date.
Her golden eyes are alive with the vocabulary of a college professor. They communicate very effectively, and what she can’t convey with her eyes she passes to her tail. If her tail can’t make you understand, then her whole body gets into the act, quivering, pointing, circling, or hopping foot to foot. Sable is an active listener and patiently absorbs any manner of conversation from religion to geology, movies to politics. She puts her paw on your leg in affirmation or her chin on your lap if you are sitting. She rarely disagrees, but can let you know if she is unhappy with a low guttural sound or quiet mewling.
Sable is a rescue. A real rescue. Three years ago, on my way home from a meeting across town, I drove past her little form sitting in a puddle in a vacant lot on the side of Tanque Verde Road during a monsoon. Abandoned. She couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, too young to have run away from home on stubby little legs and too plump to have been a feral dog. She had been living in someone’s home, fed regularly, and then disposed of for an unknown reason. How does a person abandon a helpless puppy near a busy street in a storm? She looked confused. I pulled over in the nearest safe spot, got out of the car, and walked back to her through the downpour. She was shivering, not from cold but from fright. Back in my car, I sat with her in my lap, giving her sips of water poured into my palm from a water bottle. She lapped it up little by little until nearly half the bottle was empty. She stopped shivering. I put her in the passenger seat on an old towel that I had thrown into the car in case I was caught in the predicted downpour. She immediately curled up and went to sleep. She didn’t move for the thirty-minute trip home to a suburban community outside Tucson. Once in the house, she explored each nook and cranny and pronounced that she was indeed home by jumping into my lap, reaching up to lick my face, then jumping down and peeing on the floor in front of me. The deal was sealed.
As all pet parents know, the creatures have a way of creeping into our hearts and taking residence in our minds. They become a priority, especially for a single person. I know Sable will be there to greet me with enthusiasm each day when I return from work. She doesn’t care if it was a good day or not because, for her, my presence makes her day great. She doesn’t withdraw with silent moodiness like my ex-husband if I don’t read her mind. She accepts the attention I give her with total love. Sometimes, I become absorbed in the day-to-day demands of my job or social relationships. She is always there when I resurface to the moment, waiting patiently with full devotion.
Sable is small enough that I can take her with me when I run errands. She loves car rides. She hops into her booster seat and waits to be snapped into the harness. I am able to take her into most of the stores where I shop. She sits obediently in a cart or walks quietly by my side. She ignores entreaties to leave my side, but accepts friendly pats as her due. I can’t take her grocery shopping in the store, but I can do pick-up. She knows the delivery girls at Fry’s, eagerly anticipating their friendly greeting. She loves a stop at the bank, knowing as we approach the drive-up window that she will get a treat. She delights in her puppucino at Starbucks. She appreciates my Sirius XM music, especially the Elvis channel. Sometimes we go for a longer ride to the mountains or to visit friends in Carefree. She passively watches the scenery, but when she hears a big rig eighteen-wheeler approach, she gets all excited, stands up in her seat, and watches for it to pass, ears pricked forward and tail waving ninety knots to nothing. I think in a former life she was a long-haul trucker.
Recently, she has learned to tolerate my friend, Colin. He has become a regular visitor, and she was very stand-offish at first. Now she grudgingly makes a space for him next to me on the sofa if he stays after dinner. He knows she has first dibs on wherever she wants to lie. He learned very quickly that he needed to accommodate her preferences.
Luckily, he has Marcus, a big yellow tabby cat, at home, so he understands the pecking order for guests in an animal’s domain. I’ve met Marcus. He is very sweet in his catty way. His green eyes pierced me, searching the depths of my reliability. He sat out of arm’s length, assessing me and, I’m sure, questioning my motives for being in his house. He allowed me to stroke him on his terms. He walked away with a tail held high as if to say, “You’re ok, but don’t let this go to your head. It is a temporary situation.” He is the product of a broken home and a custody battle. He was shuffled from home to home for about six months until Colin’s ex decided she didn’t want the responsibility. According to Colin, Marcus is shy of any other commitment.
We anticipate the day when we might introduce Sable to Marcus. Sable loves everyone unless they demonstrate by action or harsh words that they are untrustworthy. I insist Sable is open to any relationship, and he claims Marcus would be okay when he gets to know me a little better. There is a hesitation about the right moment to make the introduction. If it doesn’t go well, what will it mean to OUR relationship? We are taking our friendship slowly toward a deeper connection out of deference to our four-legged roommates. It is probably a very good thing to move slowly since both of us were burned in the past. Basing a romantic life on the acceptance of our pets, maybe, not so much.
wonkagranny 