There’s a dog sleeping right now, a pair of paces to my left. It’s her first birthday. She, of course, doesn’t have any conception of what a birthday is. Birthdays are of human origin. But she knows she likes the little yellow ball my wife picked up for her on Sunday, at the pet store next to the grocer, which we then “gifted” to her this morning. It glows in the dark.
The ball is not among the collection of toys piled on her bed, a collection into which she’s burrowed a little, first before and then during her slumber. Even without the ball, though (which has scooted dangerously close to the land of lost fun, which appears under the bookshelf on ancient maps), it’s a hefty collection. To her right (and now that I look, I see it’s just toppled onto her snout) there’s a plush “bottle” labeled Ruff Day Chardonnay which my sister-in-law gave us when we last saw said sister-in-law before we brought the puppy home. To her left, there’s the pink dragon our friends from bible study had shipped to us around the same time. Under her paw is a thick, thrice-knotted rope this dog’s favorite babysitter, our best friend here in Austin, gave her on Easter because this dog wanted to play tug but lacked a rope long enough to give her opponent a fighting chance. Scattered in there are a hoof and a red rubber bone and a blue plastic bone and probably one of the little green dinosaurs from her little plush volcano, a volcano she set in my lap earlier today while I was trying my first attempt at writing this. I can see the teddy-bear-sized stuffed canine friend we bought at the pet store five nights before we drove up to Missouri, the one with the electric beating heart within it which was supposed to comfort her as she separated from her litter. Under her chin, I see the blanket from that litter, a tiny rainbow thing the breeder handed to us at some point in the thirty or forty minutes we spent together at her thrift store in that small town, the old woman telling us of how she cried and cried the first time she handed one of her bred puppies to its family. The blanket’s lost its scent, and presumably any memories it held for the dog. It holds plenty of memories for us, her humans.
Currently, the dog seems to be dreaming. Her front paw and face jolt here and there. Her nose twitches. They say dogs, like us, dream of the things in their life, and they often say this with a joyful, “So they’re dreaming about you!” but I know that this dog, whether I’m there or not, is dreaming primarily about play, because aside from breaks for sleeping, eating, relieving herself in the backyard (only the backyard, she does not like to pee anywhere else), and greeting any human fortunate enough to cross her path with leaps and nuzzles and a wagging tail that takes over much of her hind half, the entirety of this dog’s life consists of play. If she is awake, she wants to play, and she’ll let you know—barking at you, swiping you with her paw, bringing you her preferred toys or perhaps your preferred toys (given she’s been tasked with persuasion), and, if all else fails, biting you on the hip. Snuggling is an option only if you’re willing to hold something stinky and chewable and you don’t mind a hand full of slobber. Pets are appreciated, but quickly turn to one of her favorite games, which is one where she tries to catch your forearm in her mouth while making little growling noises in her throat. Walks are an opportunity for sniffing the markings of the other dogs in the neighborhood, and sightings of said dogs are met with a pause; a brisk, rhythmic wag; and then—should the other dog be allowed by their walker to participate, and sometimes regardless of the other dog’s permission—utter rambunction.
I never had a dog before this dog. I grew up in a cat family, and the cats were not my responsibility. If anything, I was the cats’ responsibility, especially as a baby, when Barnaby—who lived his life with us as an only feline, abandoning cat-kind for family life on the edge of Illinoisan suburbia—would supervise my mom during the bedtime routine, making sure my mother knew how to care for this strange hairless kitten she’d brought into the house. There will be plenty to say some day (probably in two months, when the anniversary hits of the day we brought the puppy home) about the experience of the first year of having a dog, but today is a day about the dog herself, so I’m trying my best to not make the dog about me.
Fortunately, the dog does not make many things about me, or about anyone but herself, frankly. They say dogs are your best friends, and this may be true of this dog, but she’s not the kind of friend who comforts you when you’re feeling down. She’s the kind of friend who does what’s fun for her, and more often than not, that ends up fun for you as well. She is entirely self-centered, but she derives so much joy from people and her fellow dogs that it’s a refreshing self-centrism. She lives in the moment. She, as we’ve established, loves to play. If you cannot play, at the moment, you cannot do anything for her, and she either moves on to someone who can play or begins her persuasion tactics, your career interests and/or exposed skin be damned. She does not like to play alone. She will rarely play alone. She has more fun playing with you, and fun is what this dog is all about.
Still, I do think the dog loves her people. She’s had quite the set of episodes, digestion and behavior-wise, when we leave town, and during one particularly busy season of travel, she seemed to become angry with even her favorite babysitter, who was committing the unforgivable (momentarily) crime of not being my wife or myself. She loves that babysitter, too, greeting her with particularly forceful leaps and nuzzles and wags, and once having a rare bladder malfunction at the unexpected sight of this friend on the couch, leaving a little wet trail across the living room as she bounded over to say hello. She loves all people, yes, but she especially loves her people, and our friend is evidently among them.
She loves other things, too, mostly classic dog things. She loves sticks and open car windows and dead animals and shoes and far too many kinds of poop. She loves to zoom, and to climb, and my wife took her to a swimming pool once and we think she loves to splash. She hates few things, but those she does she hates with a passion, most notably the Great Danes next door whom she barraged with furious barks for months until they finally met, at which point the barks became frantic whines as one tackled her and I had to come to the rescue in a fight she may or may not have picked.
As she ages, I’m told the snuggling will come. I’m told the care will come. I’m told she’ll mellow out, and grow sleepier during the day, and perhaps even outgrow some of the digestive maladies which so often plague her. But if she takes her time, that’s ok too. The mammal brain is a deep, mysterious thing—it, as we experience, can feel emotions, a great mystery of life itself, and this makes the mammal soul equally mysterious, whether it be of a cow or a cat or the man next to you at a red light or the puppy rising from her slumber and streeeeeeeetching here in the afternoon light. She is a dog, yes, but she’s an individual as well. And at the moment, that individual desperately wants to go outside. She’s awoken. The barks have begun. She’s swiped at my leg.
So, happy birthday, Fargo. Let’s grab that yellow ball and head out back. You’ve got some playing to do.
❤️