The Love of Dogs

I’ve been in Boise, Idaho, for the last couple of days in a kind of pensive state. Not that I abhor Boise. In fact, I’m charmed by the place, charmed by the surrounding Boise foothills and the snow that has coated everything in a layer of white. During my time here, I finished Mark Doty’s memoir Dog Years and feel enlightened. After snapping the book shut, I sat in quiet.

In the last year, I’ve been on the road, travelling from city to city, spending my days in cold hotel rooms. There is a loneliness that comes with travelling. Our minds travel the miles back to our comfort, back to the warmth of the familiar body, to the routines of our lives.  Travelling is a disruption of routine. No longer do I hear the familiar click-clack of my dog’s paws, or the energetic bark for a treat, or the naughty scratching at the pantry door. At night, this is what I miss most: the beating hearts of my pack, their soft, velvety heads under my hand.

I grew up in a Thai household that was wary of any animal, especially dogs. In Thailand, dogs run rampant all over the country, dogs without homes, without love. It is a deep sadness I keep hidden when I visit, an adjustment in culture that tries me to the point of tears. Since meeting my wife, however, and during the ten years of our relationship, I don’t think I can ever be without a dog again. They are as much a part of me as I am a part of them. To describe how integral my dogs are in my life is impossible. When asked what I miss most when I’m away, most people tilt their heads when I say my dogs and not my wife. This is not to say that I do not miss my wife. I do. Immensely. But this yearning for my furry pack transcends language. Doty writes: “Love for a wordless creature, once it takes hold, is an enchantment, and the enchanted speak, famously, in private mutterings, cryptic riddles, or gibberish.”    

My three dogs—Ginger, Charlie, Savvy—are getting old. One day they scurry across the pool deck for Florida geckos, the next they sleep a little longer in their beds oblivious to our comings and goings. With a dog you witness a whole life—from the exuberant, inquisitive puppy to the slow-paced steps of the old dog. And time, though it is years, descends quickly, and for some, unexpectedly. For the longest time, when asked how old our dogs were, my wife and I always said the wrong age, a younger age. Not because we were liars, but because we were trying to prolong the youth of our dogs as long as possible. We ignore the little things. Chalk it up as the quirkiness of character. But then, the realization hits: the reason our dog is not responding to her name is that she is deaf. The reason she does not hop up on our legs for a treat is because her hips are stiff. And then come the fatty lumps, the white around the muzzle, the crackling joints. Slowly, we begin to prepare ourselves. Slowly, time registers for the dog, too. “Knowledge of limit. A hesitation in the step, a look in the eyes, something tentative.”

This trip to Boise was a difficult one. I left with the knowledge that one of our dogs was ill. The day before I left, she wandered from room to room, her ears back, her blond fur without shine. She’s the oldest, but the naughtiest. My wife Katie and I nickname her, “Naughty.” Because she scrapes at the pantry door. Because she is endless with barks. Because she steals food off our plates. When none this happens, something is not right.

On this trip, Katie came too, and we texted our dog sitter, asking if Ginger was better, asking whether she was hopping around like her usual self. He responded promptly, sensing perhaps, the panic in our language, reassuring us that she was a hoppin’ bunny. Which, of course, made us breathe easier, which made us want to see her, which made us forget we have limited time.

The thing about love is its power to blind us with the impossible. But I’m OK with this—for now—because what is better than to watch your dog sleep and think she is dreaming of endless days with you. This is a dream I share.