My Sixth Dog

I’ve never had children, but I’ve had dogs. Perhaps there is a comparison that can be made without upsetting the parents of the former. The parents of the later will understand where I come from.

Most of my life I have had two dogs. My husband thought one was enough, but I hoodwinked him into taking in a mangled German Shepherd to heal after heartworm treatment. A stray that needed a place to get healthy. Within a month Jake stole our hearts and joined the family.

My husband died two years ago. I had my two dogs on that day and they were my comfort when nothing could comfort me. My old dog, Foxy, is the link to my past. She is the dog my husband and I got at seven weeks.She is fourteen now. She has been through it all with me. The death of my husband, and nine months later the death of my large dog, Jake. She watches all who enter these doors to give her approval on my selections on dogs and friends. She takes it all in her stride and gives me the OK when she feels a new companion is a welcome member. Foxy is fragile and delicate. Her legs thin and spindly buckle as she hobbles along. On several occasions this month she has gone down on the floor, her hind legs splaying out in different directions. I reach down with my hands and gently lift her up, allowing her legs to come together, so she is standing tall again. She has learned how to whirl herself on the floor so she can bring her legs sideways and then get up. I feed her the better morsels of food and the other dogs watch in earnest, but don’t approach. They are aware she is the grande dame and is treated with respect. In human years my old lady is ninety-eight.

Bray, my Afghan mix, at age four, is a skeptic. The first rescue dog to come home with me a year ago. He is wary of the world and needs his space. Allowed to watch, he will finally move forward to sniff a hand and allow contact. Shift to the present. He is now a playboy, the only male around a pack of females and he has risen to the occasion. He runs, he prances, he pushes ahead in the line of dogs to let you know he is here. Feral when we met, he is my injured child who has beat the odds and is enjoying a life full of happiness. I watch his accomplishments, his new social gestures, with awe and pride.

Annabelle, number two rescue, is the chubby matron who has a heart of gold. She is quiet, studious and watches as the others play around her. She is content to stand on the sidelines and does not have a competitive bone in her body. Shy, quiet, but inwardly happy with her lot in life. She has no desire to be anything more than she is. I kiss her and tell her that beauty comes from within and she is radiantly lovely. Nothing bothers her. She comes at everything saying “whatever” and with a shrug of her tan shoulders, rolls back under the quilt, happy to be safe and warm. Her age is a mystery, but her spirit is obvious.

Chloe, number three, is the petulant child. Seven pounds of energy. A Chihuahua. Her spirit is larger than life. She is spontaneous, she is moody, she is down right nasty at times. Just as she snaps at you and deserves to be scolded, she looks into your eyes with hers slightly bugging from her skinny head, reaches her paws out to crawl up your chest, and places her cheek against yours. In that second she has captivated all the love that fills your heart. She sleeps like an angel tucked next to your neck, allowing you to carefully turn your head to place a kiss on the top of hers. Soon she will awake and her high pitched yap will rise high above the others as she tries to control each of the pack to her ways. She is small and I worry about her with the larger dogs, but she holds her own. She is the dainty princess one moment then the school yard bully who is picking on the other five.

Rascal is my tomboy. She is a thick, bulldog mix, a pack of muscle. She jumps with energy that can’t be stopped. She does not understand the meaning of the words stop or no. She knows what she wants, and that is to be in your face, licking, playing, joyous with life. It does not dawn on her to be a lady and to act more demure. She plunders ahead, like a bull in a china shop,  marching straight to the core of your heart. After she has tired herself out, she crawls up to your side, rolls her head back on your chest and, as her blue and brown eyes gently close, she presses her body and head as close into your skin as she can get.

I worried about this one when she came to my house on New Year's Eve. So rowdy, she disrupted the household. The other dogs barking loudly and Chloe, perched on top of my desk chair, yapping into the air, trying to start a dog riot. Rascal was not bothered by any of this. She playfully licked each dog and has won them over. Did it in less than a day. Today you can watch her and Chloe kiss on each other as they groom in mutual admiration. Rascal is a lightening bolt of love that strikes your heart the moment you meet her.

And number six, the after thought. April. She came in the following week. Quiet, shy, she stands at a distance waiting to be called. She watches in earnest. I missed that fact as the other dogs kept me preoccupied. She is the largest and one of the youngest of the pack. Fifty-five pounds of hunting dog and three years of age. Her brown face is determined in its looks. I hardly noticed her. Then one day she came up to me while I was writing and bumped my arm. That bump took out part of Outlook, but made me stop and look deeply into her dark eyes. I reached over and held her face in my hands. “April I hardly know you. Who are you?" Then I kissed her nose and whispered to her, "I shall call you Miss April In Paris." Then I hummed that old song to her, "April in Paris.......". She went from rescue dog to Diva with her new name. She answers to it and comes running for her share of attention. Her dark eyes no longer look distant but stare at you with a look that says, I love you.

My good friend with kids told me the last child is usually the one who grows more on her/his own. The first ones get most of the attention. By the time you get to the last (whatever the number) you are tired and not as apprehensive. April has come into her own like all the others. She plays and pushes into the pack to get her share of food, treats and kisses. No longer shy, she changed with a change of her name. I have changed to realize I have six dogs that each need special attention daily.

They are my children. They amaze and delight me. I watch how they play and interact with each other. Rowdy, playful, mean as a snake, content, curious and tired. They have bonded and they are friends, not a pack of dogs but a pack of pals. My six-pack, as I like to call them. Each considerate of the other, each licking with tenderness the one closest to them after a round of hard play. When you have one dog you see how the dog interacts with you. When you have more, it is amazing the social structure they develop among themselves. Thank goodness, they all love each other and are playful.

My little family of six. I sit on my deck at midnight on these gentle summer nights. The dogs running into the yard startling the motion detectors so at any given moment a section of my yard is filled with brightness. Then they come and rest at my feet. I look at the moon and think what a perfect group we make. They may not be human, but their spirits are loving and joyful and they are the children I never had.