In Dog Years

For as long as I can remember, I have loved a dog. The first dog I ever loved hated my ever-loving guts.  There is a picture of me at about 3 years old holding her very awkwardly, with my arms under her front legs and her back legs dangling below. Poor Nutmeg. I am smiling proudly, and she is showing her teeth. That counts as a smile, right? I loved her so much even though she hated me. I followed her. I bribed her with treats. I pursued her every day. I found all of her hiding places. My family swore that my face would be mangled. I kissed her even though she snarled. I was only bitten on the finger a few times. She must've loved me a little.

She lived to be 20 years old. In dog years, that's 140! By a more modern calculation, it's 93. The formula for that is no longer 1 human year = 7 dog years. According to one source, it's now "10.5 dog years per human year for the first 2 years, then 4 dog years per human year for each year after." How very scientific.

In Nutmeg years, I learned to keep loving even when it seems hopeless.

I adored a pug named Winston. I got him when I was about 12. He was easy to love. He was affectionate and good. He was funny and so energetic. For the first three or four years of his life, it was hard to get a good look at him because he was so black and so fast.
One time a visitor asked, "Is it a dog?"
In Winston years, I learned to be silly as much as possible. I watched as he aged, older and slower and grayer. It still breaks my heart when I think of the day that I had to say goodbye. He was wearing his Thanksgiving sweater.

I was in college when I met Fabian. I was volunteering at a local non-profit, no-kill animal shelter. He was a very lethargic puppy in a pen full of craziness. I brought him home against my parents' wishes and discovered that he had some issues. He must have been a victim of abuse very early in his life. He was terrified of the fly swatter, the broom, loud sounds and any sudden movements. I took him everywhere, and slowly, he loosened up and started to trust me. My favorite memory of him is when I took him on the pontoon boat. When I jumped into the water to ski, he cried the whole time until I was safe in the boat again. In Fabian years, I learned to be patient and to tread lightly.

Rodney also rescued a dog that came wandering into Homeland, the grocery store where he worked. He just couldn't turn him out and worry about him being hit by a car. Buddy was very beautiful, hyper and needed lots of attention. People said he looked mean, but he was a big ol' sweetie. He made me feel secure when strangers approached or when we were out on long walks.

When the babies were born, I began to worry about the dogs and how they would adjust to the new hierarchy, to my new priorities. I feel guilty still because I know the dogs weren't getting the attention they needed. I probably forgot to feed them a time or two. I probably left them outside all day a time or two. It hurts. I'm sorry. Fabian and Buddy got old together. I wish I could've led them through their elderly years with nothing to fear, nothing to lose and nothing standing in the way. But I couldn't. I had to protect my children from the danger they presented. Buddy and Fabian would've wanted to leave this world as friends and as loving companions. And they did.

People always told me that I wouldn't love my dogs as much after I had kids. Not true. But it is true that I love my babies more. My heart grew by a hundred times when I became a mommy.

But it was in dog years that I learned how to love unconditionally. It was in dog years that I learned how to take care of someone who needed me.