A Dog's Life

Most dogs in America do not have a “dog’s life”. If they came down to Mexico, they would go running back home with tails wagging. Dogs’ in Mexico mostly have to fend for themselves, and rarely get to have owners that tend lavishly to them. 

Amy and I see dogs wandering around, flea bitten and bedraggled, with wounds from fights or collisions. Our village has many. Many people live in little more than tin shacks. Unfortunately veterinary care is out of the question and the mongrels have multiple litters. 

The poor creatures tug at Amy’s heartstrings more than mine. “At least they are not being eaten like the dogs in China,” I told her. Then I added, “It might be better to be eaten.” 

We have property that is mostly fenced, but dogs’ have come in. I chase them out and have patched some entry points. One dog is acceptable—“Benito," who we learned belongs to a neighbor. He comes several times a day for treats, and has taken to barking at intruders. I have to say, I really like him, and Amy adores him. I joke and call him “Freddy the Freeloader," and Amy calls him “Loki”.

The thing about Benito is we cannot touch him. He will snarl and snap. As a companion he is good if I simply acknowledge him. He occasionally licks my hand and a couple times jumped up to hug me. But touching him is not allowed. Same with Amy, who is his major benefactor. No touching, though he will lick her hand. 

Little hungry mongrel

We have noticed animals sometimes are slapped or kicked, so maybe if that has happened, the dog will be defensive. The other day we went for our second covid vaccination. A young dog came to us and stayed by for a couple hours. It was raining lightly. A group of ladies was behind us and one swatted the dog with her umbrella, and kicked it once. It stayed with us until the end. We felt like taking it home but maybe it belonged to someone.

Recently one of the neighbors’ dogs came on the heels of Benito to our back door. He was thin, just little more than a puppy and looked at us so hopefully. Amy gave him some dog food. (She buys dog food now at the grocery store.) He ate it quickly and looked around for more. I warned her, “If you start, soon packs of dogs will arrive at our door.”

We have heard of a dog sanctuary in Oaxaca, started by Americans who doubtless felt sympathy and had the time and resources to make the humanitarian gesture.

We have Loki; or Benito, or Freddy the Freeloader . . . whatever his name.

God Within It

 My mother, who lives in Santa Barbara, California, called and left a message on my phone the other day. Her voice was emotional as she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Hi Steven, it’s your mother. Our dog, Sarah, died December 1st. I put a sign out front for the neighbors—to tell them she had died . . . because everyone loved her. And I put on the sign a writing from Baha’u’llah that said, ‘Nothing do I perceive but I perceive God within it, God before it, and God after it.'  I wrote the name of Baha’u’llah on it, along with a picture of Sarah. Then everyone knew she had left us.” Her voice trembled and she cried a little as she spoke. I noticed the crying because my mother never cries.

They had brought Sarah home after a previous dog died. Sarah was already three or four years old. A German Shepherd, she had been abused by someone and was not trusting. Once she became a part of my parent’s household, she barked at anyone else who entered the house. I went to visit them a couple months ago and Sarah always barked at me when I came inside, even though she was deaf and too tired to stand. I noticed that she did the same with my brother who lives near my parents and has visited thousands of times. I had to laugh about that.

Sarah was treated with great kindness and even reverence. When she slowed down and could barely walk, my father cordially walked slowly by her side as she went out to do her duty every day. Both my parents, who are infirm themselves, would help her when she could only climb halfway into the car, and had to have her back legs lifted and then be scooted in. They said kind things to her every day, even after she had gone deaf. When my father noticed she was not eating, he'd get on his hands and knees and feed her. She ate the same food as my parents. I once joked with my mother that I was eating dog food when I noticed she had the same food in the dog dish as on my plate. She said resolutely, “Sarah gets the same food as we do.”

The dog lived much longer than perhaps possible, due to the love she received. My mother liked to say she was “the oldest German Shepherd in Santa Barbara.”

I spoke with mother after she left her message for me. She said many neighbors had seen the sign and come with flowers, or gifts, and to pay their sympathies. Surely, they had noticed a great love and now part of it had gone away.

"The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens” ..... Unknown  (Possibly from an early American trial re: the killing of a neighbor's dog)