My sister can attest to the fact that I spent most of my childhood afraid, no terrified, of dogs. It didn't really help that I was attacked by an Irish wolf hound when I was six years old, living in Pickle Lake. After harassing my buddy Dale, the dog came after me. The dog was quite capable of knocking me over and ripped the sleeves of my little purple parka with the fur lined hood before someone miraculously yanked the dog away. I remember trying to kick it in the stomach while it was on top of me, but my little moon boots just swished through the air because the dog was soooo big. Nobody ever saw that dog again. The dog just mysteriously disappeared in a town where people took the law into their own hands.
Exposure therapy would have been beneficial after that experience, but our family kind of lived a transient lifestyle, in a way. My dad worked for the bank. We were living in mining towns across Northern Manitoba and Northern Ontario. When the mine closed down, usually the bank did too. Or, Dad would just take a promotion which usually meant a transfer too. By the time we moved to Pickle Lake I had already moved four times. We moved two more times after that before settling in to Red Lake for the long haul. So, it wasn't really easy to have a dog as a pet. We rented our homes, didn't own them, and not every home was allowed to have pets. So, that's when Rhonda became the house pet. Yes, my sister even gave me a name; "Peanuts". Peanuts had a leash some times, Peanuts had to beg for treats...well, you get the point. (If you go back a couple of blogs to where I was talking about Alexander pretending he was a dog, I have two things to say; 1) I did not inspire him to pretend he was a dog. He did that completely on his own accord and 2) I never pooped in the yard in front of my neighbours.)
So it wasn't until I moved back to Red Lake after university that I got my first dog. I was 27 years old. I used to take care of my dog's mother. She lived right across the road from me...Tara. So when the dog down the road, ironically named "Woody", decided to have a conjugal visit with Tara, we were very excited (probably not as excited as they were, though. Ahem.). On June 26th, 1999 I had the opportunity to watch my beautiful golden retriever, Sandy, come into the world, along with six other puppies. Unfortunately, one didn't make it. The next day, I went to Europe for a month and didn't see my little fur ball until August.
She made the journey across the road to my house when she was about 7 weeks old, and immediately got a bladder infection and then almost died on a rotten piece of meat that a pesky raven dropped in the yard. She was so sick that we almost lost her. When she came through that ordeal, I started calling her "Sandy the Wonder Dog", and that she is.
My dog, with all of her idiosyncrasy, is like a furry child. I even jokingly tell Alexander that Sandy is his hairy sister, but I'm kinda serious when I say it. Sandy is definitely a part of the family. But she's more than that; she is my confidante. If I had a dollar for every tear I shed into my beautiful dog's head of golden hair.... And she just listens, without giving me her opinion back. Sometimes she even kisses those salty tears right off my face. Never does Sandy turn her nose up to the supper I make. Instead she sits droolingly, waiting for an opportunity to lick a spoon or have a morsel thrown her way. Never does she insinuate that those jeans make my butt look fat. Instead, she jumps up on my lap and nestles in to my body for a snuggle. Never does she tell me that she's had a shitty day and that I'd be best to just back off. She always greets me at the door with the most exciteable of howls. You get the point....she's there for me completely, without judgement.
But on top of it all, she's entertaining. When I pull out my harmonica, she's the first to join in on the singing, in a low, morose howl. When she does that, I envision her sitting by a camp fire with a bunch of scruffy old, bean eating, weathered cowboys, singing away to "Oh My Darlin' Clementine". Aw-woooo-woooo! And she's the only dog I know that can bark with a ball in her mouth. And she can actually throw the ball at you too. She does this to the neighbours walking by all the time. She barks at them, (heaven forbid she should actually take the ball out of her mouth to say hi) then throws the ball at them through the fence and then waits for them to throw it back. If you don't throw it right away, she'll remind you. Sandy also has selective hearing. I keep my front door open so that Sandy can wander in and out of the house any time she pleases, and some times I call her in, while I'm in the house. If she doesn't want to come in, she won't. Not even if I make promises of cookies or shake her food container. When I go out on the deck and hollar at her to come in, she looks at me, without budging and inch, and I know, I just know she's thinking, "What an idiot. As if I'm going to leave the comfort of this shade right now."
I could brag and brag and brag about my dog. If you're an animal lover, you'll get this. You'll understand the reason why we do this. Why take care of an animal that poops all over the place, and you have to clean up their hair and they drool (once I slipped in my dog's drool and wacked my head so badly on the floor that I almost knocked myself out) and they lick themselves at the most embarrassing of times? Because they're family. And you have tolerance for family regardless of what they're licking in front of you.
Sandy the Wonder Dog is only given a limited amount of time to be a part of my family, and now that she's in her tenth year with her very, very white face, I am all too aware of that. So I just love her and appreciate that I've been given such a wonderful gift in my life.
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