something big and angry slammed into the white gates.
Patch’s bark exploded, as the gates bowed outwards, threatening to splinter. He stood tall on his back legs, with his massive paws leaning on the gate, head and neck lunging in the direction of my assailants. One second they were about to beat me up, the next they were gone, not just hanging back but vanished, disappeared, as if they had never been there.
“Good boy, Patch,” I said, unlocking the gate, squeezing past him to get in, as he let out a brief series of “and don’t you dare to come back” barks. I could tell he was pumped up, like a racehorse after a race, all pleased with himself, hackles up, pacing back and forth, letting the surge of adrenaline run its course.
I wondered if Carrot and the Slouch were still out there somewhere, watching me interact with the beast that had frightened them enough to make them run away. I hoped so. I hoped they could see how I may have been smaller than them but I was completely at ease around this intimidating creature. And looking back, this was a huge part of Patch’s legacy for me. I may not have been his alpha dog, but I was a member of his pack and so we still got to spend a good deal of time together. It was this kind of effortless accrual of time, doing nothing in particular, simply sharing each other’s presence, that let me feel “the aura of dog”—their mannerisms, their behavior and bearing, the everyday minutiae of integrating your life with theirs. It cannot be faked, this knowledge andappreciation of “dogness.” You either get it or you don’t. Thanks to Patch I was learning what it was like to be around dogs.
“Everything all right, son?” my father shouted from the back door.
“Yes,” I said, patting Patch on his flanks and once more telling him he was a good boy. “Everything’s fine.”
3
.
Blessings in Childhood Time
A ll of a sudden, when I was about ten years old, my parents dropped the biggest bombshell of my young life. “You’re going to love it,” said Mum, with the kind of artificial enthusiasm that makes all kids instantly suspicious. “New house, new school, new friends, and best of all we’ll be just down the street from Grandma.”
I’ve never been good at faking a hound-dog look of desolation so I thought about my new proximity to Grandma’s poodle, Marty, and bent my expression into a look of abject fear.
Dad mussed my hair and squatted down to my height to get a better read of my reaction.
“Don’t worry, son. It’s a nice neighborhood and best of all we’re right next to a public footpath that leads to miles of open fields and woods. Patch is going to love it too.”
I wanted to say, “That’s great, Dad, and I’m sure Patch will appreciate the nearby recreational amenities but to be honest, this great outdoors angle isn’t exactly sealing the deal for me.”
It wasn’t until I was standing in our new kitchen, surveying our backyard, that I realized why my father had felt the need to clarify Patch’s new state of affairs.
Compared to his old backyard, a kingdom my little eyes saw as stretching to an emerald infinity, this new backyard would make Patch a veritable prisoner besieged on three sides by tall, creosote-stained fences, boxing him into a swatch of grass with just enough room for him to do his business and not much else. Playing fetch was out of the question, even when you took my limited ball-throwing skills into consideration.
“Dad, he’s not got much room to run around in,” I said.
My father winced ever so slightly, rolling his head from side to side, as if caught between a yes and a no.
“I think he’ll be fine,” said Dad, though he didn’t look so sure. “You and I are going to have to do a better job of taking him for walks if he’s going to get enough exercise.”
I agreed, convinced these nearby hiking trails, wherever they were, had to be better than this snub to freedom and nature. We both seemed to know I
Patch’s bark exploded, as the gates bowed outwards, threatening to splinter. He stood tall on his back legs, with his massive paws leaning on the gate, head and neck lunging in the direction of my assailants. One second they were about to beat me up, the next they were gone, not just hanging back but vanished, disappeared, as if they had never been there.
“Good boy, Patch,” I said, unlocking the gate, squeezing past him to get in, as he let out a brief series of “and don’t you dare to come back” barks. I could tell he was pumped up, like a racehorse after a race, all pleased with himself, hackles up, pacing back and forth, letting the surge of adrenaline run its course.
I wondered if Carrot and the Slouch were still out there somewhere, watching me interact with the beast that had frightened them enough to make them run away. I hoped so. I hoped they could see how I may have been smaller than them but I was completely at ease around this intimidating creature. And looking back, this was a huge part of Patch’s legacy for me. I may not have been his alpha dog, but I was a member of his pack and so we still got to spend a good deal of time together. It was this kind of effortless accrual of time, doing nothing in particular, simply sharing each other’s presence, that let me feel “the aura of dog”—their mannerisms, their behavior and bearing, the everyday minutiae of integrating your life with theirs. It cannot be faked, this knowledge andappreciation of “dogness.” You either get it or you don’t. Thanks to Patch I was learning what it was like to be around dogs.
“Everything all right, son?” my father shouted from the back door.
“Yes,” I said, patting Patch on his flanks and once more telling him he was a good boy. “Everything’s fine.”
3
.
Blessings in Childhood Time
A ll of a sudden, when I was about ten years old, my parents dropped the biggest bombshell of my young life. “You’re going to love it,” said Mum, with the kind of artificial enthusiasm that makes all kids instantly suspicious. “New house, new school, new friends, and best of all we’ll be just down the street from Grandma.”
I’ve never been good at faking a hound-dog look of desolation so I thought about my new proximity to Grandma’s poodle, Marty, and bent my expression into a look of abject fear.
Dad mussed my hair and squatted down to my height to get a better read of my reaction.
“Don’t worry, son. It’s a nice neighborhood and best of all we’re right next to a public footpath that leads to miles of open fields and woods. Patch is going to love it too.”
I wanted to say, “That’s great, Dad, and I’m sure Patch will appreciate the nearby recreational amenities but to be honest, this great outdoors angle isn’t exactly sealing the deal for me.”
It wasn’t until I was standing in our new kitchen, surveying our backyard, that I realized why my father had felt the need to clarify Patch’s new state of affairs.
Compared to his old backyard, a kingdom my little eyes saw as stretching to an emerald infinity, this new backyard would make Patch a veritable prisoner besieged on three sides by tall, creosote-stained fences, boxing him into a swatch of grass with just enough room for him to do his business and not much else. Playing fetch was out of the question, even when you took my limited ball-throwing skills into consideration.
“Dad, he’s not got much room to run around in,” I said.
My father winced ever so slightly, rolling his head from side to side, as if caught between a yes and a no.
“I think he’ll be fine,” said Dad, though he didn’t look so sure. “You and I are going to have to do a better job of taking him for walks if he’s going to get enough exercise.”
I agreed, convinced these nearby hiking trails, wherever they were, had to be better than this snub to freedom and nature. We both seemed to know I
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