My Life As A Dog

By TAD BARTIMUS

In my next life, I'm coming back as my dog.

This idea crystallized today when I smelled Daisy from 50 yards away. Daisy, it must be explained, was, is, and will always be a wild dog. My husband rescued her from the dumpster at his middle school on the last day of classes three years ago. She was a shivering puppy with spiky, sparse red fur, a sure sign of severe malnutrition. Our veterinarian said she was just a couple of days away from death when, against my better judgment, we brought her home to live with our two old cats, who hated her on sight.
Despite all the love, attention and obedience training humans can lavish on an animal, Daisy remains a roamer, a free spirit who we believe is here to remind us that the tighter the leash, the greater the struggle to be free.
Through Daisy, we're learning about letting go. She's teaching us to trust, helping us to understand that communication isn't just talking to one another, it is eye contact, touch, and intuition as well. She reminds us that sometimes, even though we can't understand it, whatever happens is meant to be.

Why did Daisy come to us? We believe it was to show us new ways to love, to condition us to spontaneity, remind us of the joy of living in the moment. Lessons begin at dawn; every morning Daisy wakes up thrilled to be alive, the creature for whom the phrase "tail wagging the dog" was coined. She barks and whimpers and whines until, finally, we roll over from a fine, sound sleep, pat her head, say "good smiley girl" and let her lick our hands.

That, however, is the only constant in Daisy's day. We know she is devoted to us and, on some level, grateful for the food and shelter we provide, but living with her makes for a life of surprise. If, on a Tuesday, she decides she doesn't want to eat our expensive dog food, she forages through the neighbors' trash for a tasty loaf of moldy bread, then finds a couple of rotten avocados to polish off her breakfast feast. The next week it could be fish heads from somebody else's garbage, or maybe a half-empty box of Bisquick.

We have a fence around our property, but Daisy is at least part Australian shepherd -- she can jump over anything. We have hooked her to a tie-out cable, but her whole personality disappears as she hides her head in her paws and mopes at being tied up. So, we have long, soulful heart-to-heart talks, with me explaining that I am the alpha dog and Daisy promising to try harder.

Increasingly, she does. Only once in a while, if a jogger happens by, will Daisy run six miles down to the national park where she'll get busted for not being on a leash. She still sits proudly in the front seat of the police car, barking all the way home, but seems to be realizing this is "BAD," not good.

She's also best friends with the animal control officer (known as "the dog catcher who's gonna get you!") who, so far this year, has sold us three county license tag replacements because Daisy keeps losing them. But the good news is, we've only gone through one collar. (They have her name and our phone number woven into them.)
Daisy also has trained our friends; now, when they see her far from home -- trotting tail up, Yoda ears alert, tongue hanging out with happiness -- they offer her a ride. She prefers the back of trucks so all her four-legged pals can see her ride by.

Usually too rushed to notice, I found a precious half hour to sit quietly and watch my wild dog nap in the sun. She eats in moderation, so she never has a weight problem, loves being dirty, seldom has to bathe, brings home many unsuitable friends, gets to lick the people she loves and growl at the ones she doesn't, is adored by children, gets left alone when she's sick, sticks her head out the car window to sniff the wind, receives lots of presents and never has to clean up after herself.

It's a dog's life, all right.

"Here, Daisy, come here, girl. Wanna trade?"

© 2002 The Women Syndicate

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