It was one of those just-right dreams that come along now and then, filling the whole long unconscious-meets-subconscious night with adventure, suspense, mystery … everything building to the Big Moment: a startling revelation, a death-defying act, a spectacular showdown with Fate that reveals you to be the super-heroic, living, breathing action figure you’ve always known yourself to be.
Oh, this was exciting stuff, coming up fast to a heart-racing climax, when suddenly – prodding into the Oscar-worthy dialogue and sound effects – came …
“GRRRRARRRLLL! SNAGUT! ZQUORF! SCHNOCK! SCHNOCK! GRAWRZHNUGH!”
Like that, the great bubble of fantasy burst, leaving my betrayed imagination naught but to swim up from the depths to the surface of consciousness.
“SCKYUGHNUH! GRUMPH! HARSKGROMPNUF!”
It’s dawn, and Archie’s ready for some attention.
He’s down there, in the fading shadows, flat on his back, jerking in little spasms of agony, ecstasy, ventilation – something. He twitches, snaps, writhes, then freezes – one eye shut, one eye growing wide, like Festus used to do on Gunsmoke – checking to see if anyone’s noticed yet that his belly’s bare and soft and ready for rubbing. Or empty and ready for filling, as the case may be.
He can keep up the snorts and groans and half-barks and low growls all morning, if he needs to. He knows exactly how irritating this little stunt is, but that’s nothing so long as it brings him the doting he craves. Besides which, he’s on the clock … he knows we’ll be leaving him, within the hour, to the long, empty day alone.
When it becomes clear that our getting-ready-for-work activities are going to absorb us for a while, he pleads the need to visit the backyard. This leads to his second vocal workout of the morning: standing at the back gate, screaming bloody murder at anyone passing by: a child pumping bike pedals, an aging neighbor leaning on a cane, a fellow canine enjoying the morning sunshine.
“I see what you’re doing!” he hollers. “I know what you’re up to! You’ll get yours, buddy! Your day’s coming!” It’s a belligerent and decidedly unneighborly way to start the day – but then again, inside the house, we’re usually listening to the morning news, and growling pretty much the same things at the myriad politicians and criminals and social dregs crowding the TV screen. People and pets, it’s all the same. We call ‘em as we see ‘em. It’s the American way.
So, he bellows at the world to go away, we bellow at him to come in, he gallops ‘round the house and through the door like he’s racing a rifle-armed outfielder’s throw to home plate … and slides to a stop, huffing, puffing, and proud. His day has officially begun.
His day will include a growing list of quirks. An odd habit of sleeping on the couch with one front paw stretched straight out, like he’s “heil”ing Hitler. (He is a Schnauzer, after all; maybe the German DNA carries a recessive gene or something.) A congenital need to frantically hurl his bed around the room for a minute, before he can go anywhere. (We’re glad he feels like he can be himself.)
Just last week, he strolled into the bedroom with a dollar bill in his mouth. The next evening, he did the same thing … this time, with a five. Where he’s getting the money, we have no idea. Oddly, he gives it up with a lot less fuss than he does most things he gets his jaws around. Maybe he’s decided having money isn’t all that satisfying. And that having more isn’t, either.
He’s in his teen years, now, and becoming quite the athlete.
He’s also developed his first crush, on a cloth frisbee my wife’s mother gave him. The love affair is entirely one-sided, but deep and passionate and – like all true loves – it’s drawn him boldly out of himself. Toss his smudged inamorata across the yard, and he’ll flip himself three feet in the air to catch her – high, low, in front or behind. On a good day, he could give Ozzie Smith or Derek Jeter a run for their Golden Gloves.
He's even acquired a sworn enemy: "Millie," as we call her – the Roomba. They got off on the wrong paw early on, and he’s never been able to abide the casual way she sashays across his homeland. He resents her more than tykes on trikes (which is saying something), and she responds with an utter disdain that only further infuriates him. It’s a battle royal, every Saturday morning.
In other ways, he's growing up. He used to be terrified of his toy box. Of the electric fan. Of the space behind a door. He still approaches all three with great measures of caution, but he will draw reluctantly, bravely, solemnly near to retrieve a favorite toy lying helpless in their daunting proximity. He’s even gotten so he can lay down on the backseat of the car, after the first 800 miles or so of a road trip.
He lets us hug him more than he used to, and occasionally seems to enjoy it. When the world is too much with him, he’ll curl up against the nearest thigh, and rest his weary head on a knee. Amid the vicissitudes of life, he knows where to come for love and protection. Which is, after all, about the most important thing anyone can know, when the night sounds come on, and the shadows grow long.
His great joy, these days, is his evening car ride. It was such a blistering summer in our part of the world that we really couldn’t take him out on the sidewalks for his usual stroll. The yard offered a place for exercise, and we created some indoor events worthy of Olympic competition. But he missed the great sniffing at the close of his day – the massive intake of scents, sounds, and impressions from the streets and yards all around.
So, we took to loading him up before bedtime for a circumnavigation of the neighborhood. We roll down his window and just cruise, slowly, while the neighbors wonder who these creeping voyeurs might be.
Ostensibly, we’re looking for rabbits, and he stands on tiptoe, every sense keen and reaching for crucial glimpses of the hip-hop crowd. When we see one, the little tail starts humming like a windshield wiper, and he whispers little growls of excitement under his breath. But even on nights when the cottontails go home early, Archie’s perfectly happy just hanging with his peeps. We’re a trio, in his mind, and everything’s better when we do it by threes.
He gets that, I guess, from his Creator, Who’s also part of a tight-knit Trio. The three of Them are especially gracious about sharing the wonder and joy of their creation in sweet, simple ways, day by ordinary day… some of them bright as the shine in a happy dog’s eyes.
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