Who are you?

(What the World Needs Now by Jackie De Shannon)

What struck me oddest about John Graves’ relationship to his dogs was that he was afraid to love them.

Now, after reading “Blue and Some Other Dogs,” I feel the need to gush about my own experiences with my dogs. My nanny lived on a cattle farm outside of Canton, Texas. Any dogs that came along were given food and a place to sleep. They were never allowed inside the cottage, but were allowed to come and go as they pleased. As Graves says, “country wandering dogs are an abomination” (116). If the dogs ever left the front porch, they weren’t expected back.

Only two types of dogs were never allowed to stay, and therefore I learned to fear them: chows and pit bulls. I was taught they were vicious, ill tempered, and ready to kill. Yet, despite my parents and grandparents attempts to scare me away from these breeds, I found myself loving them when I visited animal shelters or friends’ places. I never let their stereotypes frighten me out of loving them.

I am very disappointed in Graves’ reaction to Blue’s disappearance: “I don’t believe I want to face so big a dose of that sort of emptiness again” (136). He let the death of Blue, whom he loved very much, to undervalue any future relationship with animals. I feel a little harsh in saying this, so I’ll explain myself a little clearer.

I feel as if Graves is reluctant to love again. He reminds me of someone who has lost the love of their life, and is unwilling to open up to anyone else. I personally feel this is a flaw and a fear of love that should be overcome…able.

My reasoning comes from my own relationships with dogs. When I was very young, we brought home a German shepherd mix that we had found on my nanny’s farm. We named him Freckles for the spots on his hind legs. He was a vicious cattle dog that should never have been brought to the city. Freckles was the kindest companion to my sister and me, but if any stranger were to come by, he’d try to jump the fence and attack them. When a neighbor was bitten by Freckles, we took him back to the farm. It wasn’t a complete loss that Graves felt, but there was still an emptiness and loneliness since we would only see him a few times a year.

Not long after, the bitten neighbor’s dog had puppies. We came home one day to find a black lab mix with scotch tape around her neck and a sticky note that said “Feed me!” We named her Dollie Bell, and she was the sweetest, cutest puppy I’d ever met. She killed birds and squirrels and left them on our doorsteps as a present. She loved to play in the tall corn stalks we had in the backyard. She would flop her fat belly onto the swing set and swing herself for hours. But one day the swing broke when everyone was at work or school, and her collar was caught on the metal. She choked herself trying to escape.

It was the first time I had experienced death, and with that any type of loss or loneliness. Even now I cry thinking about it. But I didn’t let that stop myself from loving another dog. When Graves said, “…the emptiness that came in the searching’s wake, which comes sooner or later to all people foolish enough to give an animal space in their lives,” it made me angry. Foolishness has nothing to do with it. It is compassion, and love, and the ability to care for someone other than yourself.

When Dollie Bell passed away, we took down the swing set. A few years later, we adopted Goldie, our golden retriever. She’s a loveable, playful, energetic twelve year old puppy now. We also have Snickers, who is an impatient, lazy, snappy dog, but we love her all the same. They’re members of our families, not the Nice Dogs or the work dogs that Graves talks about.

The first animal I remember having a close relationship with was my Great Uncle Al’s rat terrier, Spud.  He was a devil of a dog that would bite anyone that tried to touch him, barked incessantly, and terrorized any guest. But I loved him, and I would feed him sausage bites and play fetch near the statue of Mary my uncle kept in the garden.

By the age of three, I was already in my pony phase. I think every girl goes through this fascination of horses. My nanny and cousins had horses, and there were two I was particularly fond of riding: Sea Biscuit and Dallas. When I went riding closer to our house in Beaumont, it was with a twenty-five year old retired barrel horse with a constant eye infection—Granny Mare. I did the usual obsession: I read Black Beauty, The Black Stallion, and Sea Star religiously. I rented Black Beauty from Blockbuster every weekend. I read books on different types of horses—how to take care of them, how to identify them. But most girls grow out of this fascination at some point.

After my years as a die-hard horse fan, I started volunteering at Habitat for Humanity in middle school. By this time, my family had our puppy golden retriever, Goldie (original, I know). But working with this group, I met Snickers, an abandoned mutt who was sick with worms and hip dysplasia. Naturally, we adopted her.

Our kitchen was always smelly and filled with animals. At one point, we had a hedgehog, two tree frogs, a turtle, an aquarium of fish, a stray cat, and the two dogs living in there. The frogs ate crickets that we would catch in the backyard. Unfortunately, on more than one occasion, the caged crickets escaped in the kitchen. When we moved from Beaumont to Houston, we decided it would be best for our pets to stay with our friends.