I look down at my Lab mix, Millie and tell her, loud enough so that my husband hears, “I know, Millie. It’s OK. Thank God you have Mommy. If it weren’t for me, there’d be no walks for you.”
“She’s fine,” my husband calls from the other room. “She’ll get out. Anyway, the dog doesn’t care right now. You care more than she does.”
“How do you know she’s content? Maybe She’s sad or bored.” I can’t risk the chance, so I grab her leash, for a quick walk around the block. When I get back my husband is where I left him. Unfazed. “You know you didn’t need to go right at that time.” He tells me. “It’s because you have that weird dog guilt with her.” I don’t argue because he is right. I do feel guilty. He tells me that this all might be a me problem. But when I look into my sweet dog’s trusting eyes, I can’t help but feel bad for her. She didn’t ask to be a dog. Us humans took dogs in their purest form, (wolves) and molded them, like toys into what we wanted them to be. It’s not fair to them.
I don’t know why he doesn’t share my level of angst when it comes to fulfilling Millie’s every need. Even if I walked her three times, doesn’t matter, when she stares at me, I’m up again taking her out, or throwing the ball in the back yard. Except she doesn’t return it. I have found out that she wants me to race her to it, and I do. In the icy snow, the rain, or the oppressive heat, I do. That dog stares into my soul. Even if I have tons of work to do, I get the leash and take her around the block. If I make her wait, she sighs and puts her head down. I can’t take it. Her big curious eyes answer me. “Are we going now? How bout now?
I’ve always told myself that walks are the least we can do after all dogs do for us. It’s not like Millie can call me when I’m out, and say, “I’m bored. Please come home.” But I feel her tugging at my heartstrings anyway, as if she’s telepathically pleading, “Mommy, walk me, come home, and hang out? But I’m not a hanger outer. I’m more of a doer.
The commercials featuring those sad, shivering dogs waiting for adoption, wreck me. I want to save all those skinny, mangy dogs in cages. I start looking at the finances and wonder how much it really costs to purchase a farm, which can house one-hundred dogs comfortably. But there would always be more to save.
Sometimes, I tell Millie that it wasn’t my idea, and I’m so sorry that she is a dog, and I get to be the human. That is when my husband suggests I see more of my therapist.
It’s the thought that dogs can’t just tell us what’s wrong. They rely on us to listen, to observe, to meet their needs. It’s the helplessness that disturbs me. Millie may not speak with words, but she doesn’t have to—her happy prance and wagging tail whenever I reach for her leash say it all. “See.” I tell my husband. “Look how happy she is?”
“Yup.” He replies.
Then there’s the dog park. I want her to socialize. I really do. But we don’t know those other dogs. She might be a big black Lab, but she is afraid of everything, so I let her roam on the “small dog” side. The small dog people are so snobby. When they give me confused looks, I tell them that Millie has bad hips, and the back off. Just seeing the big dogs on the other side of the fence, makes me anxious. And Millie so sensitive to feelings, so she knows.
At Home, if me and my husband have a minor disagreement, she senses it and leaves the room. I remind my stoic husband to calm down. He tells me that he didn’t even say anything. “She senses you are upset.” I tell him.
“She left the room to get water from her bowl” he says. But I know she needed the water to mask a bigger problem. Something I didn’t do for her. The water is a coping mechanism.
Last week, I had a cold and couldn’t take Millie out. Bryan said he did, but I had no proof of that. Millie wandered in my bedroom, sat at the door, and waited. I contemplated going out in the snow with a fever. But then something happened. She jumped up on the bed and curled up next to me. She stayed for hours, and didn’t sleep. I felt sick and she knew it. I couldn’t do anything for her, but she didn’t seem to mind. I dozed off for an hour and when I woke, she had not moved. Her eyes still fixed on me.
“Hi girl.” I said, “You’re hanging out with Mommy?” Millie wagged her tail, and I pet her ears. When I stopped, she pushed my hand with her nose. So, I scratched her ears for at least thirty seconds. When I stopped, she kept pushing me for more. I spent a long time with Millie playing this game. I called my husband to come upstairs and see. “Oh, yeah.” He said, “We do that every night.”
“What? I don’t see it.” I said.
“You're always thinking or walking her, so how would you?"
It broke my heart that my anxiety over being enough for Millie, was overshadowing what Millie needed. It was connection she craved, and she was getting it from my husband, while I was stuck in my head. My dog was connecting with my husband on a level I hadn’t.
I reflect on my relationships with my adult children and realize I do that with them too. My youngest son who is twenty-seven, came to visit, and I tried something. I didn’t jump up and start making homemade things for him. I didn’t do anything, and he didn’t ask for anything. He showed me an Instagram account he started where he posts a video a day of an impressive homerun that one of the major league team players hit. I watched the videos and promised him I’d subscribe.
When he left, I felt relaxed which usually isn’t the case. He went home with no care package of food or advice on how he should be doing things. He went home with nothing. It was weird to me, but I decided I would try it more.
Millie adapted. Now when she wants to go for a walk I don’t have to guess. She just tells me. Her leash hangs on a hook by the side door. She pushes it with her nose to let me know. If I can’t go right away, I don’t, but when I can, I ask her, “You ready for a walk, girl?” She wags her tail barks in my face and hops around. I take that as a yes.
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