Places where I’ve lived have cast their own unique vibrations at dawn. My morning walks have been different in the fifteen or twenty countries where I have taken them, depending on where I was, who I was with. The Buddha implies that all suffering comes by way of comparison. At this stage of my life, I disagree. Comparing those distinct walks is one of my great contemplations. Almost always a dog has been involved. Either mine or a neighbor’s or maybe a lost dog trotting, searching. I’ve met some of my favorite dogs by pure accident while walking down some jungle path or on an unknown street in the cool of the morning.
Missa Him was such a dog. She came to me in the callejones of Guanajuato, often trailing me as I walked or ran. Almost immediately we bonded, and she became part of the family for thirteen years. She died a year ago.
I grieved for six months and then mentioned to Teresa that it was time for a new dog. I wanted a medium-sized dog since we already had a small Chiwoxy, which is a cross between a Chihuahua and a Wire-Haired Terrier. Matilda is her name, and she was in a serious depression over the love of her life, the missing Missa Him. The two cats, Birdy and Stormy, were no replacement. A new dog would cheer all of us up. At least, that was what I thought.
We were living in San Miguel de Allende by then and decided to find a loose dog roaming the city. There were not many, since the authorities and animal rescue workers took them fairly quickly. However, there were three that had caught my attention, a smallish black dog that followed me into a store, a beautiful, timid grey-headed dog with a pure white body, and a Beagle that was in distress. After going home to retrieve a leash and then returning to the spots where I’d seen them, they had disappeared. I searched but could not find them.
It was at that time that my spine started to seriously shift. Soon enough I was scheduled for spine surgery. Still, we needed a dog. The pain and decay of a human has often been ameliorated by a dog. I believe in that, like kindness in a look. For the sake of expediency, we went to one of the local dog and cat rescue operations. We’d picked a few likely candidates online.
When we arrived at the pound, we were greeted by a line of twenty cages filled with barking, whimpering, excited dogs. They wanted someone to save them. They smelled us and, in their eyes, we were heroes. But, in one cage, away from the others, was a dog named Snickers. She was curled up at the back of her cage, quiet and unmoving as if dead. The manager of the place told us she had been turned into the streets by her former owners and after living outside her compound for a month or so, she had been rescued. Neighbors had reported that she would come to the gate and cry, but the owners were unmoved as other street dogs chased her away.
We were told she presented as a mystery. Her trauma could not be measured by the normal standards. When we entered her cage and approached, she got up and crept along the chain-link of her cage. She sought some unavailable shadow. Her slow-moving coat was beautiful. The color was unusual. It appeared to draft in the sunlight like a muddy creek carrying bits of black leaves and dirty white foam.
We were told that since she was severely traumatized, it was unlikely that anyone would adopt her. After a quick consultation, Teresa and I decided that since we could no longer save the world, maybe we could save Snickers.
It has been six months now. We changed Snickers’ name to Happy, and we tell people it’s an aspirational name. At first, she refused to enter the house. She slept in a pile of leaves in the backyard. Then after a few days she followed Matilda into the house. She ignored the cats. Matilda absorbed her spirit, and they became fast friends.
Her throat was injured. We figured someone had tied a cord around her neck and she must have strained against it. Her cough reminded me of metal scraping against metal, but it slowly went away. She has barked less than ten times since she has come into our lives.
Happy wouldn’t let us bathe her. One day, we managed to get the leash on her and I took her for a walk. We made it to the corner, where she collapsed on the sidewalk and demanded to turn back. She was petrified of other dogs and people, mostly men. We started calling her Happy BUG. The BUG stood for Backup Girl. To this day she backs away when we walk near her.
Suddenly, she began to eat pillows. At first, we were upset and thought we must guard them from her. This was impossible. Eventually Teresa, a bit grudgingly, agreed to repair what Happy rendered. It became a great game for Happy.
Ghost Mode was how she approached the situation. She would silently enter a room we were in, and a pillow would go missing. Teresa would say, “She’s been here. Look, the red pillow is gone!” At that moment we would hear her outside, her paws slapping, stopping, and starting as she ran wildly round and round. Suddenly, some object in the air would catch our eye, and there she would be, throwing the wonderful pillow high over her head.
We began to understand why her former owners got rid of her.
To this day, Happy loves to run in circles with some object that maybe she shouldn’t have. Those feelings overtake her when she has stolen a cardboard box, a bone, a piece of cloth, a curtain—or the main prize, a pillow. As she runs, she growls and shows a maniacal smile.
Today, as I write this story, she is at my feet. My spine surgery was difficult, and it has been three months since I’ve left our compound unaided. I walk on a regular basis with a neighbor who shares some of my past. He was a Navy SEAL and we were in some of the same places. His name is Jim, and he loves dogs. Because I walked one of his dogs, the magnificent Lacy, he now has returned the favor and walks me around the block. I walk like a tree blowing in the wind. Sometimes Happy follows, along with Teresa holding the leash. We are a real sight … all that trauma walking down the street over the bones of the dead buried deep beneath the cobblestones of San Miguel.
Happy will probably outlive me, and I only hope that she will continue to become more normal and stop acting like a robot from outer space. Loving her is easy. We honor her terrible past. She is sometimes utterly helpless with the terror in her eyes, but step by step she is getting better, and in her own way she is rivaling Missa Him. In the early morning light, I walk out into the yard with Happy and Matilda and sit over the graves of Missa Him and Princess, Matilda’s predecessor. I talk to all of them, and they listen to me, and it is one of the great joys of my life, discussing our burning world with living and dead dogs.