GOD SPELLED BACKWARDS – A Schnauzer’s Prayer

My dog prays. Every day. To God.

How do I know this? Okay, I’m not saying Sylvia sits up, puts her front paw pads together and recites her Glory Be's. No, the way I know is that she’s actually asked for a little help.

So, every morning, right after breakfast, I grab my coffee, plop down in my easy chair and Sylvie—our precious miniature schnauzer—hops up in my lap. She turns and looks up at me expectantly until I start.

            …and oh, my God, those real bones
            with meat on them!

That’s not the only reason I know about Sylvie's spiritual side. I can see it in the way she interacts with me and the rest of her world. Always in the moment, one with her environment; does love like no human being I’ve ever known; and, though she might appear to take everything for granted, just exudes gratitude, for even the smallest things.

Unlike us human beings, who’ve managed to complicate our connection to the divine with our own conceits, that of animals is just a straight-up, no-pretensions conduit of love.

So of course she wants to pray. Granted, she only has about a 50-word vocabulary and has trouble pronouncing even those few words. So that’s where I come in. I provide the lap…and the voice. Now you may think it’s just my own voice, my own ideas. But that’s not how it feels to me. What really happens is that I channel Sylvie; I actually feel what she’d say if she could:

Dear God, thank you, thank you, thank you for this beautiful day. This precious day of living, sensing, feeling…and loving.

Thank you for my Mommy and Daddy. For our home and all the cushy places where I get to snooze and snuggle. Thank you for our walks and all of Nature’s sights and sounds…and especially the smells—my way of keeping track of all the critters who’ve tried claiming my turf in the past few days.

Like those squirrels, they don't smell much, but they drive me nuts. They wait till I'm almost on them, flicking those bushy tails, just to taunt me. I always fall for it, but I've never once caught one.

Thank you for my kibble, especially when Mommy or Daddy adds a little chicken. For the smorgasbord of tidbits they manage to drop on the floor. And for those crunchy little Milk Bone treats…and oh, my God, the real bones with meat on them!

    Help me to be a good girl. To make
    Mommy and Daddy smile and not frown.

Thank you for playing, for running, fetching and tug-of-war. For hide & seek and catch…and oh, tummy rubs! Thank you for all my toys: my lobster, skeleton, Nylabones and tennis balls…even though any old stick would do.

Thank you for my friends: our neighbors, Merrily, who always has a treat for me, and Megan who might just love me more than Daddy and Mommy do; and all my puppy friends at doggy day care. Especially Yogi, who’s my size and looks like me.

God, please help me to be a good girl. To make Mommy and Daddy smile and not frown. And to protect them from folks I don’t know—especially when they try to come into our house. No one seems to like that, but I can’t help it.

Please bless us all, and keep us safe and healthy. And for us and all the folks we love let it be a very good day.

Sylvia doesn’t know about “amen,” so I add that for her.

What do you think? Might your pet pray if you provided the lap and the voice? If not to God, perhaps to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, to the Great Spirit or to whatever manifestation of Universal Intelligence you invoke? You’ll never know unless you try. At the very least, it’s a nice, centering way to start the day—for both of you.

And please, share your experience—or just your thoughts—with the rest of us!

BORN TO KILL – The Precious Instincts of a New Puppy

We human beings have been trying to breed and train out our domestic dogs’ wild instincts for 15,000 years.* Or, more accurately, to channel those instincts to best serve our own needs.

With those early wolf-dogs, of course it was handy if they scared away predators and rivals…but not so good if they ate the baby.

Centuries passed, and the roles for which we trained our canine helpers broadened to include hunting and retrieving, herding, search and rescue, rooting out vermin, pulling sleds, racing, and even rooting for truffles.

As the array of distinct breeds has broadened—the AKC now recognizes 190—the diversity of services these splendid creatures provide for us has kept pace. Some of the latest: drug- and bomb-sniffing dogs, personal assistance dogs, therapy dogs and, the latest and somewhat controversial designation, “emotional support” dogs.

   There they were: skills no one’s taught a
   schnauzer for well over a hundred generations.

APPLIED PHYSICS
And that brings me to Sylvia. She’s the eight-week-old miniature schnauzer puppy Sally and I just added to our family last Saturday.

We don’t expect Sylvia to do anything for us but be there when we come home, listen to us when no one else will and let us love her to death. Oh, and not tear apart every rug and piece of furniture we have.

But she’s a smart little thing; after only a week, she’s learning her name, that she gets praise and a treat when she does her business outside, and, quite amazingly, already recognizes tone of voice and facial expression as indicators of our approval.

But those are all things we’re teaching her. What amazes me more is the sheer staying power of those ancient instincts, tracing back to her lupine ancestors and channeled in the late 1880s when miniature schnauzers were originally bred as ratters and guard dogs on German farms.

Last night I watched in awe as Sylvia showed off that genetic imprinted repertoire—skills no one’s taught a schnauzer for well over a hundred generations. Yet there they were on full display as we played a simple pursuit game with her favorite plush toy.

We tied one end of a sturdy six-foot-long ribbon to that limp, pink form—I think it’s supposed to be a pig. I hold the other end and swing the thing around Sylvia in broad arcs. I thought sure she’d clumsily lunge at it as it went whizzing past her, or at best run in circles to follow it.

Nope. She’s too smart for that; from the very first try she showed she knows in
her bones a little something about hunting…not to mention geometry and physics. Instead of attacking in the direction of her “prey” as she saw it, she knew to anti-
cipate its trajectory, and raced directly to the place she knew it would be a scant second later. And she does not miss.

Is my dog a friggin’ genius? He-yeah!

What does your pet do that conjures up its breed’s early domestication? Do you observe vestiges of behavior one might expect had long since been bred out of that species? Whether you have a dog, a gerbil or a giant Burmese python, we’d love to hear from you; please share your thoughts here with a comment, or share and comment on Facebook.

* Estimates of when wolves were first domesticated range from 10,000 to 30,000 years ago. Some claim it happened in Europe; others, in the Middle East or East Asia. Some think early human hunter-gatherers actively tamed and bred wolves. Others say wolves domesticated themselves, by scavenging the carcasses left by human hunters, or loitering around campfires, growing tamer with each generation until they became permanent companions.
A NEW ORIGIN STORY FOR DOGS BY ED YONG – THE ATLANTIC – 6/2/16

HEAL! – How Dogs Cure Us

Nature is in every human animal’s DNA. It made us, sustains us and comprises us, body and soul.

No matter how much we may try to control or deny it, no matter how we presume to virtualize it, no matter how we smother it in busy-ness, we can’t escape it. Wherever we live, even if it’s a place where signs of life are few, our essential belonging to Nature is hard-wired into us. And at some level, whether we realize it or not, we all deeply long to embrace it—to bring it home.

This is why human beings have dogs. (Okay, I know dogs aren’t the only animals folks keep as pets, but what can I say? I’m a dog person.)

That reminds me of a joke: Know the difference between dogs and cats? Dog looks up at its person and thinks, My gosh, he pets me, feeds me, talks to me, gives me everything I could possibly need. He must be God.

Cat looks up at its person and thinks, Well let’s see, she pets me, feeds me, talks to me, gives me everything I could possibly need…I must be God.

ALL PHOTOS, UNLESS OTHERWISE CREDITED: Pixabay

FROM PRACTICAL TO PRECIOUS  

PHOTO: Mario Sanchez via WikiMedia

From the ancient Egyptian grain trader relying on his cats—while also deifying them—to control vermin; to the medieval lord and his falcon, or the modern hunter or rancher trying to make sense of both loving animals and slaughtering them, our domes- tication of wild animals is as old as we are.

While most of these creatures, including dogs, were originally tamed to work for us, there are, as it turns out, other reasons we’re so fond of having pets; the blurring of the line between expediency and those other less practical benefits dates back at least 12,000 years.

Here are just a few of the reasons why we cynophiles want—and need—dogs in our lives:

Companionship – No matter how perfect we might feel our connection with another human being, personal relationships are hard. We try to be good mates, but we always end up hurting and disappointing each other. We see our own shortcomings reflected in them.
     But with a dog there is no guile, no misplaced expectation. They are what they are…and they love us for exactly who we are. In fact, we see in them many of the traits we wish we possessed.

    I sometimes wonder if dogs don’t feel sorry 
    for how we’ve forfeited our own child-puppy 
    spontaneity.

A Need to Nurture – Most humans, it seems, are so independent, so self-sufficient, that we won’t admit to wanting—much less needing—anyone to take care of us. But we all need to nurture.
     Sure, we do it instinctively with children and perhaps the aged, but what about after the nest is empty once again; what about for those who no longer have—or have never had—someone to take care of? Two words: bow and wow.

PHOTO: fortheloveofthedogblog.com

Entertainment – Dogs make us laugh…and cry…and sing and dance… We just love to watch them. We people are fascinating to watch too, but dogs are way more fun. It touches more than our funny bone; it touches a place that yearns to be that spontaneous, that genuine, that free.
     And I sometimes wonder if dogs don’t enjoy watching us too—maybe just to see our reaction to them…or perhaps feel sorry for how so many of us grown-ups have forfeited our own child-puppy spontaneity.

Exercise – You’ve heard dog owners say they’re not sure who’s taking whom for the walk, right? Well it’s true. We need dogs to get us off our big fat butts and thin little screens and out of the house.
     By the way, these folks we see now and then being hauled passively around on their bikes or skateboards by the slave labor of their poor crazed, panting pups…they just don’t get it.

     We have allowed our awareness to be steeped 
     out of us by a culture that can no longer dis- 
     tinguish reality from entertainment. Dogs, 
     thank God, can still tell the difference!

Role Modeling – We find much to admire in our dogs: their generous spirits and modest needs; their unbridled enthusiasm; their obvious empathy when we’re sad or hurting; their fierce loyalty; their ability to thoroughly inhabit the simplest moment.
     And then there’s the way they handle adversity. A dog doesn’t blame anyone if it gets sick or hurt, doesn’t feel sorry for itself when it loses an eye or a leg. Hell, most wouldn’t even blame their owner for abusing them. My wife and I call this “just doing,” and often notice how it educates our own dealings with life’s hard knocks.

PHOTO: John Hurd via WikiMedia Commons

Awareness – It seems more and more people are so captivated by their own mostly-inane thoughts—or, perhaps more aptly nowadays, their iPhones or iPads—that they don’t have a clue what’s really going on, often right in front of their noses…until their dogs show them.
     We humans have rather easily allowed our awareness, our attention spans, to be steeped out of us by a culture that can no longer distinguish reality from entertainment. Dogs, thank God, can still tell the difference! 

Social Lubrication – When it comes to ways of meeting and interacting with other human beings, we’ve all heard the tried-and-true tricks: sign up for a community ed. class; volunteer; hang out in the produce aisle at the supermarket and ask folks how to tell when a cantaloupe is ripe.
     But the best way, hands down, whether you’re a young single person prospecting for dates, a lonely elder or just someone who loves other people, is to walk down the street or through the park with a dog—puppies are most effective. The way I figure, anyone who doesn’t love stopping to pet your dog isn’t worth meeting anyway.

PHOTO: dailypuppy.com

Centering – I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that dogs have a spiritual presence. Like sunshine on our skin or the smell of food, the presence of dogs causes things to happen in our bodies and minds. Something opens up; a hardness inside softens and melts. The toughest character—even, they say, a hardened criminal—turns into a cooing, caressing softie.

Have you ever seen the face of a hospitalized child or a dementia patient light up when that sweet chord of connection with a dog is struck? What is this chemistry, and why is it so powerful that I feel it change me even when I just look at a picture of a dog?

Healing – Pet dogs don’t just take us outdoors, don’t just show us how to be healthy and whole; they impart genuine healing energy to our bodies and spirits. Scientific studies have shown, for example, that petting a dog lowers people’s heart rates and blood pressures.
Therapy dogs provided through a number of treatment programs—for Alzheimers, autism, PTSD, hospice, and many others—are well recognized for providing obvious, measurable healing.

So how do dogs—yours, or perhaps those you only covet—make you feel? 
What do you most admire about them? How do they make your life better? How have they changed you?

We fellow, fawning cynophiles out here would love to hear from you!!

SHORT, BLACK AND GERMAN – The Dogs I Have Loved

SABER THE SECOND OF HAWTHORNE
The dog I grew up with was not exactly the stuff of an active, outdoorsy, towhead boy’s dreams. You know, the hearty, exuberant Old Yeller type. No, Saber was a dachshund—his pedigree proclaimed him Saber the Second of Hawthorne.

PHOTO: MyDachshunds.info

Now I’ve never met a dog I didn’t love, but in Saber’s case I also hated him. I know it wasn’t entirely his fault; my mom had a way of making our family pets kind of neurotic. He was fidgety, paranoid and, well, just didn’t have a very good grasp of who or what he was. And he smelled, all the time, as if he had just eaten rotten fish.

The smell was the easy part; I could always hold my breath…or, even better, just keep my distance. But what I couldn’t escape was the slurping.

Saber slept in my room, in a little bed over in the corner by the radiator. Every night just after lights out he’d start licking himself. Which was fine…for the first few minutes. But it went on and on and on, this slow, syrupy slopping.

I was a pretty mellow kid, but this sound tapped into some kind of deep-seated rage. At first, just barking No! at him would do the trick. But each night I’d have to increase the volume and frequency of my rebukes.

Then it got to the point where the little bastard just ignored me. That’s when I started reaching down to the floor for one of my slippers and just winging it at the sound.

Though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t from a concussion, I don’t remember exactly when or how Saber passed on. (I hope he ended up in a place where he could mop his privates to his little heart’s content.) I’m sure his passing left more of a void for my mom than it did for me; she never had to listen to that infernal slurping.

LADY
My second dog was everything Saber the Second of Hawthorne was not.

When I was a lad, we spent summers at my parents’ summer home about an hour north of the Twin Cities on the lovely St. Croix River. Those halcyon days found me—after my chores were done—playing in the corn and alfalfa fields, hiking up in the hills, catching frogs along Lawrence Creek, swimming down at the river, or fishing.

One mid-July morning I opened our twangy-springed screen door and found a dog—a young black Labrador mix—curled up on the stoop’s dewy floorboards. She was pretty scrawny, her coat matted with burrs and spots of blood where she’d been cut by thorns or who knows what. Her floppy underside and extended nipples told me she’d recently had pups. (I never did find out what happened to those pups.)

She looked up at me hopefully, pleadingly, and it was love at first sight. We asked around, ran a notice in the local weekly, and waited. With good food, a safe place to sleep and lots of affection, her body soon filled out and the wounds healed. I named her Lady. And, despite my parents’ admonitions, I prayed no one would claim her.

No one did. And Lady and I became partners in crime for one of the most wonderful summers of my life. We played and explored to our hearts’ content, inseparable.

          While my thoughts those days went 
          no further than the present moment, 
          my parents, I’m sure, were agonizing 
          over the inevitable.

I trained her, well enough to make her a welcome house mate, but apparently not to inhibit her wild instincts; she still managed to find dead, moldering carcasses to roll in—snakes, birds, fish…to her they were all like the finest perfume. And she got grounded for a week after killing one of our neighbors’ geese.

But Lady was a good dog…the best dog.

PHOTO: ChickenSmoothie.com

While my thoughts those days went no further than the present moment, my parents were agonizing over the inevitable: come late August, when we moved back into the confines of the city and our fragile, antiquarian mansion with its small yard, what would we do with Lady?

Their decision struck me blind with grief and anger. Lady, they insisted, would move to Rolla, Missouri to live with my sister, who had a bigger yard and a more forgiving house. She lived there for some years, and then returned to Minneapolis where she spent the rest of her life. My sister and her family were very good to her.

I understood the wisdom of my parents’ decision—more so as I aged and became a parent myself—but deep inside my boyish heart I’ve never forgiven them.

POOH BEAR
After college, between starting architecture school, the serious threat of being shipped off to Vietnam, and scrounging for borrowed and rented housing, there was no room in my life for a dog.

But in the early 70s, even though by that time I was married and had a baby (a human one), I felt I’d been too long without a dog. We’d moved from Minnesota to New England where I was teaching and coaching at Vermont Academy, a private boarding school nestled between ski slopes and trout streams in Saxtons River, Vermont.

It was an emotionally tough time, what with the demands of my new family, my being largely unprepared to be a teacher, classrooms full of partially-wasted students who’d been stuck there against their wills, and one campus group vowing to kill me for reporting a few of their friends for doing drugs in their dorm room.

I was out of my element in so many ways. I desperately needed some sense of control in my life, a relationship that would be easy and fun. So I went to the local humane society. I wasn’t sure what I wanted…until I saw him. The sweetest little thing, all squiggly with excitement and love. And, wouldn’t you know it, another black lab.

        I hope he had a good life—with a wiser, 
        more considerate master than I.

Ah, yes, little Pooh Bear. What I was thinking?!! I didn’t even know if dogs were allowed in our in-dorm faculty apartments. Besides, with a wife, a baby and a demanding schedule, I wasn’t sure how I’d keep him from waking us up at night, or even where I’d find the time to care for and train yet another new member of the family.

Furthermore, Pooh Bear was not house-broken—not even close. For the first few weeks, I kept him, secretly, in a closet in my art classroom/studio. Every night I’d cover the floor with several layers of newspaper, put him out to do his business and then nestle him into his blanket in the corner. The cries and scratching began even before I could close the door. I tried not to listen.

Next morning, every morning, before classes, I’d open that door to find the poor little guy jumping out of his skin with excitement…and covered—along with the now-paperless floor and the walls up as high as he could reach standing on his hind legs—in shit. Pooh Bear, indeed. Potty training him alone was going to be tough; I didn’t even know where to start.

Things did not improve, so, alas, shamefully admitting defeat, I returned Pooh Bear to the shelter, hoping against hope that I’d not irreparably traumatized him. I hope he had a good life—with a wiser, more considerate master than I.

BOSSY BESSIE
I don’t know if that whole Pooh Bear debacle had anything to do with it, but in 1976, now back in Minnesota with two kids, my first marriage ended in divorce. I was ashamed for not having had what it took to be a good enough husband and father to keep our family together.

Deeply mourning the loss of my kids (their mom wasted no time in whisking them back to her happy place, New England) I could barely put one foot in front of the other.

I needed therapy…the kind I knew only a certain breed of dog could administer. So I headed once again for the humane society. It took a few visits, but eventually my stars aligned with those of the third black lab mix in my life, Bess.

Over the next several years, Bess and I grew very attached. At last, I had the time and temperament to really train her and gain her trust. We shared our deepest thoughts—well, my deepest thoughts. We bonded. Her name evolved to Bessie, and then, during my mushiest, most sentimental moments, to Bossy Bessie. Don’t ask.

PHOTO: Pixabay

Bess and I often went back up to the family’s summer place on the St. Croix, where she did exactly what Lady used to do those many years ago: bounding joyfully through the fields; following me—that is, when she wasn’t waylaid by a smell quest; and, yes, anointing herself in eau de rotting flesh.

We even survived a tornado together. It was the classic story: Hot, humid July afternoon, and I’m on the second floor repairing a window. It gets eerily still, and the sun’s swallowed up in dark, kind of greenish clouds. Big rain. Hail. And then the classic deep, rumbling, train-like roar.

Bessie felt it before I did, the vacuum created by the giant sucking vortex bearing down on us. I grabbed the radio and a flashlight, and we ran down to the basement. In less than a minute it was quiet again.

We headed up and poked our heads out the back door. Trees were down; the garage roof was gone; and right next to it, the entire flat, tar-and-gravel roof of the apartment building next door lay across our back yard.

       Anything for love, I rationalized, not 
       yet quite aware that I'd just given up the 
       right dog for the wrong woman.

During the Bess era, I got married again. My new wife was a suburbanite through and through. Fastidious. Clear vision of the lifestyle she expected. And she came with attachments: two kids and a foo-foo little dog named Bibi. She couldn't quite picture perfect little Bibi having any competition in our new, modern, immaculate suburban home. And I…well…I was an idiot.

In the spirit of compromise—I'm still not sure what she gave up as her end of the bargain—I agreed to do with Bess what my parents had done 30 years before with Lady. I found her a nice, loving home on a farm near Red Wing. And Bibi, well, ironically, a few months later the precious little thing was run over by a car.

Driving away from that farm, seeing my sweet Bossy Bessie in the rear view mirror, for what I knew would be the last time, tore my heart out. Anything for love, I rationalized, not yet quite aware that I'd just given up the right dog for the wrong woman.

Against my better judgement, I did go to visit Bess once. It was surreal. Half of me prayed she'd come bounding out to welcome me; the other half hoped she wouldn't. She didn't. No one was home and she was nowhere to be seen. Probably for the best, but my heart ached anew.

SILVER GIRL
It took me nearly as long to recover from my abandoning my best friend as from my second divorce. Eventually, though, I moved on. Bought a sweet little home in the city—which is where I finally realized I belong. Even fell in love again.

Once more, I was with someone who already had her own kids…and dog. But his time I knew that, even if I'd brought a pack of pit bulls to the deal, Sally, the ultimate dog person, would never have dreamt of asking me to give them up.

Maxwell, Sally's miniature schnauzer, was, shall we say, an acquired taste. Grumpy, yippy, paranoid…and not a black lab. Nonetheless, we loved him well for the rest of his life.

Eventually Sally and I got married and, with both of us having put our child-rearing years well behind us, into our lives tottered our second miniature schnauzer, Abby. Well, Sally actually bought her for her son. But Matt was a carefree, socially active young man soon headed off to college; I knew all along Abby was going to be our dog.

PHOTO: Pixabay

Abby was the black-and-silver variety of schnauzer. And on her the “silver” was really silver. I mean it had both the light gray color and nearly the same metallic luster as the precious metal. We came to call her, in our tenderest moments with her, our Silver Girl.

   We never did figure out why she got so excited 
   every time I mentioned the name of then- 
   Minnesota Twin, David Ortiz.

I suppose I could go to great lengths explaining all of Abby’s special qualities, but if you’ve ever had a really good dog, you know them: Her unfailing excitement to see us; the way she looked into our eyes—sometimes angling for a treat; other times just wondering what we were thinking; her keen sense of right and wrong; her amazing vocabulary—in both Dog and English. (We never did figure out why she got so excited every time I mentioned the name of then-Minnesota Twin, David Ortiz.)

The traits that most stand out, though, are those Abby exhibited as she neared the end of her life—the grace with which she moved, even as her body was failing; the loving gaze of those now-cloudy eyes; and her sheer tenacity.

As lovely as such qualities were during those final weeks, the ones they brought out of me were even more unexpected. I never knew how tender and patient I could be until I carried her out to the lawn and held her upright while she piddled; until I cleaned up her increasingly-frequent indoor accidents…without the slightest annoyance; until I held that bony, feeble frame in my arms for the last time, soothing her with soft-spoken praise.

            I knelt beside her, placed my hand 
            on her bony side and knew.

On Abby’s last last night with us, Sally’d had to go to bed because of an early appointment the next morning. Before I joined her, I carried Abby outside to piddle. Then, as I laid her gently into her dark green, pillowy bed, I had a strong feeling that her time was close at hand.

I lay down with my head against her side, listening to her slow, shallow breathing, until I was sure she was asleep. And then, tearfully, I went up to bed.

On her way out early next morning, Sally noticed Abby sleeping in the same place I’d left her. But when I went down two hours later I was apprehensive. There was our sweet Abby, out of her bed, lying in the middle of the floor. I knelt beside her, placed my hand on her bony side and knew. Our Silver Girl was gone.

Maybe it was the fact that she was the one dog I’d known intimately from puppyhood until the day she died, but Abby, of all the fine dogs I’ve loved, was and is the canine love of my life. The mere thought of her still brings tears to my eyes.

It’s been nearly seven years now, and I still don’t know if there will ever be a place in my heart for another dog. But, just recently, I’ve had the sneaking suspicion that Abby, as protective as she was of her space, may finally be ready to move over and make room.

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring—it was peace. ~ MILAN KUNDERA

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – Tip #51

 TIP #51

Smell your dog.

You know how dogs smell us with their whole being? Though we can only hope to smell a thousandth as well, we can return the favor. 

Have you noticed that some dogs have a particular warm, nutty smell when they've been sleeping? 
It comes from their feet. (Some people call this Frito feet.) Ears and other parts have different smells. Each is unique to your pet.
 
Let smells be part of your bond with your dog.

"If only you knew how much I smell you." – Book title, ROY BLOUNT JR.

MEXICAN STREET DOGS – Hangin' Out, Hangin' On

I love dogs. Just about any kind, any size, any breed. Now that's not to say all dogs are alike. Well, at first maybe they are—like human babies—until we teach them differently.

       

I've met lots of Mexican street (and beach) dogs. Sure, they're skinny, mangy and flea-ridden. Nobody seems to pay any attention to them. Yet these guys don't seem needy in any way. They're either too busy, too hot or too weak. Most just act like they've got places to go and things to do. If they even bother looking your way, it's only to make sure you're not going to bother them.

And for some reason I'm not sure I understand, nearly every one of these uncollared, roving Mexican pups I've ever met seems to have a heart of gold.

       

AN INVESTMENT WITH TEETH
Of course Mexicans have pets. You see people out walking them on leashes and kids playing with them, just like in the U.S. But it's my impression that far fewer Mexicans embrace their pets emotionally to the extent we do up north. Certainly fewer can afford to, but there are other reasons too.

They're the skinniest ones...the ones stopping most often to scratch.

Many dogs here are pretty much ignored. Some are fed; others, left to scrounge on their own. Even those with homes, especially the bigger dogs, are kept mostly for security, tied up at night just outside the back door or at the gate to the street. But when they're let out to patrol the neighborhood during the day, they couldn't seem any less viscious.

Then there are the animals with no home at all. They're the skinniest ones, the ones you see scrounging around in the gutter for a dropped candy wrapper or scraps of garbage spilled on pick-up day, the ones stopping most often to scratch.

       

Yet, for being in what appears such a needy situation, I've rarely seen a street dog begging. And those few I have, do so tentatively, gratefully—you could almost say politely—gently taking what they're offered and then moving on.

Perhaps it's precisely because they're ignored that Mexican street dogs are so sweet.

Perhaps it's precisely because they're ignored that Mexican street dogs are so sweet. No one's taught them to be neurotic, needy, picky or obnoxious as we so often do in the rest of North America, Europe and more cosmopolitan parts of Asia.

       

Back home in the US most dogs are given the status of family members. They sleep in our beds. They eat food the makers convince us we'd enjoy eating ourselves. We send them to school and sign them up for play groups. No wonder they develop some of the same neuroses and co-dependencies we instill in our kids. Expectations, manipulation, lack of discipline.

Mexican street dogs are independent, efficient, creative, tough, unassuming. I admire them.

           

ONE DAY AT A TIME

Just yesterday, here in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico, I came across a medium-sized, short-golden-haired dog that was in pretty tough shape. Tottering across the street seemed to take his last ounce of strength. Unable even to scale the five-inch curb, he collapsed in the gutter between two parked cars and just lay there.

I was overcome by the thought that the poor creature had just found permission in my touch to take his last breath.

Figuring he was too weak to find food or drink on his own, I offered him some water in the palm of my hand, but he wouldn't even lift his head. As I stroked that little recess between and just above his eyes, he closed his eyes…and then was motionless.

I looked for his skeletal rib cage to rise. It didn't. A lump welled up in my throat at the thought that the poor creature had just found permission in my touch to take his last breath.

       

I kept my hand on his head—I guess I thought this might send him on his way a little less alone. After about 20 seconds, though, the dog's concave side rose in a shallow breath, and then another. I left to find a convenience store and bought a packet of crackers—the closest thing to dog food I could find.

Before tasting them he lifted his boney head and just looked into my eyes.

When I got back I offered him a few small pieces in my hand. This time he seemed interested, but before tasting them he lifted his boney head and just looked into my eyes. Then he slowly, gratefully, lapped up the crumbs and eventually all the crackers.

Encouraged, I went back to the store and bought a small package of salchicha, but when I returned this time, my new friend was gone. I looked around, in doorways, under cars, in the street. There, just down the block, was his scrawny butt tottering with renewed energy down the sidewalk.

I wonder if anyone will be there tomorrow to help keep him keep going another day.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #51

Smell your dog.

You know how dogs smell us with their whole being? Though we can only hope to smell a thousandth as well, we can return the favor. 

Have you noticed that some dogs have a particular warm, nutty smell when they've been sleeping? 
It comes from some kind of healthy bacterial, yeasty thing going on between their toes. (Some people call this Frito feet.) Ears and other parts have different smells. Each is unique to your pet.
 
Let smells be part of your bond with your dog.

"If only you knew how much I smell you." – Book title, ROY BLOUNT JR.