A few evenings ago, exhausted by my life's tendency to throw things at me in a barrage, I found myself sitting with long complicated heartache yet again. I'd neglected to take The Dog out to do anything that day, so I settled on a trip to the park by the river. I've felt conflicted about using this park, since it's been identified as a generations-old sacred place of Minnesota's native peoples, thus will soon close as a dog park. There's a spot where large ancient oak trees stand in their strength, just before the land slopes down to a sandbar; the place feels sacred, there's something intangible but felt there. I recalled recently reading about a native practice of giving your burdens to the water. I'd been contemplating one last trip. And so we went.
The Dog was overjoyed, of course. We walked among the trees, then worked our way to the sandbar. It was quiet, late in the evening on a warm night. There's a solemnity to that spot, when no one is around and the sun has gone away, the sky soft cotton candy hues. I perched myself on a boulder and watched the water, and cried. The grief I'm simultaneously so weary of carrying and so wary to feel, had space to emerge.
My sweet dog, whereas everyone else knows me for my happiness, he's always known me as something of a sad girl. His breed being quite sensitive and tuned into the emotional frequencies around them, I raised him on the words: "Mama's just a little sad." He has snuggled on my lap, laid across my chest, and gently, sweetly licked tears from my cheeks until I can't help but laugh a little. As I sat on the boulder by the river, he looked at me with that face that says "What next?" So, I gave him the old familiar cue. First he tried to consider jumping on my lap, but decided to lay down on the rocky shore beside my feet, sphinx-like, to keep watch of course. After a few minutes, I knew he'd been patient with me, so I rose to continue our walk along the sand.
Not long down the shore, probably two hundred feet ahead, a woman was stopped with her back to us. Her children and dog had carried on, far off in the distance. I noticed The Dog notice her, as a little pep sprung into his step, his tail perked and whipping serpentine as only it does when he trots. He made his way up to the woman, who stood still looking at her phone. He stopped to the left of her and looked up in delighted anticipation as if to say, "Hello friend, I am here if you would like to pet me." Not everyone understands this (for some reason), including this woman. Instead, awoken from her trance, she realized she'd fallen behind her children and walked away without petting The Dog. He felt something about it, what I can't be sure. He ran up behind her to the other side and cut in front of her a few feet, barking a few happy barks at her as he went, then bolted back towards me increasing in speed. He loves when I egg him on, so I cheered on his approach and clapped for his speed. He blew past me and looped back around tearing off in the direction of the woman again. This was a phenomenon. Something I haven't seen him do in many years, he'd gotten the "zoomies". He looped the woman again, and from what I could see she laughed. He came barreling back to me, clearly exuberant to be running. Whatever his motive was, I couldn't be sure, I could only conclude it must've been to make me laugh.
To me, that was special enough on its own, knowing so clearly that my dog was trying to brighten my spirits. Then tonight I read something that made me think more about this silly little moment. I read that a herding dog's instincts are to group animals together and bring them back to the handler. Instantly I pictured his looping on the sand, and it occurred to me: when I was feeling sadness over love lost, this dog tried to bring someone to me.
I often wonder how I got so lucky as to have such a pure hearted little creature to share life with. To sit with me through many griefs, to start my days with quiet, pleasant joy of loving snuggles and uncontrollable kisses, and to be welcomed home with excitement likely to go unmatched by any human I'll ever know.
To be loved by a dog, an extraordinary dog. What a gift.
