Those who spend no time with dogs might assume they've got a narrow range of behavior (eat, poop, bark, jump and fetch) and breed-determined personalities. At a dog park, each dog's singularity (I would say soul) emerges with distinct nuances of character and emotion, extended far beyond the concept of breed or the notion of "pet." The more observant human can see traits ranging from the hilarious to the horrifying in each dog, shaped but not limited by breed.
Meet three of the astonishing characters I see each day:
Stella is a pomeranian, weighs nine pounds. She's supposed to be fairly delicate, disinterested in long physical activity, a bit of a princess. Websites on pomeranians stress grooming and fragility. The first time she came to Ellison, I sat her down on the trail to Dog Beach, expecting recalcitrant, nervous reaction to the bounding large dogs. Here's what she did instead.
She streaked at the pace of a greyhound to the brink of the creek and bounded in, no hesitation, came up under the tennis ball the labs and retrievers were diving for, nabbed it and ran. The big dogs were stunned. They chased her but she wouldn't relent. Her ball.
Every day since, she has fetched every ball lobbed. Mid-air, mid-stream, as far as it can be thrown. She's mad for tennis balls. She can find one in the muck or the weeds within five minutes of our arrival at Ellison and will fetch and retrieve it five hundred times each walk. No one has ever seen anything like it.
Lacey is blind. Her breed is prone to eye problems and her owners willingly sought out her out as a rescue, knowing she was at risk of being put down. She plays with the dogs at the periphery of Dog Beach, not able to splash with the biggest without getting jostled, but perfectly capable of running after balls with milder pups, romping with them through the fields and waterways, finding her friends. She joins the other dogs at the call of "treats!" and has learned she'll get a nice chunk of chicken hotdog when she hears me call my pups, knowing they're rewarded when they come. She lines right up, finding me in a flash. She lives for the joys of Ellison, for the play every dog is meant for.
Emma is my friend. I didn't pick her. She chose me. If Paula, her person, drives by my street or past me in the park, Emma will howl until she's let free to run to me. She can see me from a mile away. She runs to me in the park, over hills, through brush, from one side of the creek to the other, and throws herself at my feet. Flings herself at my calves until I notice. Buries her head in my arms. I don't know why. She doesn't do it to anyone else, and Paula is as mystified as I. When Emma was freshly rescued, I gave her the usual skritches and treats, but no more than others. But if a new dog enters the beach, Emma runs to my side, ready to defend me if the newcomer is dastardly or rough. She intervenes if a quartet of rowdies threatens to bump into me. She is my humble protector and my loving friend. I've done nothing to deserve it and could do nothing to stop it.
Come meet these beasts at Ellison.
Meet three of the astonishing characters I see each day:
Stella is a pomeranian, weighs nine pounds. She's supposed to be fairly delicate, disinterested in long physical activity, a bit of a princess. Websites on pomeranians stress grooming and fragility. The first time she came to Ellison, I sat her down on the trail to Dog Beach, expecting recalcitrant, nervous reaction to the bounding large dogs. Here's what she did instead.
She streaked at the pace of a greyhound to the brink of the creek and bounded in, no hesitation, came up under the tennis ball the labs and retrievers were diving for, nabbed it and ran. The big dogs were stunned. They chased her but she wouldn't relent. Her ball.
Every day since, she has fetched every ball lobbed. Mid-air, mid-stream, as far as it can be thrown. She's mad for tennis balls. She can find one in the muck or the weeds within five minutes of our arrival at Ellison and will fetch and retrieve it five hundred times each walk. No one has ever seen anything like it.
Lacey is blind. Her breed is prone to eye problems and her owners willingly sought out her out as a rescue, knowing she was at risk of being put down. She plays with the dogs at the periphery of Dog Beach, not able to splash with the biggest without getting jostled, but perfectly capable of running after balls with milder pups, romping with them through the fields and waterways, finding her friends. She joins the other dogs at the call of "treats!" and has learned she'll get a nice chunk of chicken hotdog when she hears me call my pups, knowing they're rewarded when they come. She lines right up, finding me in a flash. She lives for the joys of Ellison, for the play every dog is meant for.
Emma is my friend. I didn't pick her. She chose me. If Paula, her person, drives by my street or past me in the park, Emma will howl until she's let free to run to me. She can see me from a mile away. She runs to me in the park, over hills, through brush, from one side of the creek to the other, and throws herself at my feet. Flings herself at my calves until I notice. Buries her head in my arms. I don't know why. She doesn't do it to anyone else, and Paula is as mystified as I. When Emma was freshly rescued, I gave her the usual skritches and treats, but no more than others. But if a new dog enters the beach, Emma runs to my side, ready to defend me if the newcomer is dastardly or rough. She intervenes if a quartet of rowdies threatens to bump into me. She is my humble protector and my loving friend. I've done nothing to deserve it and could do nothing to stop it.
Come meet these beasts at Ellison.
2 comments:
Your joy in animals is astounding and wonderful. No wonder Emma is so taken with you. The pix you have capture something unique about each dog. I've known you a long time now, and know that it isn't just dogs you have a special affinity with. You are a modern pagan St. Francis.
Wildman
The pictures are wonderful. The prose even better. Thank you for posting a pic of and writing about Lacey. As you well know, Lacey would follow Stella to hell and back on a ball-quest. What would we do without Ellison? or each other?
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