Amber
The doorbell rang. Julie stood on my doorstep, leash in hand.
“I’ve been looking after the MacIvers’ dog while they are in Florida,” she said, “but my sister’s sick. I’m going to spend some time with her. Could you, would you, have Amber at your place till the MacIvers get back?”
“Well, I guess I could…” I hesitated. “I’ve never had a dog. She is house trained, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes! She’s really very well behaved. You’ll enjoy her. She needs to be taken for walks, but you go out walking anyway, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Okay, I’ll do it. They’re back on the first of the month, aren’t they?”
“That’s right. I’ll bring Amber’s food and everything tomorrow.”
“Do that! Come at nine and we can walk Amber together.”
For three weeks, until the MacIvers returned, Amber changed my walks into hers, my routines into hers. I enjoyed seeing her tail wag with enthusiasm when I got her leash, but I could no longer walk just where I pleased.
My usual route was suddenly off-limits. The sight of Amber, or whatever doggy sense knows another dog is near, set two large canines barking furiously. Amber’s jerk on the leash jolted me from any meditation or daydream I was in, and she strained at the leash, up on her two hind legs, forelegs limp in the air, and I feared she was choking. My relaxing strolls, off in my own world turned into a tugging match. That route had to be avoided.
Amber sensed the presence of other dogs long before I did. Suddenly alert, she would get more interested the closer the encounter. Then, how her ears pricked up and then lay down! How close their noses came, then warily sniffed, drew back and sniffed again, sniffing hind ends, getting to know one another.
Gradually I began to understand Amber’s view of life, an exciting new dimension. Eagerly, she strains at the leash, makes some introductions and develops a relationship. Ignoring another dog is never a dog’s choice. Ignoring a human is never a dog’s choice. Owners train their dogs to be restrained, but the longing in the eyes, and ears pricked up to attention give away the instinct to pursue an encounter.
Not long ago, alone, I had walked the Friendship Trail between Turner Valley and Black Diamond and was approaching the corner at the Post Office. A man and his dog were waiting at the corner. His dog obediently sat at his feet, but watched me expectantly as I came closer and closer. He wanted to greet me, smell my hand, and find out about me. I would have liked to greet him, too, but his master bent to warn him to have nothing to do with me. Obediently the dog sat down again, looking longingly at me as I passed by.
That dog gladdened me because he was glad to see me and communicated it. He couldn’t speak and he couldn’t smile, but I knew his heart. He wanted to bridge the gap that exists between two beings. In that brief non-encounter we had begun to form a relationship. His human owner had ignored me.
When I took Amber for walks I made new friends, met new dogs, met new people. Conversations with strangers and not-so-strangers switched from the weather to breeds, training, and vet bills. Those three weeks with Amber, years before, in a different province, had changed my perspective. Lampposts are for walking past. Dogs and humans are for relationship.
by Andrea Kidd
