Six Teachers

By Ryma Shohami

I make the most out of all that comes my way.

~Sara Teasdale

I'm convinced that dogs, like people, enter your life for a reason. Some drift in, hang around, and drift out, leaving you wondering if it was something you said. Others stay and stay and stay until you start wishing that they would drift out soon, please. Some bring substance, others pure fun. And sometimes, the catastrophes prove to be the biggest blessings. With the benefit of hindsight, I have learned to appreciate the itinerants and the lightweights as much as the keepers. They are all lessons learned.

As a child, I drove my parents to distraction with my incessant pleas for a dog, but dog hair was not welcome in my mother's Spanish Provincial living room. Marriage presented a new opportunity for dog ownership. One day, my husband arrived home with the princess of cute, our Beagle, Winnie. We were like new parents and Winnie bore the brunt of our inexperience. But she forgave us our blunders.

When Winnie contracted encephalitis and died after only three months, I climbed into the shower and sobbed my way through half the daily water supply of Montreal. A friend, not known for her sentimentality, rolled her eyes and said, "For heaven's sake! Two months you had it. Go get another one." I got another friend instead.

That day I learned that the depth of one's love has little to do with the length of the relationship. That a hot shower helps soothe a broken heart. And that you never forget your first love.

Twelve years later, as I rounded a corner on my bicycle, I was knocked over by a cuddly Doberman. Boyee literally crashed her way into my life. By then, I was a divorcee, disillusioned with my not-so-swinging singles lifestyle and the teaching profession. I abandoned both for a six-month stay on a kibbutz in Israel. I had resolved to find myself before becoming entangled in any more romantic relationships. But Boyee captured my heart, as did her owner, and four months later we were a family. I learned then that love is not bound by our schedules. That the right person is more important than the right time. And that romance could be just around the corner.

Attie, our Dalmatian, was the epitome of naughty exuberance. I forgave my daughter Naomi's ripped bunny pajamas. I remained calm over the gnawed teak coffee table. I even swallowed my expletives when Attie destroyed my daughter Shelley's new running shoes. But seeing my lace designer blouse hanging in tatters on the clothesline resulted in a meltdown. I was not in a forgiving mood and Attie tried to avoid my vile temper for the rest of the day.

That evening, passing by Shelley's room, I overheard crying. Peeking in, I saw Attie gently licking Shelley's hand while my little one poured her heart out. In that moment, all was forgiven. I was reminded that "things" are cheap, no matter how expensive. That the love and loyalty of those who care about us is priceless. That a sympathetic silence is more meaningful than words. And that nothing is more powerful than a well-timed kiss.

Several years later, against my husband's better judgment and protests, we adopted Mitch, a deaf Dalmatian. He was impossible to control and destroyed our entire lawn with his obsessive hours-long digging. Despite our sincerest efforts, we never succeeded in calming him down. When the vet advised us for the eighth time to put Mitch out of his misery, we finally admitted defeat. I learned the heartbreaking way that no matter how heroic and altruistic and loving my intentions, I can't save everyone. That there is a fine line between "try, try again" and "enough is enough." And some relationships are just not meant to be.

Wolfy was on a reconnaissance mission when I first spotted him casing out the neighborhood. How anyone could abandon this beautiful, intelligent Husky was beyond my comprehension. On the fourth day, displaying infallible instincts, he followed me home.

His fierce independence and refusal to pander to humans often elicit comments about his lack of affection. I believe that he has resolved to err on the side of caution. I'm sad for him, sad that I can't reassure him that this family would never dream of leaving him by the side of the road. But he won't risk having his heart broken again.

Yet sometimes, in the midst of a spirited romp, he forgets to be aloof and bestows a loving lick on my hand. It startles both of us and causes him to withdraw in embarrassment.

Living with Wolfy's fear and hurt, I have learned that history does not always determine or predict the future. That my love must be unconditional and given without expectations. And that those who do not plunge in with trust, deny themselves the love they seek.

And then there's Puppy, he of the cheery disposition and the optimistic tail, who loves and hugs with his entire body and soul. He has been my best teacher. Abandoned in a supermarket parking lot, he ignored the drizzling rain as he hopefully approached everyone leaving the store. His velvet brown eyes and the wrinkles of concern on his forehead melted my heart. Blocking out the reality of the very male Wolfy waiting at home, I opened my car and invited him in. For several minutes he danced a canine cha-cha-cha, with each approach-and-withdraw iteration bringing him closer. Finally, he dove into the car and settled down for a nap before I had a chance to change my mind.

Puppy's motto is "Bark with Gusto, but Compromise." It's effective. He has yet to meet a dog or human that he hasn't won over.

Watching Puppy navigate so successfully through life, I have learned that an untamed ego can ruin the most promising friendship. That it pays to keep my tongue soft and sweet. And that I must always let my tail wag with joy and abandon.

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