I have had the privilege of sharing my life with two different dogs during two different eras of my adult life. It doesn’t feel right to say I owned these dogs, for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who looks a beloved dog in the eyes and sees clearly another sentient being looking back at you with an expression that might be quizzical, adoring, or might reflect wisdom beyond our understanding. In any case it is clear the dog is its own person, so to speak, with its own motivations, thoughts, feelings, needs, and desires. The dogs owned themselves without doubt, and I have been fortunate to be their caretakers as well as being the recipient of their generous attention and care.
The first dog I brought into my life was a young, female Rottweiler I adopted from the animal shelter. Looking back I can see that a Rottweiler was a perfect dog for the somewhat insecure young, gay man I was, as her sturdy build and characteristic markings complemented the masculine image I was eager to project. When we walked down the sidewalk together, people often crossed the street in fear. You would never mistake me for a frightened sissy with such a fearsome beast under my control. She was as gentle a being as I’ve ever encountered, however, and she always greeted visitors as if they were long-lost friends. She had a deep-throated warning bark that sounded so fierce, my brother nearly jumped out of his skin one night when he came creeping into my house late in the dark. But even when neighbor children teased her relentlessly through the screen door at the front of the house, she refrained from harming them when one day the door opened suddenly, releasing her upon the screaming, scattering mob. The smallest child fell as he ran in terror, and his sister turned and screamed in anticipation of bloody slaughter, but the dog stopped just short of touching him, standing over him triumphantly, letting him and the rest of them know the teasing would henceforth cease. I named her Svasti, a Sanskrit word that means “happiness” and “good fortune.”
Svasti stood by me as silent witness to the ravages HIV infection inflicted on my body in the early 90s before the advent of the miraculous drug cocktails. In those days I didn’t believe dogs should share one’s bed or other furniture, so she slept dutifully by my bedside, and her quiet breathing was a soothing comfort to me on many dark nights when I slept alone. After she was gone, I found myself listening in the dark for the sound of her breathing, and I realized how that sound had helped me for years relax into sleep. After a particularly gruesome episode of simultaneous vomiting, diarrhea, and cramps in my legs, arms, and abdomen, her warm brown eyes looked into my face with an expression of concern and compassion, and she gently licked my face offering the only comfort she could.
Her own desires were simple. She loved to eat, especially scraps my butcher friend brought her, and she loved to go for walks and for rides in the car. I didn’t dare say the word “walk” around her, because she would start to jump with excitement, so I started to spell it instead. After a while she caught on even to this trick, and I could swear she read my mind. When she saw me packing my gym bag she would quietly head for the back door, knowing it was time for her to go outside. Her favorite game was tug-of-war that she would initiate by holding her big, knotted rope up to me or to another dog. I actually witnessed her teach another dog to play the game, repeatedly offering the rope until the dog got the idea. When the dreaded day came that I had to make a decision about ending her life to spare her suffering, I swore I never wanted another being dependant on me again.
Technically, I’ve kept my vow, as the dog that now shares my life came to my home as an emotional support animal for my roommate, who suffers from debilitating depression and other psychiatric disorders. I helped my roommate select this dog from the hundreds we saw at the animal shelter. We knew we wanted a small dog, as our apartment cannot accommodate a large one, and we needed to find a dog disinclined to bark, as our apartment is located over a clinic where a hypnotherapist and other holistic health practitioners require a quiet environment to treat patients during the daytime. I easily could have missed this dog, he was so calm and quiet amid the insane din of the shelter, but when I caught sight of his attentive terrier face and striking black-and-white Shih Tzu markings, I paused by the cage to get a better look. He looked up directly into my eyes, and I put my hand through the bars. Without hesitation he laid his head in my hand and quietly projected his plea to take him home.
My roommate named him Lincoln after the hunky character in the television series “Prison Break.” He earned the name by slipping out of the apartment three times in the first week we had him. I don’t believe he was running away from us at all, but he is mightily curious, as are all intelligent beings, and he still loves to wander and explore. Having entered my daddy years more than a decade ago, I find I’m perfectly comfortable walking a small, cute dog around the neighborhood. Gone is the young man’s need to project an image. I’ve grown into the man I admired when I was young. A young friend from Saudi Arabia visited me last year, and I was reminded of the belief among some Muslims that an angel will not enter a house where a dog lives. My devout Saudi friend was duly horrified when Lincoln greeting him with a welcoming lick on the shin, and I chuckled as he ran to the bathroom to wash himself. But after my friend left, I contemplated the notion that the mere presence of a dog would prevent an angel from entering the apartment. When I looked into Lincoln’s bright, inquisitive eyes with this conundrum spinning around in my head it occurred to me that an angel was already living in my home in the form of this sweet, playful being whose very presence evokes love from all who see or especially touch him, and the love he draws from people returns to them mysteriously amplified, leaving each with a smile and a warm glow in their hearts.
You may dismiss this as the befuddled musings of a man no longer young but not yet elderly who bothers not a bit anymore to worry about gaps in his memory or other evidence of the steady march toward old age. But if you are so fortunate as to share your life with a dog, I invite you to look into his or her eyes with a fresh gaze, putting aside assumptions about a dog’s relative intelligence or the supposed behavioral influences of its wolf pedigree. I did this myself, and I found a surprise. When Lincoln gazes steadily at me with no apparent motive, silently watching me, I see an ancient, wise being who inhabits a small body but whose actual size is unknown and unknowable. When I caress him and tell him I love him, I realize I do this at least as much for my sake as for his. In fact, it is easy to imagine that an angel has come to live with me in this unassuming form to love and watch over me. When he seems to ignore commands, I see the will of a being that decides when and when not to play the master-dog game. He is incredibly patient, much more than I am, yet he insists on inviting me to play now and then because he knows it’s good for me to get up from my desk and move around some. The more I just sit with him, really seeing the being before me, the more affectionate he becomes, expressing his love in the subtle, silent ways of a being who senses and feels much more keenly than I do. Sometimes he reaches for me with a paw, lightly touching me to get my attention. Sometimes he puts his face close to mine and playfully nips my nose and rubs his head against my cheek. Sometimes he just curls up near me quietly sleeping until I get up, and then he’s ready to play or go for a walk, or just to let me ruffle his silky fur and scratch under his chin.
I heard about a guy who is selling insurance policies to evangelical Christians, guaranteeing their pets will be cared for after they ascend to heaven in the Rapture, which they expect any moment now. Animals, according to these Christians, do not possess souls, and so they cannot go to heaven. I find the whole notion of possessing a soul rather bizarre, but I keep revisiting the peculiar Muslim belief about dogs and angels. Of course, an angel will not enter a home where a dog lives, because that home doesn’t need another one. Svasti and Lincoln are two angels I’ve known as much as my limited intelligence permits, and I’m grateful to them for watching over me as no mere human could.
So, what does it mean to be “clean?"