CHAPTER TWO

Dogs of future past

Bee-stings. Bike-flops. Bloody-kneed-bruises. Backyard bullies. One crushed-up-baseball. And one bloody bite. 

It’s not a poetry slam. 

It’s a list of my experiences. Childhood happenings. Brought to you by age 5 and the letter ‘B’. Whenever I’m feeling sad - I simply remember my favourite [ painful memories ] “and then I don’t feel so bad!” Not quite the Julie Andrews version but it’ll do.

Most kids scrape their knees, ride bikes, and/or get stung by a bee. If you’re lucky like me you’ll hit 2/3 at the same time. But how many kids can say they were the reason your family never had a dog? 

I was barely 5 when Hunter came into our house. That miserable pup. Hunter was a wee, yappy, brown Yorkie. Unkind. Unhappy. Unpleasant. A little dog with big troubles who took to his name literally. I was just a kid. Playing with his puppy like any kid would. I was sitting on the kitchen floor when Hunter ran up to me and bit the tender spot between my thumb and pointer finger. Not a puppy nip, mind you. Hunter drew blood. My mom rushed in, scolded him, and hid him away. Turns out, I wasn’t his first. Hunter had been nibbling on my 2 year old brother’s toes for weeks. With (yet another) baby on the way, my mum was eager to show Hunter the doggy door. My bloody hand was a bite too far. He was returned to the pet shop for $15 and we never saw Hunter again. 

Henceforth! our house would remain dog-less forevermore. 

Besides Hunter’s hunting, there were many reasons my parents didn’t want another dog. Dogs smell. They make messes. And shed. There’s the work and walks and poop. It wasn’t a matter of asking, explaining, or convincing. It wasn’t a “money issue”. None of us could plead or beg enough. My dad always replied on cue: “No. It’s cruel to have a dog in town.” If lived on a farm - “maybe.” In town - forget it. It was a confusing stance as a kid because it seemed like everyone in town had a dog. 

But I don’t blame my dad. 

My parents already had their own pack of seven-plus mouths to feed and groom. Adding a dog would have been more work. More mess. More stress. More “hassle”. There is nothing convenient about training a puppy. Nothing efficient about daily walks. Dogs are hard on vacuums, hardwood floors, grass and gardens. It wasn’t in the cards. We would never ever get another dog. Eventually, we stopped asking. 

Pragmatism for the win!

My parents weren’t always dog-avoiders. My mum had a dog. Loved her dog. Cried for weeks when she got married and couldn’t bring her dog with her. Four years later her dad died suddenly of a heart-attack - and within weeks Buffy died too. My dad had dogs. Farm dogs. And he loved them too. One of his most [ painful memories ] was when ol’ Rusty was literally taken out back with gun-shot-fire silence. It was the first time he had seen his own father cry. I read once: “There are two kinds of people. Pet lovers, and those whose hearts are desensitized to their affections.” I reckon that by the time I started asking for a dog my parent’s hearts had been long shut off. And with good reason. Unprocessed grief is something awful. 

It just meant that any dog that I grew to love was always someone else’s. 

There was Sheeba - my Didi’s German Shepherd. Outdoor farm dog extraordinaire. Guardian of the land. Bones and chains and slobber and smell. There was Lobo - a playful black and the child-before-children of my Aunt Pam and Uncle Mike. Lobo was excitable. Kind. He loved to run and fetch and would jump feet off the ground whenever Uncle Mike got home. Then there was Chomper - a big loveable, matted, large pawed Golden Retriever. The first dog I intentionally sought out. Chomper lived with my cousins, next door to my Baba and Didi’s farm. Whenever I saw my grandparents, I made sure to visit Chomper. We’d jostle and play and stomp through the bush. I’d love him - and leave - with fistfuls of his hair, drool, and the odd bruise. 

I felt lucky. 

I had many dog friends over the years. And they were all generous, caring, and playful. Sometimes better than my human friends (or siblings!) Dogs never denied my affection or mocked my personality. I was never “too much”. Or “too sensitive”. Or too “feely” or “spacey.” I felt seen and understood. I was loved purely, without condition, for being me. No pretence. No conflict. No trouble. 

Dogs were safe. And I loved them. But dogs are just dogs.

“Pets are just pets.” “Dogs aren’t family members.” “And it's stupid to treat them as such.” 

I don’t remember when I started thinking this way. Believing this rubbish. And I don’t know when they started. These awful feelings of low-level resentment towards pet owners - and dog lovers especially. But it was there. And it was real. My heart was closing over with every passing year. Sure, I’d pet a dog if I saw one. But that was it. No heartaches, longing, or love. Dogs and me, well - we had our fun - but it was time to grow up and move on. Whatever affection I had for dogs I suppressed. Pushed down. Deeper and lower. Until I could hardly notice it. 

And then came Mocha and Moose.