Together

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

I wonder what she thinks. I actually wonder what they all think, all the furry four-legged and feathered two-legged creatures with whom we share our world, but this one particular four-legged creature really has me wondering.

She follows me just about everywhere I go. If I am downstairs and head upstairs to brush my teeth she follows right behind, her nose literally touching my heels as I ascend. While I am brushing and flossing away, she sits on the floor beside me, looking up. She understands that I will not be long, for she rarely lies down. She just sits there waiting and watching, and as she waits and watches, I wonder what thoughts are passing through her doggish mind.

Perhaps she thinks or just knows, that we are a pair of beings who are simply meant to be together, all of the time. Perhaps she feels that her world is not quite right unless we are side by side, if not touching, at least within easy sight of each other. She is now approaching the age of 18 months. It is odd, but over the months that I've come to know her, I have actually started to share her desire for togetherness.

Granted, I do not follow her every time she moves, from upstairs to downstairs, inside or out, but if she goes off to do her own thing, and I don't know where she is, I'll ask Greg if he knows what she might be up to. Sometimes he knows, but other times he does not, and if she's not back by my side soon, I will stop what I am doing and call her name.

Perhaps she has slipped through her doggie door to take care of her doggish business. Perhaps she has headed upstairs to fetch a favorite bone. If I'm in the garden, perhaps she has gone across the gravel drive to visit Greg in his shop, or if I'm brushing the cattle or horses in the pasture, perhaps she has gone over to the compost pile to search for moles, but no matter where she might be, or what she might be doing, when I call her name, she comes running right to me, ears flapping, tail wagging.

She stops in front of me and leans hard into my legs. She knows she will get a good long rubbing. I bend down and massage her shoulders, and then work my way down her back. I believe that she would lean into me for such rubbings forever, but that is not to be. I tell her what a good dog she is, and feeling thankful that we are together once again, I straighten up and get back to whatever it was I was doing.

Greg and I have had other dogs, far bigger dogs, that I loved totally, but with whom I curiously did not feel this kind of togetherness. Perhaps, because of their larger size, these bigger dogs and I both knew that they could fend for themselves. With this smaller dog, however, I've felt more protective. I wouldn't want her to tussle with the bobcat up on the hill, the coyotes down by the creek, or even the raccoons that gather around the chicken run at dusk. I imagine that she has somehow picked up on my feeling.

So, she and I have come to share a special bond. We trust each other. I trust that she will come when I call, and she trusts that when I leave, I will return. All I need to do is tell her to stay, and she settles right down on her bed by the door. I give her a treat and a pat on the head. She seems content, and I think even proud, that I trust her to stay home. She looks up at me, and with a long gaze lets me know that she understands it is her job is to patiently wait and be ready for a joyful reunion when I return.

Still, I wish that I could really read her mind. I wish that I could really know her thoughts as she lies beside me in the evening, her eyes fluttering shut, her breath escaping in an easy sigh. Still, even though I might not know her thoughts, I do know that at moments like this we are both content, and that we are thankful to be together sharing our love and our life.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.