Respect
Peggy wasn’t my dog. She made that clear from our first meeting. She was my friend and sometimes my companion, when she could fit me in around what she saw as her responsibilities. That was good enough for both of us as we ran free together in the far pasture. Ours was a different kind of friendship, not the sort of trusting connection that often exists between human and dog. But in a strange way, it worked, and it taught a little boy what respect is all about.
Since she came to us partly grown, an English shepherd mixed with some uncertain breed, Grandfather figured that Peggy must have been teased by children and fear became imprinted on her psyche. She was skittish even around Grandfather. I don’t recall that he often, if ever, was allowed to scratch her ears or pet her white coat with dark brown splotches. In current terminology, Peggy needed her space. A no-man’s zone always existed about a foot around her body. When it came to children like me, the zone extended out to two feet. If anyone crossed a boundary, she turned toward the threat and immediately went into her snarling demon routine. It was impressive and fearsome. We all got the message and let her go her own way.
A working farm dog, Peggy was always ready for a romp with my grandfather and was especially adept at helping herd steers in the right direction. That isn’t to say she was a master herder who didn’t sometimes send her charges fleeing in the wrong direction. Given her personality, I think Peggy had a low threshold of patience and didn’t suffer fools gladly, be they two-footed or four-hoofed. If animals weren’t cooperating, she let fly with both barrels. She would watch to see which way we were trying to get the cattle to go, then she would jump in with four paws, running behind and nipping at the heels of the dawdlers.
This sounds easier than it was in practice. Peggy showed real artistry in rushing a heifer, nipping a little at the hind legs, and then dodging the kicks that were sure to follow. Only once did I ever see Peggy miss on her timing and take a hoof right in the nose. She yelped, sitting back on her haunches to get her bearings. Then Peggy looked around to see if anyone had noticed her embarrassing gaffe. After collecting her thoughts, she trotted back to work but stayed close to Grandfather. The fight had been knocked out of her for that day.
Peggy was a good ratter, always a valuable commodity on the old-time, general-purpose farms, which had barns and outbuildings that rodents loved. One day when I was about five years old, I was throwing sticks for Peggy to bring back. She suddenly became sidetracked by something in the grass nearby, and pounced on a tuft, digging furiously. Then she dropped that spot, jumped over a few feet, and the earth flew once more. At the third hole she hit paydirt and came up with a mole. It was obviously a day of triumph as she sat back with her tongue lolling, trying to catch her breath.
I don’t think Peggy ever actually bit anyone, so in retrospect her anger seems to have been more of a self-protective show. I remained circumspect in respecting the rules, not willing to test her resolve. As long as I respected her, Peggy and I spent many happy, sunlit hours together. If no farm duties called, she shadowed my play and wanderings. She loved to roll in the snow, creating her own version of a snow angel.
There was a key to Peggy’s heart. She was obsessed with the game of fetch. Whatever the object—stick, ball, bone—she would speed after it and return at a run. She would drop the object about two feet from the thrower and back up to allow access. Then she was ready to take off again, playing until the thrower’s arm or attention span gave out. Now that I think of it, her companionship was a little self-serving. She hung around in hopes of a game.
Peggy taught me something about friendship. You take dogs—and people—as they come, quirks and all, accepting who they are and what they have been through that was hurtful. Since the days of my childhood, both I and my friends have tended to be of the quirky variety, often unlovely and even outcast. Perhaps it was Peggy who taught me how to love with respect.
