CHAPTER

Signs

it sometimes feels like destiny that we were at the hospital that Saturday morning because of Buzzy’s illness, but Diane revealed to me years later that as soon as she was certain that Oogy would survive, once she had completed fostering him and knew he was adoptable, she had decided to call me to ask if I would take in this pup they had saved who had only one ear. So at some point, our phone would have rung and Oogy would have been waiting at the other end, not unlike how Noah and Dan had been waiting for us years before. The inescapable conclusion is that Oogy was meant to be here.

There are other things that make me feel that Oogy’s involvement in our lives was preordained. Several likenesses of Oogy existed in our house for years before we actually met him. Long before the boys were born, when Jennifer and I actually had some disposable income as well as free time to travel, we happened upon an art gallery in Vancouver that specialized in Inuit art. Over three separate visits there in the next five years, we collected a number of Inuit prints for the house. One of them, which has been in our first-floor hallway for the past fifteen years, and had been in our old house for five years before that, is called My Dog Protecting Me. It shows two small white dogs in the foreground, each of which has the arm of an Inuit man in its jaw. In the background, two larger versions of the dogs in the foreground are standing on hind legs with their paws on two other Inuit men. In the center of these four figures is the face of another Inuit man. Each half of his face is looking in a different direction at one of the dog-man pairings. The two large dogs look exactly like Oogy. They have the same prominent snouts and stocky bodies, the same muscular rear haunches. They are standing on their hind legs the same way Oogy often does. I am not sure which dog is protecting whom, or from what, but my sense is that the four dogs actually represent one single dog and that they are protecting the man with two faces. This print has always spoken to me of the best of bonds between people and dogs, and looking at it has never failed to give me an appreciation of that relationship. Given the level of devotion Oogy exhibits toward us and the physical similarities he shares with the dogs in this print, it is almost as though he has stepped out of that picture and come to life—and perhaps this is why I felt I recognized him when I first met him.

A second prescient picture cropped up years later in an entirely different context. When the boys were in seventh grade and Oogy had already been with us for a year, Dan did some research on our house for a school project. We live in the original farmhouse in our neighborhood, a part of which is about one hundred and fifty years old. Among the things Dan learned was that a former owner of the property, a veterinarian, began buying up small amounts of acreage from various neighbors until he owned about two hundred acres. During his research, Dan found a picture, which appears to have been taken in the 1930s, of the veterinarian’s son standing in front of a cornfield next to a white dog. The boy is wearing an Irish-style cap, a plaid sweater vest, and knickers. And the dog looks exactly the way Oogy would if he had both ears. Something about that fact has always resonated with me—that before any of us was alive, a dog that looked just like Oogy lived here.

These pictures, both strikingly similar representations of Oogy, one frozen in time eighty years past not far from where Oogy sleeps now, the other from an artist’s imagination twenty-five years ago, create a continuity of Oogy in our house, pre-dating his actual presence by decades. I hear Oogy echoing down the halls of time and back again like magic. He has been here for a long, long while.

When he was just over a year old and we were having trouble coping with Oogy’s energy, we hired a trainer at the recommendation of a friend. The trainer, our friend told us, claimed to be able to talk to animals, but she herself was skeptical. The morning the trainer came for her first visit, I introduced her to Oogy, who was lying on his blanket in the family room. The trainer sat on the floor next to him for a full five minutes. Jennifer, Noah, Dan, and I stood just outside the doorway to the room, in the hallway, watching the trainer bend and put her head next to Oogy’s, watching her lips move next to his ear; then she would pull back a few inches and focus her gaze on him before leaning forward to whisper to him again. The four of us were exchanging skeptical glances with one another. We could not hear a word she said—or anything Oogy said back to her, for that matter. We had hired the woman to train Oogy, not to talk to him.

When the trainer lifted her head after her discussion was complete, her eyes were brimming with tears. “Oogy wants you to know,” she said, “how much he appreciates the love and respect you’ve shown him.”

We were not sure how to react to this statement. We could understand the truth of what she said, of course. It made sense he would have felt that way. But the statement presented a number of possibilities. Had Oogy actually communicated that to her telepathically? Or, because the trainer could see that Oogy was well loved and could also see he had been abused in the past, was she simply making a logical deduction? In the end, though, I realized that it didn’t matter—the important thing was that she had learned this about Oogy. Even if she was only stating the obvious, the obvious was noteworthy.

The trainer then asked about Oogy’s daily routine. I started by taking her across the hall and showing her the crate where Oogy stayed when we left the house. I didn’t mention that Oogy resisted being put in the box, nor did I describe how he barked incessantly once he was confined. The trainer looked at the crate and without a moment’s hesitation turned to me and said, “You’ve got to get him out of that box.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” she said, “Oogy associates being in a crate with having his ear ripped off.”

It was a smack-myself-in-the-forehead moment. In my ignorance, I had attributed Oogy’s abhorrence of the crate to his frustration and anxiety at being separated from us. From that day on, Oogy never went back in the crate, which for him had represented a fundamental fear that he had had to confront on a daily basis. I felt awful that, even inadvertently, I had caused Oogy some fear. I should have known by his incessant barking that something was amiss, but I had not understood the reason. I had completely misjudged the level of distress this had caused him. The trainer’s intuitive grasp of this truth earned her my immediate respect and gratitude.

The experience with the trainer also had a wholly unintended and beneficial consequence for me. I began paying attention to how Oogy communicated not only with me, but with other people as well.

The pictures that suggest Oogy’s presence in our lives before he arrived, even the events that created a sense of inevitability that his life would be commingled with ours, are also a form of message. But on a daily basis, I pass messages to Oogy, both nonverbally and verbally, though not always in literal fashion, and he, in his own fashion, speaks to me.

There is some language-specific interaction. Although I was skeptical at first, I no longer doubt that Oogy understands certain specific words. For example, when I use the words dog park in a sentence, he gets very excited. I keep telling him that he can’t understand me when I say that, but his behavior contradicts this. It’s an association he has not with time of day (we go at different times) or with an action (like picking up the keys), but with the words I actually use.

There are also behavior-specific things I do that tell Oogy something. When I take off the collar for the invisible fence, he understands immediately that he is going somewhere. In the morning, when I put on my shoes, he knows that I am leaving and goes to his hiding spot underneath the dining room table as though he can somehow avoid the inevitable. His sadness is as palpable as a finger in my eye.

There are also times, even if I’m just talking nonsense to him, that he clearly grasps the feelings that my gibberish is meant to convey. The content is irrelevant; it is the emotions I’m sharing with him, through the tone of my voice or my affect, that speak to and comfort him.

For example, one Friday evening this past summer, while we were in the midst of an extended heat spell, I cooked Oogy some bones. This particular day had been over one hundred degrees. At ten in the evening, it was still steaming, the air thick with moisture. In the darkness outside, the sound of cicadas swelled and ebbed. Our house does not have central air-conditioning, and although the exterior walls are eighteen inches thick, the relative coolness the house can retain on the first floor had long since been baked out by the sustained pounding the heat had given us over the week. The boys were in the family room, where there is an air conditioner, watching TV. Oogy was sleeping on the floor next to them. Jennifer was out at the gym. And I was in the kitchen. I had ten small bones that I had baked for Oogy in the toaster oven and needed to put into the freezer. Oogy usually gets at least one bone each day. He prefers small bones; with his shattered jaw, he cannot grip large ones.

I put the bones into a bag and sealed it, and as I was placing the bag in the freezer, I saw Oogy standing in the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me. There was no light on in the eating area; the kitchen itself was only dimly lit. I had not heard him come in. It was as though he had been teleported. Some alarm only he could hear had sounded, awakening him. The food Klaxon was gonging away: “Food alert! There is food in sector K-2. Repeat! Food in sector K-2!” The aroma of cooked meat had wafted down the hall, curling into his nose like a feathery hook; it had awakened him and caused him to rise, leading him to pad down to where he now stood. Or maybe he heard me opening the bag, the rustling sound familiar to him, significant. “I’m here,” he seemed to say to me. “What am I missing? Do I get anything to eat? Why didn’t you tell me there was food available?”

In response, the first thing I said to him was, “You’re a Dogo. The Dogo is a sturdy breed with a prominent black nose. I learned that tonight. You have a prominent black nose. Did you know that?”

His face was expressionless. He was looking for more information.

“You just missed it,” I told him. “You just missed the Ceremony of the Bones, when we place the baked bones into the freezer following the designs of an ancient ritual. Now, they are safely ensconced in the bowels of the freezer. However, I can tell you that later on tonight one very lucky dog will get at least one of the bones. After the Opening of the Freezer Door ritual. And,” I said, dropping my voice to barely a whisper, “confidentially, I have it on good authority that will be you.” I nodded at him, kissed him on the top of his skull, rubbed both sides of his head behind his ear and the unear, feeling the rough line of scar tissue that holds his face together.

“You’re a big baby dog,” I told him. I could see clearly the flap of flesh that had been his neck in the shadows playing on him, how it had been pulled forward and attached to what had remained of his face. “You’re a folded dog,” I said. “Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate. Isn’t that how it goes?” He looked at me. His expression did not change. He stood perfectly still, tolerating my idiocy. And then I said, “Oops. Too late for you.”

I had no idea where these words were coming from, but I was sure he understood what lay behind them even if I did not. Just as I understand him. Because Oogy also talks to me.

Sometimes we are sitting together and I am reading or working on the laptop when he will start pawing and whining at me to notice him. There are times he will move off the couch where we are sitting together and start growling, demanding that I come to where he is and pay attention to him. “Do you want to go out?” I’ll ask him. “Do you want a bone? Do you want some attention? Come here.” Then he’ll bark at me. He wants me on his level. It’s that simple. So I will uncoil from the couch and lie down next to him, stroke him, and the murmurings cease; he has the attention he has asked me for.

As he has matured, Oogy’s ability to express his desire both for attention and for affection has evolved. I don’t really understand the source of his perception. It may be instinctual, a product of the years he and I have spent together emotionally committed to each other unclouded by the white noise—the relentless clatter and superficiality—that courses through the daily lives of human beings. Or it just may be that he comprehends much more speech than I give him credit for or can intuit signs from daily activities that I wouldn’t notice.

The first time this happened, he woke me at 6:00 on a Saturday morning. That evening, I would be going overseas for business. I had not taken out my suitcase or begun packing yet, so Oogy could not have had any apparent clue that I was going away. When I heard him come upstairs and he whined once and stuck that cold, wet nose in my face, I reacted by first asking him if he wanted to join me on the bed, hoping he wasn’t expecting me to go downstairs and let him out. I patted the mattress several times, but he made no move to join me. Instead, his hind legs danced sideways back and forth, and he continued to whine at me, never taking his eyes off my face. Then, resigned, I asked him if he needed to go out, and since he did not want to sleep next to me, I realized he did. I threw back the covers and followed him. Expecting that he would head to the back door, when we arrived on the first floor I turned left from the stairs and started in that direction. But instead of heading to the kitchen and access to the yard, Oogy went into the room to the right of the stairway where Dan was sleeping and climbed onto the couch. He sat there, waiting for me, looking directly at me. He wanted me to sit next to him. So I wormed my way onto the sofa, lifted up Dan’s feet, marveling at the thick blond hair curling over his legs, and slid underneath them, putting them on my lap. I was able to pull a part of the comforter over me. Dan never stirred. Oogy curled up between us and put his head on my lap, and as I rubbed his back and luxuriated in his warmth, he turned his head to look at me with utter adoration in his eyes, the ragged line that delineates where his face was sewn together defined in shadow by the light from the windows. We slept that way for another two hours.

Later that afternoon, when I started packing, Oogy came into the room and lay on the bed the entire time. Only when I had closed the suitcase, stood up, picked up the bag, and started downstairs did he jump off the bed and trail after me, following me from room to room until it was time for me to leave for the airport. Clearly, he somehow understood that I was going away and wanted to be around me as much as he could before then.

I am not, of course, the only person Oogy communicates with. Although neither Jennifer nor the boys have developed the same degree of intimacy with him given the demands of their daily routines, messages do pass back and forth between them. And his being, his visage, and his loving temperament, despite the destruction so obviously visited upon him, draw in person after person we meet outside the house. Because Oogy is much more than a unique personality and a loving pet. Who he is and what he has endured speaks to people.

A woman I know who is a columnist and author, and has been involved in animal rescue for decades on the West Coast, recently said to me, “Stories about fighting dogs that have happy endings are rare. Stories about fighting dogs that are inspirational are nonexistent.”

I have often wondered what exactly it is about Oogy that resonates with people. To a certain extent, each person has his or her own connection with him. Some appreciate Oogy’s demeanor; the word sweet has been used to describe him more than any other. When they have learned what he has gone through and have seen how he is in spite of it, people are simply moved by his resiliency, his placid dignity. In some people, I think, a certain degree of transference is inevitable as they come to see in Oogy the survivor they perceive themselves to be, an indomitable spirit in the face of adversity. Others, not necessarily physically damaged but emotionally scarred, who yet hope still to be loved, find another kind of encouragement: If this dog can go through the hell he did and emerge capable of giving and generating as much love as he does, so can they. His triumph over the most unspeakable brutality without any emotional ill effects whatsoever encourages many. And, I think, some people just appreciate the second chance Oogy has had, just as they hope they will get theirs if and when they need one.

But there is an element common to everyone who connects with him, and it took me a very long time to arrive at what that is. For most of us, life represents a balancing act among a series of highs and lows, the struggle to maintain equanimity in the face of so many polarities of experience. But no matter where we reside on this spectrum, all of us know that we will, eventually and without fail, have to deal with tragedy. People we care about disappear from our lives. Animals we love have to be “put to sleep.” (How’s that for a euphemism to help us deal with the loss?) Loved ones die and drift apart; illness eats up family members and friends in awful ways. Every day we stand an increased chance that our lives will in some way be diminished. And what appeals to everyone about Oogy is that he is proof that what we all know is lurking out there—the awful and, yes, inevitable tragic loss, the unexplainable savage attack, the seemingly insurmountable occurrence—can, in fact, be survived with love and grace intact, without bitterness or resentment, and with an appreciation for all that follows. Oogy is, right there in front of everyone he meets, tangible living proof that there can be happiness, love, and hope on the other side of unspeakable and unimaginable horror.

In warm weather when we go for a walk in the little nearby town of Narberth, strangers invariably approach us to meet Oogy. His appearance inspires a lot of questions. I generally try to avoid telling very young children what really happened to Oogy; I simply tell them that another dog attacked him. Because both humans and dogs had abused Oogy, strangers are unfailingly surprised that he is as gentle with animals and people as he is. When people first encounter Oogy, they invariably ask if he is safe. My stock response is, “Well, he has licked two people to death….” Waitresses, waiters, and patrons at the outdoor cafés and people eating, drinking, or catching smokes outside of the bars and restaurants swarm all over Oogy. On weekend nights, several of the regulars in downtown Narberth carry treats to give to him. Oogy enjoys the attention that he gets. I am happy for him. It is some form of compensation. I often tell people we encounter on these strolls that we’re there because Oogy likes the nightlife. In a way, that’s true.

It is an altogether different experience when we go to a dog park and I let Oogy run free. This has served to both expand and strengthen our communicative abilities. For years, I was reluctant to let Oogy off his leash. The idea that he might run away and be lost forever reflected my anxieties: That which we love will disappear. But eventually, at Jennifer’s insistence, and knowing full well how much Oogy enjoyed socializing with other dogs, I overcame my hesitation. The end result was a mutual expression of confidence that we would always be there for each other.

The first dog park I took Oogy to was at a local nature conservancy, acres of hills and hiking trails with a creek at the bottom. Dogs were not officially allowed off leash, but people had been letting them run free there for years. The opportunity to run unhindered and exhaustively and to interact with other dogs was definitely therapeutic for Oogy. Each outing was like a playdate for a young child, stimulating and relaxing at the same time. He would come home from these outings and fall into a deep sleep, his social and physical needs sated.

It took Oogy several months before he would venture into the creek. Eventually, this became a key part of our visit. Oogy would walk in the water and drink as it meandered along. On those clear, hot days, his image reflected in the creek, the picture of Oogy and Oogy upside down in the water burned into my brain. Sometimes he would walk thirty or forty yards upstream as I followed on the footpath. I could hear him sloshing in the water but was unable to see him because of the thick bushes lining the bank, until he would eventually rejoin me on the trail. The act of separating and then reuniting had deeper implications.

To be sure, there were moments when Oogy disappeared, following some scent or movement, which proved to be just as scary for me as when I’d lost sight of Noah or Dan in a crowded store when they were young. When Oogy would disappear, I would stand and call his name, always worried that he would not be able to discern where the sound was coming from because of his missing ear. Then, when he returned, I would always tell him not to do that again because it scared me so much.

During one visit, a mother and her three young daughters were hanging out by the creek, and I heard Oogy barking as I approached. One of the little girls had waded across the creek and climbed onto a large rock on the other side. Oogy was barking at her. The mother just got the biggest kick out of that. She sensed that Oogy was concerned because of the separation. Her own dog was sprawled on the bank by the creek, paying absolutely no attention. As soon as the mother called her daughter back to the side of the creek where the rest of her family was, Oogy quieted down.

Another time, I walked along the path and listened as Oogy splashed upcreek until finally I heard him moving toward me through the brush. I did not recognize the dog that emerged. Whose dog was this? Where was Oogy? It took a moment to realize what had happened. Oogy was completely covered in putrid slate gray mud. He smelled like a fertilizer factory. Riding home with him next to me was really a testament to my love for him. It stunk like something had been dead in the van for days.

Ordinarily when Oogy gets some mud on him it dries quickly, and because his fur is so short, I can wipe him down with a warm towel as though he’s made of vinyl. But this was altogether different. When we arrived home, the boys had to hold on to Oogy while I hosed him down. Then I took warm, wet rags with dog shampoo and cleaned him further before rinsing him down a second time and then drying him with clean rags. That removed most of the sediment—and restored our relationship.

After the township’s board of commissioners imposed severe restrictions on the ability of dogs to roam the conservancy unleashed, I learned that a local cemetery allowed dogs to run free—the smell of dogs scared away gophers whose tunneling undermined the gravestones—and Oogy and I spent some time there. It was an altogether different kind of experience, without the sense of joyful abandon Oogy had experienced at the conservancy. The rolling hills of the cemetery had a dull uniformity to them. There was no creek. There was no one for him to romp with. The only times I saw other dogs there, they were too far in the distance for him to engage. We visited only four or five times, and none of the visits seemed even remotely satisfactory. It was obvious that Oogy sensed there was a difference. Walking among the graves, he never strayed. He never broke into a run. The lives of the dead, the frailty of being, a brief touch on the shoulder that we are wanted elsewhere—these were palpable. The proximity of the dead seemed a weight that neither of us could avoid.

Then, in an adjacent township, we found a legitimate dog park of some thirty acres, a place where dogs are permitted off leash. A small creek lies at the bottom of the park. Virtually any time of the day, dogs can be found running, fetching, rolling around, chasing each other in twos and in packs. We have been there when as many as thirty dogs were galloping across the plateau, walking, playing, dogs of every shape and size and color, breeds I had never heard of and could not have imagined. It’s like doggy heaven. The dog owners are a responsible group who watch out for one another’s pets. We know one another’s dogs by name and give them hugs and kisses as though they were our own; throw a ball or Frisbee for someone else’s dog; give water from the doggy water fountain to other people’s dogs. When another dog puts his muddy paws on my shirt so that he can give me a kiss, it is never a problem. After all, I tell his owner, we’re all here because we love dogs.

When Oogy plays with other dogs, they run and run in circles, wrestle, flop around. Watching Oogy barrel along makes me think of the films I have seen of old-time locomotives, the big black ones, pistoning forward. Oogy is nothing but power, all muscle and moving mass. He will run for the sheer joy of running. He has some regular friends, dogs he will invariably interact with, but on any given day there is no way to predict who will be there when we are. He has also earned the nickname “the sheriff.” When a couple of dogs start mixing it up, Oogy will invariably run to the altercation and check it out, and more than once he has started backing off the aggressor dog with barks and shoves. Then, once peace has been restored, he will return to what he had been doing before.

Allowing Oogy the autonomy to wander off leash has proved to be beneficial to his sense of himself as well as to our relationship. He wanders, explores, and sniffs at things I cannot see. He will dawdle along, sheer strength and ferocity gone gentle, smelling flowers, meandering without a care under the canopy of trees and amid the tang of honeysuckle. At the park, he is very independent, while at home, he seems always to need to be around one of us.

Oogy has appreciated the confidence shown in him to be off leash and on his own. He revels in the opportunity to interact with other dogs. By letting Oogy run free and mingle, and allowing him to wander in the stillness of the woods, where the only sounds are the creek and the occasional bird, the thrumming of a frog like some bass Jew’s harp, the whine of insects, we have been able to step out of and beyond the routine of our lives and in so doing have grown closer together. The trust I have placed in him and the independence he experiences have confirmed that, as with so many things, I was very, very wrong: He will never leave me.

I have told Jennifer and the boys that after I die, this is where I want my memorial service held and my ashes scattered. It is a scene of great peacefulness, happiness, and love. I have asked that Oogy’s ashes accompany mine. Just the other day, when I told the boys, Noah asked if instead I wanted to be buried next to our old pets just to the left of the front door. “I don’t know if we’ll own our house then,” I said. “And anyway,” I added, “with Oogy, it’s different. He and I are connected on a different plane.”

They said that they understood.