The Bliss Of Fattening Up A Starving Dog
You tell me your dog is the greatest, and I listen patiently. Which means, I half listen, or less. Because I’m thinking about my dog, her greatness.
Your dog and her ways are fine and wonderful, I’m sure, but I’m not that sure. You don’t know my Blossom. I bet your dog wiggles and wags and gives you that look and butchers intruders, but does she mutter poetry in sleep?
Because Blossom is poetry. A poem written in shining fur, benevolent fangs, a paw that reaches for your hand, and eyes that follow wherever you go, the happy haunting of devotion.
“My dog is a poem too,” you say.
Oh really? Is your dog also the balm of Gilead, soothing wounds made long before her grandmother was born? Is she the mighty hope of childhood alive again? Is she the unshakable feeling of home that convinces you home is no fiction?
Home is where the dog is.
Of course your dog is all these things. It’s just that I don’t believe you. Because I’ve used up all my belief on Blossom, who is all of these things and more.
She is The Dancing Angel of Life.
I happen to be friends with The Wizard of Dogs. My friend’s joy is to find unloved dogs and love them back to happiness.
She transplants the abandoned and abused into the good garden of her home, and these dogs who start out as midnight flowers, closed as tightly as a miser’s fist around power, begin to unfold.
The growling stops, the quaking too. And in time, as long as it takes, the brave and hilarious personalities of these furry babies dare to show themselves.
I went to my friend and said, “We’re looking for a dog.” I explained the kind of dog Mindy and I hoped for.
What kind? The perfect dog for the great and powerful Sawyer, our boy.