Old Friends

George

We as humans are blessed to have the devotion and companionship of animals. The dog with the stick in his mouth is George, my best animal friend.

Yesterday, we (the humans) hiked seven miles, however, the dogs were through the bushes, up the hill, down, back up again, over here and there scouting rabbits, porcupines, or mice—and to my calculations, they must have traveled more like twenty miles.

George was slow to rise this morning, stretching extra long and taking slower, shorter steps to the door to go out, not steps of pain, but of stiffness. My heart sank seeing my beloved pet show his first signs of maturity. After his breakfast, George cared only to nap. Emma, the puppy, low-crawled around him, licking his face, wagging her tail, but the only reaction was a snap. This month George is five, but it just so happens that five is a lot older in Great Dane years than in regular size dog years.

It was mid summer several years ago that we found ourselves greeting ninety pounds of puppy at Homeward Pet Adoption Center, a no-kill animal rescue outside Seattle, Washington. I had been eying this Shepherd-Dane mix on Pet Finder convinced that he would be a wonderful addition to my (temporarily smaller) family. I did not seek a guard dog, but a friend that would make me feel safe for the duration my husband deployed. 

George’s first night in our house was the first night my husband spent away. I had looked over the edge of my bed at this dog. Tears welled in my eyes as I feared what was and could have been ahead for my loved one in a combat zone. Being a seasoned military wife didn’t make that first night alone any easier. George’s brown fur caught my tears, the first of very many, certainly more than any human shoulder would absorb. That heavy tail pounding on the floor, disrupting the quiet, was not the typical gentle lullaby to comfort, but he’d perfect that in the coming months.

The day I learned that deployment was extended from one year to fifteen months, news that came when my husband’s unit had already begun the process of return, George rested his head on my lap and breathed deeply. Four months later, when my husband called from Atlanta on a layover announcing he was standing on United States soil, George danced with me around the living room. A year after that, he sat in the front seat of my pickup navigating our cross-country move. And now he’s trekking 1,000 miles with me—but I think he’ll exceed my mileage!

Today we walked just one mile. It was enough to alleviate George’s aches and cheer his mood. Slowing down with him today made me think of the excited puppy that played fetch endlessly, that tried to scare the coyotes from approaching the edge of his property, and the dog that slowed down for me when I was mentally exhausted and pained. The relationship between humans and animals cannot be defined in black and white, but on one layer, George and I are partners. We need no explanation between us, just to sympathize and comfort. It feels good to have this companion.

Mountain dog