The dog who changed my mind
I have always believed that every dog is special. Even the one that chomped my face causing a wound that required dozens of stitches. Or the one that got into my yard and murdered some of my laying hens.
Some breeds have distinctive traits and characteristics for which they are well known. Like the Basset Hound and the Beagle, known for their incredible sense of smell and meandering ways; the Golden Retriever, friendly and a lover of all; or the Border Collie, brilliant and driven to herd.
And then there is the Pit Bull. Labeled vicious, aggressive, unpredictable.
This is the only breed that makes me nervous. The breed that causes me concern. The one I would never want to have in my life. Not because I have had a bad experience, but because of their reputation, the stories I’ve heard. And their looks match their reputation.
The Pit Bull breed and the Pittie mixes scare me. And, honestly, I am ashamed to admit it.
Then I met Tycho.
I had just started my pet-sitting business. I was eager to accommodate as many requests as I could handle. I sat with a Texas Coon hound. I looked after Beagles, Retrievers, Shepherds, shaggy unspecified mixes, poodles and Great Pyrenees, horses, goats, donkeys, poultry.
Then the message came in. A request to host a Pit Bull mix in my home. He was described as gentle, quiet, and an angel. (Said every pitbull owner I’d ever met.)
To me, his picture did not match any of those adjectives. I looked at the head resting on the hulk-sized neck, the small round eyes, the broad forehead of the breed and the big, Pit Bull grin stretched across those unmistakable powerful jaws that make the breed look so ferocious.
And now he is coming over for a day. Because I said, yes.
I said yes because I did feel a bit ashamed, like I was betraying the canine species I claim to love. But I was nervous. I had been conditioned to fear the breed. I’d heard the stories and read the reports of the Pit Bull attacks. And now this big guy was coming over to visit in two days. I had no other commitments or guests. So, I was comforted by the fact that if there was a Pit Bull “incident”, it wouldn’t traumatize anyone else.
I logged Tycho into the calendar and began preparing myself to be open to meeting a gentle, quiet angel. But I also committed to being cautious.
Two days later I was standing in the backyard with a cup of coffee in the beautiful early morning. Birdsong, fresh air, the promise of warm sunshine and a rainbow of potted annuals still wet with dew, veggie and herb transplants stretching their spindly limbs to the morning sun. I was feeling full of energy and confident that everything was going to be ok; that I could handle any dog for a day.
My phone pinged. I checked it and was startled to see “Typhoon arriving soon”
!!!!!!!
With relief, I realized that when I typed “Tycho” into the calendar, it had been autocorrected to “Typhoon”. I hoped it wasn’t an omen. And some anxiety fluttered in my chest.
I then did a last-minute perimeter check for the third or fourth time. I filled up the water bowl and poopbag holder. Then waited for the Typhoon, er…Tycho to arrive.
His young owner had a tight hold on his leash that was attached to a substantial halter around his girth and across his chest. He was harnessed up, but I noticed a lack of muzzle and wondered if he should have one. She gave me instructions for his care.
I assured her that the fence had been checked for any breaches. She assured me that his favourite thing to do is to lie in the sun, or the shade or on the couch or floor or basically anywhere. She didn’t seem to be concerned about perimeter breaching.
It was time to make eye contact. I looked down at his face. He was quietly observing me, standing completely still. He wasn’t sniffing or wagging his tail, just looking back at me with those round smokey quartz eyes. I smiled at him and greeted him by name. His tail wagged, and he opened his mouth and dropped out a red carpet of tongue as if to smile back with that big face-contorting grin.
He showed some mild curiosity when his owner left the yard. He did his doggie-type due diligence and confirmed that the perimeter was secure with an exploration of the fence line.
It was then that the neighbors two small dogs jumped at the other side of the chainlink fence, barking furiously at the unfamiliar beast in my yard. I thought with alarm, “Oh gosh, here we go.” But Tycho just looked at them, flubbed his lips and wagged his whip-like tail. He approached the fence calmly and slowly. I felt like he was aware of his intimidating appearance and was signaling, “Howdy, cute little friends. I’m new here.”
He didn’t growl. He didn’t bark. He didn’t lunge.
I was pleasantly surprised. “He has manners,” I thought.
Suddenly he launched into a burst of the ZOOMIES. His body bent like a pretzel and just ‘given ‘er’ several times around the lawn. He stopped as suddenly as he started with a surprised look on his face, like, “Oh! Goodness me! What was that? “ Like a fine English gent dusting himself off after an embarrassing stumble.
He ignored the cushy dog bed I put out for him and selected a spot on the deck where the sun had warmed the boards. He settled his body, stretched out with his belly toward the warming rays. He was close to the steps, so I settled an arm’s length away. I looked at his head, the color of honey, and cautiously reached out. His head had the texture of a hair-covered bowling ball.
He sighed contentedly as my hand rested there. I smiled as he used his legs to maneuver his body in my direction and thumped his tail. “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss. I would be very grateful if you could rub my belly.”
That’s what I believed his thumping tail was saying. So, again, with caution, I moved my hand onto his belly and began to gently move it over the sun-warmed soft skin. His tail stopped thumping. “Oh, maybe he didn’t like it.” I stopped.
His tail began to thump. He opened his eyes and looked at me to see if I was “listening”. I rubbed his belly again. His tail stopped. After a few rubs, with him emitting contented sighs, I stopped. His tail started again. Hand returned. Tail stopped. Hand left. Tail thumped. Hand returned. Tail stopped.
I realized that Tycho was communicating his desire for a belly rub in the most basic way. He ‘dumbed it down’ for this mere human.
It was an interaction that eased some of my fear.
I’ve never understood how dogs in their coats of fur can lie in the sun for so long. I found the strong morning rays a bit too much and left Tycho to find a spot in the shade. He raised his bowling ball and watched where I went, then flopped back down and resumed lounging.
Shortly after I heard him moving off the deck and approaching me. I turned to watch him lumber across the grass. He folded his body down and stretched his back legs out behind him like a gazelle clearing the watering hole. He began dragging his body toward me, belly on the ground, military crawl style, holding me in a steely gaze. Combat mode, I wondered?
But no. I could tell that his intentions were simply to communicate with me. “I am quite capable of rubbing my own belly as you have become weary of the effort.”
Tycho, as his owner said, was very content to lie around. He shifted from the warm deck to the warm grass, to the shade of the trees. He glanced at the gate occasionally to make sure he didn’t miss his owners’ return. And he kept an eye on me.
We both enjoyed lying around that day. I was feeling comfortable getting to know this dog. I quietly observed his way of gently moving from spot to spot, exhibiting interest and affection toward neighbors and calm interaction with their dogs.
I was relaxed enough later in the afternoon to doze off on my back in the shade. When a drop of rain hit my face, I opened my eyes to be greeted by the massive open maw of Tycho as his head hung over me. Other gobs of drool lined up dangling from his cartoon upside down face ready to plummet.
“Ah ha, here is the typhoon,”
The companionship of a quiet elder dog is soothing. Tycho is 10. And despite my trepidation of his breed, I was comforted and happy to have him spend the day with me. He is indeed quiet, gentle, and an angel. I almost want to say guardian angel.
His personality, the way he observes, his untroubled demeanor, brings to mind the actor, Charles Bronson, powerful looking, ruggedly handsome and someone who would die for you. That is the vibe of this dog. This dog bearing a label that caused me to be afraid.
Late in the day I said farewell to Tycho. He was exuberant to greet his owner as she came through the gate. And I was genuinely sad to see him leave.
I never let her know of my nervousness about accepting him. And I hoped this noble dog had not felt my fear. But I believed if he did, he was wise and intuitive enough to handle my apprehension. I told her with full sincerity that I would welcome any time with Tycho.
Thankfully, later that month, I received a last-minute request to have Tycho for a week when the original care plan fell through. I was delighted to think of having him for a seven-day visit. Tycho’s personality reminds me of Dexter Longfello, my beloved Basset Hound who had died at the age of fourteen the year before. I suppose I will miss him forever. But being with Tycho filled that hole in my heart.
Our week together was very sweet. He demonstrated such gentlemanly qualities. His interactions with everyone he met, every dog we encountered were exceptional. He behaved like an individual trained in high society etiquette. I swear if the proper layout of silverware was presented to him at dinner, he would know which fork to use first.
At mealtimes, however, there was some stereotypical doggie behavior.
I had instructions to feed him twice a day: before 9am and at 5pm. At 4pm he started hanging around the kitchen.
I was trying to stick to 5pm. He hovered around my feet. He glanced at the food bag, then at his dish. Then cast his eyes up at me. When I paid no attention, he whined a bit. And when I looked, he repeated his glancing. Food, dish, me. Food, dish, me.
“Tycho”, I said. “It’s not 5 o’clock yet”
He looked at me calmly and patiently. And I swear if he could, he would have howled out Alan Jackson style…
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
This dog has made smile and laugh and love even more. Like every creature can do. “Sit with animals quietly, and they will show you their hearts. Sit with them kindly and they will help you locate yours.”
Tycho has opened my heart and enhanced my life by just being who he is.
And he has also, even more importantly, opened my mind.
To the magnificent, quiet, gentle angels. Pit Bulls and their kin.
(Tycho is visiting today. He is lying beside me on the couch as I write this. I told him he has to wait until I am finished. I suspect he’d approve of the Charles Bronson comparison. He’d pretend not to, of course. But he’d secretly be pleased.)
