Learning to Tiptoe
A few months ago we “inherited” a puppy from our daughter. She had gone to a local shelter and picked out a cute puppy: floppy ears, gangly legs, and a loving personality. She asked what breed the puppy was, and was told it was a black lab. A month went by – two months – and it was becoming distressingly clear that this was not a Labrador Retriever puppy. She took “Dresden” to the vet, where she was told that Dresden, rather than being a lab, was in fact a Great Dane. At about the same time, unfortunately, our daughter’s work-at-home situation changed, and she had to leave the puppy for long hours every day. The puppy suffered, the furniture suffered and the family suffered. So – we became the proud if somewhat reluctant owners of a Great Dane.
Dresden likes to be close. In fact, this “puppy”, now 25” from paw to shoulder, would sit in our laps if we permitted it. I cannot tell you how many times my husband, Dresden’s special person, has awakened to find Drezzie’s head on the pillow next to him, or Drezzie’s nose pushed into his neck or face. We wake up, order her off the bed, and go back to sleep. But Dresden has learned the art of tiptoeing. We know this – we’ve seen it. She will stalk the cat, her favorite playmate, lifting each foot gently and carefully without making a sound. I’ve watched her walk soundlessly around our bed, place two front paws on the top, and sinuously extrude herself from the floor to a comfortable place among the covers. She worms her way onto the bed the way she has wormed her way into our affections. Dresden is clearly our dog now, and we are (happily) resigned to having this young animal in our lives permanently.
We weren’t ready for her. We weren’t ready to love another dog just yet. Not six months ago we lost our beloved Jack, a gentle shepherd mix of just eight, to numerous painful tumors. Three months before that we’d lost Finn, a valiant German Shepherd of fourteen whose life was driven by a wonderfully well-developed instinct for play. We loved them and we missed them. We weren’t yet ready to love another dog. At our age we weren’t certain we wanted to try. But our hearts were already tilled and plowed for loving. Dresden has not replaced Jack or Finn in our affections; that isn’t the way love works. Every love prepares us for further love, and every time we give our love more is given to us. The only limit on our ability to love is our willingness. Dresden tiptoed into hearts and lives still grieving and settled down to stay. And we have found, once again, that loving another can never lessen the loves we already have known.
A few months ago we “inherited” a puppy from our daughter. She had gone to a local shelter and picked out a cute puppy: floppy ears, gangly legs, and a loving personality. She asked what breed the puppy was, and was told it was a black lab. A month went by – two months – and it was becoming distressingly clear that this was not a Labrador Retriever puppy. She took “Dresden” to the vet, where she was told that Dresden, rather than being a lab, was in fact a Great Dane. At about the same time, unfortunately, our daughter’s work-at-home situation changed, and she had to leave the puppy for long hours every day. The puppy suffered, the furniture suffered and the family suffered. So – we became the proud if somewhat reluctant owners of a Great Dane.
Dresden likes to be close. In fact, this “puppy”, now 25” from paw to shoulder, would sit in our laps if we permitted it. I cannot tell you how many times my husband, Dresden’s special person, has awakened to find Drezzie’s head on the pillow next to him, or Drezzie’s nose pushed into his neck or face. We wake up, order her off the bed, and go back to sleep. But Dresden has learned the art of tiptoeing. We know this – we’ve seen it. She will stalk the cat, her favorite playmate, lifting each foot gently and carefully without making a sound. I’ve watched her walk soundlessly around our bed, place two front paws on the top, and sinuously extrude herself from the floor to a comfortable place among the covers. She worms her way onto the bed the way she has wormed her way into our affections. Dresden is clearly our dog now, and we are (happily) resigned to having this young animal in our lives permanently.
We weren’t ready for her. We weren’t ready to love another dog just yet. Not six months ago we lost our beloved Jack, a gentle shepherd mix of just eight, to numerous painful tumors. Three months before that we’d lost Finn, a valiant German Shepherd of fourteen whose life was driven by a wonderfully well-developed instinct for play. We loved them and we missed them. We weren’t yet ready to love another dog. At our age we weren’t certain we wanted to try. But our hearts were already tilled and plowed for loving. Dresden has not replaced Jack or Finn in our affections; that isn’t the way love works. Every love prepares us for further love, and every time we give our love more is given to us. The only limit on our ability to love is our willingness. Dresden tiptoed into hearts and lives still grieving and settled down to stay. And we have found, once again, that loving another can never lessen the loves we already have known.
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