Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (2 page)

He was a grand dog, black with rusty tan, just the
perfect size for draping a companionable arm
across his back as we walked. And he was an
agreeable dog. It took little effort to convince him
to accompany me down the stairs and into my Sunday
school class, where he settled politely next
to my chair. How the teacher missed our entrance,
I'll never know. I was not being secretive; it had
yet to dawn on me that this was not a perfectly
appropriate guest. In fact, I thought as I
settled down to hear the day's Bible story, a dog
and Sunday school was a heavenly combination.
Singing out the names for roll call, the teacher would glance
up from her list to bestow a beaming smile on each child as
they answered. "Suzanne?" she asked brightly, her
teeth gleaming as she turned her head my way.
Perhaps it is only in my imagination that she gasped and
stepped backward; perhaps I've only dreamed of how
her lips twitched and snarled with unspoken horror.
At any rate, I do recall her question, "What
is that dog doing here?" There was an unpleasant
emphasis on the word dog.
I thought it was fairly obvious and said so. "He's
here for Sunday school."
Her response shook my innocent acceptance of the
church's teachings: "He does not belong
here."
I was dumbstruck. Doesn't belong? Isn't he
one of God's creatures? Didn't God make
him too? Surely Jesus would be glad to have a
coonhound in church, especially one that wasn't
bothering a soul. If I could bring this scene to life
on film, I would cast an articulate,
passionate child who, with tremendous presence, argues
the dog's case, quoting Scripture so fast and
furious that the teacher eventually bows to the greater command
of the Bible as a weapon, yields to a deeper under-
in the company of animals'
standing of God's love for dogs, and allows the dog
to stay. Unfortunately, I was not articulate in the
face of wrath and could only weakly protest as I
squirmed under her glare.
"He smells." With that final statement, the teacher
revealed the limits of her love for all of God's
creatures. (in retrospect, I realize that
had I brought in a real leper with stinking bandages or
a drunk down on his luck and reeking of the gutter,
the teacher's Christian charity might have fled as
quickly. But I am older now, and a touch more
cynical.) I was outraged, and protested with
vigor: The dog did not smell. Well,
to be perfectly honest, he did not smell bad,
he just smelled the way some dogs do. And that's how
God made him!
My arguments fell on deaf ears. The teacher
insisted that I take the dog outside and return,
sans canine, to my chair. Sadly and slowly, I
climbed the few stairs, opened the door and stood
for a moment with this dog. I apologized to him, and though
I lacked the words to express my deep sorrow at
the powerlessness of being only five years old, I
think he understood. He must have, for his power and mine were
similar; his world was also full of larger, stronger people
who set rules that had to be obeyed. I hugged
him-the memory of that warm, slightly greasy black
coat, of that rich musky dog scent has stayed with
me all these years-and he leaned into me, wagging his
tail. With tears in my eyes and newfound doubt in
my heart, I left him standing in the sunshine and
returned to Sunday school, infinitely older and
wiser.

How people interacted with and reacted to animals was
endlessly educational. I learned, for instance, that many
adults were not nearly as brave as they seemed. The

summer that I was ten, I carried a coffee
can with me at all times. Sweetly patronizing
adults would ask what it was that I had in there, and ever
eager to share the amazing world of nature, I would open
the top and show them my pet stag beetle, Benjy.
I do not know what they expected from a ten-year-old
kid and a coffee can, but the three-inch-long,
impressively fierce-looking Benjy was
decidedly not it. A few shrieked before they could
recover their composure and
his smile weakly at me; some actually blanched.
All looked at me with new eyes after that, and quite a
few never again asked what I had, no matter how
provocatively I might carry a container.
I suppose every child blessed with siblings carries
resentments for youthful incidents long past. Ask
me what I remember of being four years old and
I'll tell you that was the year I had turtles.
Ostensibly, one of the two turtles was mine and the
other belonged to my sister Sheryl. Two years younger
than I am, Sheryl wanted to do everything that I
did, though our interests were considerably different.
She found babies [human babies!)
indescribably fascinating; I found them of
far less intrigue than an earthworm drying on the
sidewalk after a rainstorm. Happily playing with
my turtles, enjoying the prick of their tiny claws
on my hand, I was mildly annoyed when Sheryl
asked to hold one. But at my mother's urging, I
agreed to share the joy. More than three decades
later, my lips still automatically lift into a
sneer of disgust when I recall how, upon my placing
a turtle upon her outstretched hand, my sister
squealed, "He's got claws!" or something to that
effect and flung the hapless turtle across the room.
The turtle survived the incident, which in my
memory has far outlived the turtle itself.
Sheryl has grown up since then. She now has the
sense to avoid handling reptilian creatures, and
I know better than to let her. Endlessly
kindhearted, she loves animals best from a distance,
though she does not always understand them; and there have been a
few animals that she has loved up close and
personal, muddy paws, drool and all. She
earned high marks from me the day she discovered that an
intermittent ear problem was caused by a lone dog
hair curled neatly upon her left eardrum, the
result of a bed shared with her dog. I love my
sister, but despite that redeeming dog hair
in her ear, I'll go to my grave remembering the
turtle incident.
My father and I frequently tangled over
animals. There was a pair of kittens I
recklessly accepted and hid in the car overnight. It
was his car, and despite my best intentions to wake up
long before he did and sneak the kittens into the house,
I never stirred until his roared "Suzanne!"
broke the morning wide open. Those kittens taught
me several lessons. First, set an alarm if you
really do have to get up early. Second, don't
put kittens in your father's car, at least not without
informing him first.
Last, providing food (and lots of it) and water
(lots of it) is not entirely sufficient for a
kitten's needs. One must provide a litter box
as well. The kittens went off to the local shelter,
and I lost my allowance and quite a few privileges
for a while.
I also forgot one night to mention to my father that a large
Collie had followed me home (quite nicely once
I took off my shoelaces and my belt and hooked
the makeshift leash around his neck) and that I had
hidden him in the small shed that housed our garbage
cans. How was I to know that my father would finish
his supper early and decide to take the trash cans
out then? He normally didn't take the trash out
until much later. Since I had momentarily
forgotten the dog, the combination of deep barking,
surprised swearing and the bellowing of my name came as
a shock. My allowance took yet another hit.
A good deal did happen to me in my youth and
adolescence that easily qualifies me for
membership in any number of support groups and
twelve-step programs. But somehow, I came through
it all relatively intact, bearing only a
reasonable load of baggage to sort out along my
life's journey. It may be that any child with a consuming
passion is buffered against life's blows by that very
passion; it may be that the animals themselves served as
both buffers and healers. I have a hard time imagining
that a stamp collection would have done as well as my
animal friends did.

where the animals lead me
Through childhood and beyond, a veritable Noah's ark of
animals have accompanied me on my life's journey.
Long before I read Joseph Campbell's wise advice to
"follow your bliss," I was already following my heart's
desire. There were other opportunities
available to me in life-my high school art teachers
urged me to attend art school, my English teachers
pushed me toward a career as a writer. My
grandfather, aware of my great love of books, offered
to pay my college tuition if I agreed to become
a librarian. I was surrounded by disapproval and
dire warnings of inevitable failure if I
pursued my dreams. My stubborn insistence on
following my bliss created conflict and pain in my
relation ships with those who could not understand why I spent my
teenage years at a nearby stable, why I pursued
an animal husbandry degree only to abandon that
to leap at a chance to work with a guide dog organization
and then move on from there to manage a stable and kennels
and to ultimately become a trainer. At every
crossroad, I took only the path that would lead
me where I wanted to go-toward a deeper understanding of a
life shared with animals.
I write this book in a house filled with wonderful
animals-seven dogs, seven cats, a pair of
tortoises, a parrot and a box turtle. From my
window, I can glimpse my horses, the donkey and
some of the Scottish Highland cattle that
grace our pastures. There is mud on my jeans,
left there by Charlotte the pig's affectionate
greeting. I know that in the warm glow of the barn
lights, my loving husband is tending to the nighttime
chores, talking to calves as he hands out treats of
stale bread, settling the turkeys, chickens and
quail in for the night. In my relationship with each of
these much-loved and complex beings, including my husband,
there are ghosts and echoes of all the animals that have
shared my life, and the seedlings of a wisdom crafted
from both joys and sorrows. I am grateful for the
immeasurable love bestowed upon me daily by my
husband and my animals. Sometimes, I question whether
I deserve such blessings. If I have somehow grown
into a person who deserves what she has been given
so freely, it is in large part the reflection of the
grace and forgiveness granted to me by the animals who
have accompanied me thus far on my life's journey.

Those who do not know better label me simply as an
"animal lover" and find it charming, if odd, that a
parrot flies freely through the house, that a turtle
tells me quite clearly he'd like a cherry tomato for
lunch, that my dogs find it not at all unusual
to go for a walk in the woods with a turkey or
a pig. I give these people amusing tales of waking
to find a cat's gift of a dead mole on my
pillow or the inexplicable presentation of a
live, unhurt baby bird, and we laugh at the
dogs' latest adventures. While sometimes
impressed by my knowledge of animals and their ways, many people
are bemused by my insatiable lust for an ever-deeper,
fuller understanding. For them, it is enough to have a pet, to
"love animals." And they leave our farm with an
incomplete view of our life and of who I am.
I am not an animal lover or a pet owner. I
am, perhaps, an animal husband
in the oldest sense of the word, but it is much more than
even that. These animals are my friends, my partners,
my fellow travelers on life's journey. I do
not "h" animals as I have collections of art or
books. I have relationships with each animal; some
are more intimate than others. I try to listen as
carefully to each animal as I would to any human
friend.
To be sure, tending to the needs of so many creatures
gives shape and rhythm to my life and to my
husband's. Our plans and goals are often delayed
or altered in response to crises as simple as
an unexpected puddle on the floor or as
complicated as caring for a critically ill or dying
animal. There are times when we chafe, individually
and together, against the constraints of a life with so many
animals in our care. But the immediate and undeniable
reality of the animal world grounds us in ways we cannot
fully articulate though we can feel it working its
peaceful magic deep within our hearts and minds.
Fortunately, my husband understands that he did not
marry an "animal lover" but someone who travels
daily in the company of animals, forever trying to be
open to the places they may take me, to the sights and
sounds I might have missed were it not for them.
To travel in the company of animals is to walk with
angels, guides, guardians, jesters, shadows and
mirrors. I cannot imagine how it is to travel
bereft of such excellent companions. In my
journey, seeking to know animals more fully, wandering
in their foreign lands, struggling for fluency in these other
tongues, I found much more than just the animals
themselves. As all travelers do, no matter how far
they may go, no matter how exotic the terrain or
bizarre the culture, I discovered myself.
The thirst for a deeper understanding of animals and the
desire for relationships with them is not unique to me.

Everywhere I go, I find others who are
equally passionate about animals, who want to know
more. With great joy, I have made it my life's work
to help others better understand the dogs with whom they
share their lives, and to help them explore new
depths in their relationships with animals. This is not
a onesided process of simply explaining the
beautiful nuances of canine communications or the
structures and protocol of canine culture. It
is important to understand how and why our dogs behave
the way they do and to open ourselves to a different
perspective on the world: the dog's perspective of life, love and
relationships. This book offers the reader the knowledge that is
necessary to more fully appreciate these gentle
predators who share our beds, and with this knowledge comes new
insights and greater awareness.
But more than that is needed. Relationships-if they are
to achieve the depth and intimacy that makes our souls
sing-are built on far more than good information about how and
why others act as they do. As with any relationship, a
fuller understanding of ourselves and what we bring to the table
is necessary. Of all the gifts that animals can offer,
perhaps the greatest is this opportunity to delve deep
inside ourselves. Without judgment or timetables,
with patience and an amazing capacity for forgiveness,
animals are the ideal guides through our inner
landscapes. In moments of glorious agreement as
well as moments of frustrated disconnection, our
relationships with our dogs serve us well, gently
nudging us to a greater understanding of the dynamics of two
beings in willing partnership and to new insights into who
we are. Once we begin the journey toward the
authentic connections we long for, we cannot help but be
profoundly changed, often in ways we did not
expect but welcome wholeheartedly. A life
lived in relationship with an animal has the power
to make us both fully human and more fully
humane. And this spills over, as a fullness of
soul inevitably does, to other relationships, weaving
its magic across our entire lives.
This book is for those who also may have spent their youth
considering the world from beneath the dining room table, for those who
wished as desperately as I did for a tail to wag.
It is also for those who never once licked a knee
or barked at the pizza deliveryman. It is a
book for those who would become fluent in Dog and other
tongues, and for those who would learn for the first time these most
eloquent of languages. It is for those whose hearts
have been shaped and filled by animals now
gone, and for those whose hearts have yet to be broken as
only an animal can break them. Most of all, this
book is for those who would journey through life with dogs
and other animals as their fellow travelers, and in
doing so, perhaps discover themselves.