Every Dog Is A Rescue Dog...They Rescue Us
Two years ago we picked up an 8-week old ball of fluff that changed our lives forever.
January 23 is Gotcha Day.
Our three grandkids had wanted a pet and were hoping for gerbil until Ainsley, who was 9, said, “I don’t know why we’re talking gerbils when we should be talking puppies.”
My heart melted. It’s still in a puddle.
Her brother, Asher, is allergic to most things that move so we got a golden doodle that doesn’t shed. No reaction, only love.
We expected a golden doodle with curly apricot colored fur. We got a dog no one can figure out. He’s white and black, and left untrimmed, looks like a sheep dog. Our kids bought us a DNA kit.
We all guessed percentages that included crazy, mystery mutt, goof-doodle, sheep, noodle, love and fun. Turns out McIntyre is 68 percent poodle, 18 percent gold retriever and 14 percent Bernese Mountain Dog. It all adds up to 100 percent love.
Last year John Dickerson wrote at essay that appeared in The Atlantic called “Saying goodbye to George.” The headline struck me: Every Dog Is a Rescue Dog. He’s right.
Our dog rescued our River from her fear of dogs. She was 7 when we got him and cringed every time he barked. Now she lies on Mack like he’s her pillow and considers him a best friend.
With every walk, Mack drags me deep into life. He’s made me part of a new community. All the dog walkers stop and chat. I don’t know all their names, but I recognize their dogs.
Mack rubs my nose into nature every single day. When he needs to potty late at night or early morning, I get to greet the moon and stars. I’ve never felt more connected to nature. We walk every single day, no matter what the weather.
He sniffs and smells every tree and leaves his mark on half of them. That nose. Boop! You can’t help but love it. It’s like a giant black button. Just press on it for more joy.
When the geese honk over us and I honk back, Mack looks at me like I’m nuts. If he could roll his eyes, he would. Those eyes, those deep brown eyes. There’s so much behind them I wish he could tell me.
When I had Covid in October and couldn’t do anything but cough and sleep on the couch, he sat next to me like a guard dog all day. He couldn’t fix me, but he could be there. I’m a fixer. Mack taught me the healing power of presence.
We promised Farmer Doodle breeder in Medina that we would be his forever home. People were betting against us. We’d never owned a dog before. This dog owns us.
Mack gets my husband outdoors, drags him away from his desk and his phone, and that’s no small miracle. Mack is our little miracle worker, every single day.
He’s still a dog. He thinks tissues, socks and napkins are snacks. Hear him crunching on something? Better check. He’s nearly eaten three pairs of reading glasses.
We never feed him from the table, but he’s learned to graze under it for fallen nibbles. We don’t let him on the furniture, but he’s become a lap dog for my husband, all 53 pounds of him.
He gets out his zoomies before bed, running around the house. My husband growls like a monster and chases him. Mack runs back for more. Somehow Mack found the 10-year-old boy lost inside my husband. Mack is our fountain of youth.
He falls asleep next to my bed, his big fluffy head tucked under the bed, the rest of his body sticking out. When he wakes, he gets up and shakes. The jangle of his dog tags sound a gentle bell.
When I lotion my feet every night, he’s right there, licking it off. He loves the smell and taste. Or maybe it’s me. That’s my scent. His is Earth. He smells of dirt and leaves and grass.
He loves the grandkids best. When their car pulls in the drive, he goes bonkers. His feet fly off the ground like a cartoon animal. He barks and whines and runs from the window to the door, leaving a path of scratches on the wood floor.
He weaves in and out of their legs over and over and over. That’s his way to hug us.
We didn’t rescue Mack, but he rescued us. Every dog truly is a rescue dog. They love us with their whole being.
Imagine if we all did that.
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