Learning is Loving

When I was little, I didn’t have imaginary friends. I had imaginary dogs. Eight of them. One for each day of the week plus an additional for Saturday (because Saturday was twice the fun.) I’m pretty sure psychologists would say this was the culmination of my love for dogs, the Monday’s Child poem my Grandmother had read to me, and the fact that my mother was going to school to become a teacher at that time.

The other night, as Tucker and Ruby sat before me in the kitchen, anxiously awaiting a new trick to learn and thus earn the scrumptious piece of chicken in my hand, I realized how much our childhood imaginings shape our adulthood.  I don’t think I could handle eight dogs in reality, and although I was teaching more practical canine skills like Sit and Down now instead my childhood curriculum where the dogs learned reading comprehension, I was still living my childhood fantasy.

The dogs of my imagination were a motley crew, named the days of the week. I had fleshed out the one-liners from the original two hundred year old poem, and of course, amended them for canine likenesses. The delight in Ruby’s eyes every time she fully grasped my intent lit up the room was much like the quiet Monday did in my childhood classroom. As Tucker bowled over Ruby to prove he knew Down, it struck me that I had actually adopted Saturday II, my favorite imaginary dog who was a little too cool for school and always proving his witty brilliance given the chance.

Despite what professionals might theorize, I don’t believe my imaginary classroom was based solely upon my mother’s career choice. Although training a dog has practical implications and is always a good idea in general, it goes deeper than that. Teaching a dog something—anything—is the clearest way for you show him that you love him.

Imagine living in a place where you don’t speak the language or understand the culture. The people you live with are constantly yelling at you for you doing what you think is perfectly normal behavior. But they ever teach you what they want. And other than the obvious signs of discontent that you’ve learned to decipher, you don’t know a single word of their language.

That’s how a dog begins life with us.

So every time you take five minutes of your day to teach him the word Sit, or show him how he should greet guests, you’re proving to him that he matters. You’re showing him that you love him. You’re including him in your life, which is all he ever wanted.

Every time Ruby dug into my yard, ate my shoes, pulled the eyes and nose off a stuffed animal, I got angry. (Thanks to Ruby, I now have a special needs stuffed animal.)

But I wasn’t really angry at her. I was mad at whoever she lived with before that didn’t feel that she mattered enough to teach her anything.

Ruby learned Sit in five minutes. She understood the concept of Down in another five minutes, and in another ten minutes, she mastered it completely.  In just five to ten minutes a day, right before dinner and again once before bedtime, the girl learned Sit, Down, Paw, Freeze (both paws in the air—but we didn’t get to Bang! where she has her dramatic collapsing scene), Watch Me, and Touch. The sparkle in her eye when she understood Paw made my heart smile. Every day when it was learning time, she sat down nicely, tail wagging, ready to learn more. In the moment of silence while I contemplated what to teach, she’d offer up all she knew so far, so proud of herself for having knowledge and the ability to use it.

Ruby didn’t need to get a home now because I was rapidly running out of hats and footwear for her to destroy; she needed to get a home now because she was at the prime of her learning life. You can teach an old dog new tricks, but teaching a young one is even more rewarding. Her forever family was missing out on these precious moments as I taught her the basic requirements of living among humans. It was like someone missing out on their child's first steps and first crawl and first word. Ruby needed her forever family to start teaching her so she could see how much they loved her.

Saturday morning I awoke and said, “Today, Ruby is going home.”

I had no knowledge of any applications on her; I just knew she needed to go home. Aside from being primed and ready for her home, I was beginning to think that although Tucker enjoyed her company, it was a bit like leaving my boy with the stalker chick who was so in love with him she came across as a little crazy. That’s fun for a guy—for a little while. Then he needs to stop being sexted eighty-seven times a day.

Tucker seemed exhausted. He did seem to like her, but her morning perkiness was a bit much for either of us to handle, and sometimes Tucker needed his alone time.

So, I did my best to erase any doubt in my heart and as I took Ruby out to the store, I said to Tucker, “Did you say good-bye to Ruby, Tucker? She’s going home today.”

He seemed to understand. He looked surprised. The rest of the morning I was a bit sad for Tucker. Stalker-chick attention is still attention, and although he needed a break from it, I think he would miss it.

At 2 p.m., Shelly called me to ask if I could do a homecheck for Ruby. A couple with a  two-year old little girl had seen Ruby a couple weeks earlier, but went home and thought it over, read about pit bull mixes, and wanted to make an informed decision. I said I would go, but needed Shelly with me. I never want to be the ultimate decision maker when it comes to deciding a dog’s life.

I met up with them at 4 p.m., and headed over to the family’s house. I hadn’t seen Ruby with children, so I was a little hesitant. I know Tucker is okay with everyone, but I also witnessed him with my friend’s three-year olds and have concluded that he thinks anyone under four feet high is another dog. He would never hurt them purposely, but he’s twice their gravitational pull, and has the balance advantage of four feet on the ground. In a bodily collision, he’s the only one left standing—and not crying.

Ruby seemed at ease in the house and yard. She didn’t stick by me but explored confidently. The child was calm and polite, offering Ruby water in bowls that were already in the kitchen. They had even bought her a bed. The mom said that they had seen other dogs like Ruby in the shelter but they immediately got so excited that they knocked her little one down. I explained that Ruby could do the same. Ruby had the advantage of being properly exercised and therefore could be a civilized canine in the presence of young ones. Shelter dogs don’t always get the walks they need and certainly are cooped up and overjoyed when someone finally shows them attention. Their over-exuberance isn’t necessarily an inherent trait as much as a circumstantial state of being.

The couple of was ready for Ruby. They knew Ruby had chewed some things, they knew she was in training, they understood what they were getting into when they adopted a dog twice the weight of their child. There was a calm and peaceful energy about them and their house. Although it would have been nice for Ruby to have a canine sibling, this was by no means a terrible place. Tucker probably would have preferred a canine family too, but such is life. I make up for it in other ways. I hoped this family would do the same for Ruby, giving her playdates and daycare and training classes.

Saying good-bye to a foster is tough. Most of my fosters know they’re fosters. They somehow understand that I’m their temporary person and when they see their new home, they give me a big dog hug, thank me for the laughs, and are ready to start their new life.

But Ruby didn’t know. She was blind-sided.

I could see she was comfortable here. She didn’t even spend much time with me while I talked to her new mom. She was outside with her new dad and little human sister. But when Shelly told them to hold her leash and I kissed Ruby good-bye, wishing her well and made for the door, she balked at the leash and puppy-screamed for me. That high-pitched, “Mom! Don’t leave me behind!” was abundantly clear in that one syllable screech. Shelley and I walked out to the car and my eyes welled up with tears.

I know she’ll be fine. She’s got a human sister her exact age, and they’ll grow up together. I envied the little girl. I wondered if she had her own imaginary dogs and now she got to have a real one, as I did when I was four. She seemed like a gracious, kind soul, wanting to care for Ruby. I hoped she would take over the classroom for me. Her parents knew the importance of teaching their human child, and I had no doubt they would do the same for their new canine family member.

In my imaginary classroom thirty-five years ago and my real kitchen-classroom just two weeks ago, the lessons may differ but the intent has always been the same: to love. My childhood fantasy wasn’t about teaching dogs at all. It was about loving them. And as it turns out, childhood dreams do come true, as not only am I able to love every foster who shares my home briefly on their life’s journey, but I am blessed to love my souldog every single day of his life.

Ruby, Tucker and I loved sharing our home with you and loved getting a chance to love you. You have a beautiful new family who will love you beyond comprehension and you'll know it by all they teach you. We wish you the best in your new life, and will miss your sweet snuggle-butt.