ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, July 22, 1996 TAG: 9607220027
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-5 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Monty S. Leitch
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
WHEN I was in my early teens, I had a dog named Caesar.
This will surprise friends who know me now. I'm the one who tells them, over and over, "I don't like dogs." "You had a dog?" I can hear them saying.
Yes, I had a dog. And, for a while then, and now in my memories, I was very fond of him.
Caesar was a foundling ... found as a puppy, still small enough to fit in my cupped palms. He'd been dropped into our field, and it was the cows who first spotted him. We went over to see what they were nosing around, and there lay this tiny ball of fur, shivering.
"Looks like a collie," said the amateur vet in town, a kind man to whom we took most of our run-of-the-mill pet problems. "Maybe some shepherd, too. Feed him pabulum and milk, and give him some worm medicine. See if he lives." I suppose I claimed that dog as mine because I was in my early teens: restlessly and relentlessly compassionate, hopelessly romantic, determined to see that this dog not only would live, but thrive, and that he would be my dog forever, my Lassie. Our hearts would bond.
Which is, in fact, exactly what happened. At least, on Caesar's side. Unfortunately for him, I didn't really have a clue about long-term commitments.
For the first few weeks of Caesar's life, while he still whimpered and quivered in my arms, I tenderly fed him several times a day: spooning pabulum mixed with milk into his little mouth, dribbling in the drops of worming medicine.
And he was rank with worms. Perhaps he would have died even if someone had not put him out in our field. But under my careful ministrations, he not only healed, he thrived. He grew. And he grew. To complete shepherd-collie size, which was, at the time, nearly my size; to complete collie hairiness; to complete dog masculinity.
And he loved me. He loved me like his mother.
But I no longer loved him. I tried to keep up the pretense, but it wasn't the same. For one thing, he was no longer cute. Pretty and sleek, in a dog sort of way, but not cute. And he smelled. Not any longer that sweet baby smell of pabulum and milk, either, but full-grown, long-haired dog smell. And he was hot. Full-body dog hot; long-haired-collie hot, panting in my face.
When Mama let him in each morning, he headed straight up the stairs to jump on my bed and shake me awake. I found this his only charming adult trait. The rest of the day, I preferred for him to leave me alone.
Perhaps I should be kinder to that girl who I was. She was doing only what many children do: loving a baby's helpless beauty without either understanding or accepting the responsibility devotion incurs. But now I call her crass and heartless. Caesar was left to my parents' care and, when he became old and cranky and started biting the paper boy, it was their hard decision to put him down. I was far away, thinking of other things.
This morning when I woke, my cat was curled up right against my hip. This cat loves me. He is devoted to me.
And so I love him back. I no longer take a pet's devotion lightly. I no longer minister to a pet without thought.
It isn't entirely true that I don't like dogs. I have liked, and do like, individual dogs. And, to be honest, dogs like me. They wiggle all over in my presence. They lay their heads in my lap. But I'm very careful, now, not to incur any one dog's devotion. For I understand that commitment, from the dog's point of view. And it's thanks to Caesar, whom I wronged.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
LENGTH: Medium: 69 linesby CNB