VI: Canines

I had a dream about my dog last night.

(That’s us, circa October 2011.)

Dreams about my dog always bum me out because he’s 2,200 miles away and living (permanently and against my will) with my high-school ex-boyfriend, with whom I was living when Attila became part of our household.

He’s almost six now, and in my dream, he was older than that. Long in the tooth, his whiskers turning white– getting a little aggressive as his senses began to betray him the way that they’ll betray us all. Six is somewhere between 38-40 in dog years, so he’s really not that old, but when I picked him up as a flea-ridden ball of black fluff from a gal near South Haven, Michigan, I never imagined that I wouldn’t be there to share that time with him. And that hurts. A lot. I feel like I’m betraying someone I love. I get this lump in my throat when I think about never being able to see him again.

Nobody I’ve ever been close to has died. I guess I’m just waiting on this. Would my ex even tell me?

But I digress. Dog proximity is also an interesting metric for the feel of a city. When I first moved to Knoxville, I was thrilled to see that there were dogs everywhere, and loads of posh, accommodating businesses with shaded tie-outs and eternal water dishes. It made that place feel a little more like home, like my place, like I could be comfortable there because this was a world where people could live in respect and peace with other critters.

When you’re exploring with a dog you get dirtier. Corners get turned, smells get followed. You might find yourself in the middle of a field that you didn’t know was four blocks away from your house, or investigating some killer trash, or even happily entangled with another dog owner as they accidentally traverse the same paths as you.

The dog was totally at peace with this maneuver.

Dogs make great apocalypse companions. Because of the intense social ties that domestication brings, I get the idea that for most pups, “place” is more about the friendship of a human, rather than a specific area. Unlike cats, they’re mostly chill with the notion of constant relocation, so long as they can check out the new digs and piss in all the appropriate  corners. And they’re just as excited about the new iPhone as you are.

Some are smart enough to help you survive. They can sense a heart attack, save a drowning kid, quell anxiety, and hunt food. With trust and effort, they’ll defend you to the death. (As long as you don’t mind picking up their poop everywhere you go.)

Olympia’s strong canine presence is inspiring, and lends itself to the feel of the city. It’s friendlier, it’s more curious and open, and it becomes infinite with joy and undiscovered spaces. Dare I say that it even smells better?

It would be wonderful to experience this new place with my old friend. Sharing a journey with a dog not only allows you to see a city (or town, or stream) from their senses, but it means that no matter how new and strange and alienating a place can be– you won’t be in it alone.

I wouldn’t call Olympia lonely without him, but it takes on a new quality: that of loss. The notion that I no longer have his companionship in a place that it’s desired doesn’t translate well for me. And when I amplify that by a few factors, imagining all the different ways that Olympia’s residents have connected here– to dogs, to each other, to the place itself– the idea that this place could be flooded and lost forever is devastating.