There Was a Young Dog...

We had a dog in to visit today at the bookstore. This is by no means unusual. T., my beloved work wife, draws dogs to her as if she were a beef bone, (though there, the resemblance ends.) T. loves dogs. Dogs love T.
As I understand it, from those who speak for dogs, there is no particular mystery in this; "dogs," so I'm told, "know." Our canine today stayed slightly more than an hour, which is somewhat unusual, while his usual human went off to lunch with a member of the staff and a distinguished guest. T. volunteered to watch the puppy. This puppy, be it understood, though but one year old, is a big, strong, and vigorously active youngster, with all the capacity for quiet reflection common to his age and kind. T. is slight, though by no means as delicate as she appears. She has large dogs of her own, and would happily walk a wolf, if offered the opportunity. I took no part in the care of the youngster. (Remember, dogs "know.") It was with genuine, if inactive sympathy, and no little amusement, I am now ashamed to admit, that I watched T. go about her usual tasks, to the extent that she could, tethered to a large dog. The girl was game, to give her her due. She answered a customer's question, maintaining a pleasant smile, if not eye-contact, even as she was pulled away to investigate a smell at the opposite side of the Information Desk. She walked the sales floor with a remarkable dignity, when not danced off in unplanned directions, presumably in pursuit of the many rabbits suspected behind bookcases. She fed the dog a selection of biscuits, without approving entirely of his manners, fetched him water for his bowl, which she had sensibly placed well away from the books, as he drank with all the enthusiasm, if none of the dignity, of a bishop. She talked to and coddled the dog, in the language I've come to understand as unique to her canine conversation, and corrected him, gently but firmly, when he, quite rightly, barked at a somewhat unsavory fellow in sunglasses who approached the desk to try to sell a book we did not need. (I felt myself lucky, seeing this, that when I've required similar correction, dear T. has consistently refrained from holding my muzzle with both hands while putting her nose to my own and repeating, sternly, "No. No. We do not bark.") T. is an admirable woman. If, by the time the luncheon party returned, she was somewhat breathless, her lovely long hair somewhat disarranged, and one arm now noticeably longer than the other, she was uncomplaining. And if it was with some relief, at least for my part, she handed the dog back to its friend, I do not think I would be too far wrong in suggesting T. would as soon have happily left with the dog, were she not the conscientious bookseller I know her so well to be.

It was a lovely, sunny Spring day. The sun was bright and untroubled by clouds, the air scented with first flowers, the new grass, just over the road, as clean as fresh laundry, the trees all in bud and bloom. I stand still a little amazed she and the dog did not take off every time the doors opened. I'm sure they both wanted to.

And so, in tribute to T. and the great restraint she showed yet again today; in minding a stranger's dog for more than an hour, in ignoring my disrespectful giggling when she was spun like a top at the end of its string, in keeping the dog from my pastry, her shoes on, I offer two limericks from Edward Lear. Now, Edward loved and was loved by all animals, save, sadly, dogs. But do not judge him too harshly, he was a painter of birds and a companion to cats, and so was understandably less inclined to dogs than is usual for an Englishman. So here then are Edward Lear's stray dogs:



There was an Old Man of Kamschatka,
Who possessed a remarkably fat cur.
His gait and his waddle, were held as a model,
To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.




There was a Young Lady of Ryde,
Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied.
She purchased some clogs,
And some small spotted dogs,
And frequently walked about Ryde.