There are moments in life. They may be small. Insignificant really. But they can move you in ways you would never expect. That happened to me the other day. I don’t remember what day it was. It might’ve been Wednesday, or even Thursday. I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I was walking with my LPO to his truck so we could go over to the barracks and pick up the ship’s PA system where it had been used for the command picnic. So that was our task: to journey from our ship in the shipyards to his truck in the closest parking area, probably every bit of a mile away.
We had just crossed the street and entered into the dirt lot that many of us from the ship - and several hundred other people - parked in every day. As we walked past one of the exits of the lot and headed around one of the huge, metal, cage-like towers of the high-tension power lines that also occupied areas of the dirt strip become parking lot, a black dog came into view.
I suppose in all truth, it’s not realistic to call me an “animal lover”. No indeed. More accurately, I am an animal freak. Probably capital letters on “freak”. Most people are most fond of either dogs or cats. Whatever their favorite, fuzzy beast, it usually doesn’t extend to the other species. In fact, there might be a lot of truth to the axiom, that they hate the other with about equal passion as they love their favorite. So I am a freak on two counts. I love them all! Dogs and cats alike.
So here was this dog, all black, forty pounds or so, looking somewhat like a Lab in build, but much smaller. His tail wasn’t wagging as he was sniffing around the car that was parked there.
“Dog,” I said, more in warning for Chris than anything else, just in case he hadn’t seen the dog yet. We’d been having a conversation about something - probably computer related - and we tended to zone in (or out) pretty good most of the time.
The dog spun to face us as we came around the electrical tower.
My eyes fixed on him. He didn’t look particularly friendly. His ears were up at a half-mast angle, and his head was held low, almost like a wolf might study a potential rival that was a short distance off. And his tail still wasn’t wagging. In fact, the entire body-language of the dog suggested something on the order of “cautious”.
For those that know me well, my insanity has never been disputed. Most of the time, my lack of sanity doesn’t play a large role, especially when it comes to Navy life. But when it comes to animals, let’s just suffice to say, my lunacy comes screaming to the surface, sometimes rather violently. Like I said, I love both dogs and cats. And the domestic beasts are just fine, but I am truly on a cloud where I have to look down to see heaven to be wrestling with a much bigger variety of either: say a wolf or a tiger. (“Yes”, to answer the obvious question. “I have done just that!” With a tiger anyway. Not a wolf. Yet.) So, you be the judge. Am I a lunatic? Maybe so.
So what does the mortal human do with a mysterious, potentially cautious and/or feral animal only several paces away? Well, there’s several options: 1) perhaps the most obvious, run! 2) stand there frozen, and wait for whatever fate has in store, 3) put a chain and collar on whatever fear grips your soul like a fist, and keep walking, or finally 4) stop, kneel down, look the beast right in the eye, and stretch out your hand for whatever inspection they might choose to impose on you. Psychologically speaking, the choice you pick is keenly based on the very mettle of what your made of. Myself, being given to complete lunacy from the git-go, of course, chose option number four.
There we are, Chris and I walking along, talking about who-knows-what, and poof, there’s a black dog there. No tail wag. No friendly sparkle in the eye. Just nothing. And if more than nothing, then erring on the side of caution. And what do I do? Stop, kneel down, and hold out my hand to the dog. And then I wait.
Lunacy? Insanity? I can’t say. Perhaps so. Or perhaps it’s just the magic that animals have when it comes to some people. Or maybe it’s bigger than that.
Trust is a strange thing. It plays a part in every interaction you might have with someone else. That’s true with two-legged people and four alike. If there’s trust, no matter how slight, then everything’s fine. If there’s not... Well, just think about it. Let your imagination come up with the answer. (Teeth, claws, etc...)
Not all animals trust people. In fact, some of my greatest challenges with handling animals (and fondest memories) have come from animals that didn’t. But trust is a strange thing. Who will give it first? That’s the real test.
If the test is between a six-hundred-and-forty pound Bengal Tiger and a never-seen-a-tiger-in-the-flesh-up-close-and-personal, hundred-and-forty pound, eighteen-year-old kid, then there’s not really a question of trust on the tiger’s part. There is, however, a quite significant one on the kid’s part. So did Kenti - the tiger - teach the kid - me - the “Lesson of Trust”? I like to think so. I learned that the roles are sometimes reversed. Sometimes it’s between a hundred-and-eighty pound kid-at-heart, and a forty pound, cautious dog. This time, the weight factor is leaning heavily towards my side of the scale. Likewise, I’m the most confident, so with that, the trust factor falls to me as well. So the new question is: do I give up that trust, perhaps giving up a part of myself to be hurt (potentially physically), for the overall sake of maybe gaining a new friend? But that’s the real price of the test, isn’t it? The cost of trusting someone? Anyone. Human or otherwise.
Chris stopped with me, though a safe few paces off, to watch whatever show was about to unfold before him. Were my actions about to become folly? Only the dog knew.
I remained still. Having worked with both dogs and cats (big ones - Kenti for example), I knew that fast actions can have disastrous consequences. Chris, being a “dog lover” himself, knew this and remained still and quiet, not wanting to add a second unpredictability factor to the scene.
The dog stood there, unmoving, seemingly frozen, for a strangely tense moment. He was maybe ten or fifteen feet away. But I maintained my as-unprovocative-as-possible crouch, hoping that the dog would see me as unthreatening versus otherwise.
The moments ticked on. Maybe it was only a few seconds. Maybe it was several minutes. I don’t really know. But however long it was, the dog finally gave in, with a strangely sparse minimum of eye-contact. In another moment - minute? - the dog took a hesitant step forward, his tail still unmoving. He stopped again.
I maintained my posture, my hand still outstretched. I watched the dog’s sensitive nose twitch a few times: taking in my scent. Again, another moment passed before the dog advanced another step. Again, he halted, scenting the air. What things could he tell about the creature before him? Sincerity? Lunacy? Threat? Caution? All of them? Maybe a infectious sliver of fear mixed in?
Eventually, the last step was taken. The distance of separation had closed, and the dry nose of the cautious, black dog touched the very tip of one of my fingers. Again, the air was sampled. I guess it passed, for finally the dog’s head dropped once again, and he was motionless, passively acceptant of whatever fate I was conspiring to bestow on him.
I leaned forward, shuffling slightly on my knees, moving my outstretched hand to touch the somewhat dusty, dirty, black hair of his shoulder. The dirt didn’t bother me in the slightest. What a joy it was to touch, even if only a moment, the heart of this beast.
I gently scratched the dog’s shoulder and Chris stepped back up to us. Now that the dog hadn’t leapt up and bit my throat, he deemed it pretty much safe to approach again. Chris looked critically at the dog for a moment: not unsympathetically, but still a little cautious.
“He’s been around,” Chris said. “A fight or two.”
My other hand moved subconsciously to scratching gently behind his right ear. His left ear was bent down at a still erect but awkward angle comparing to the other. The dog’s hair around that ear, and below, onto his neck and shoulder was somewhat matted, and just a little more dirty and dust-caked than the rest of him was. But there wasn’t any blood there, and he wasn’t favoring his shoulder any, but again, only the dog knew.
“Yeah,” I agreed. Certainly, his caution alone was testament to Chris’ observation.
I took a second to notice that even though the dog had been receptive - albeit cautiously - to my gentle petting and scratching, he hadn’t yet looked up at me. Nor had his tail moved in any form even remotely resembling a wag.
My hand kept gently rubbing the dog’s shoulder, while my other now moved to just below his muzzle, touching his chin. Slowly, I leaned down, looking at the solemn face of the dog. The moments ticked off before the big, brown eyes looked up into mine. I was lost in them for a second.
What is it about an animal’s eyes? Unfathomably deep. Timeless. Ageless. So profoundly wise.
There are three animals on earth that I have an affinity with: wolves, tigers, and cougars. I have never personally known a wolf, but I have done countless hours of research and study of them. I find their social interactions and hierarchy to be fascinating to the extreme. I keep thinking that maybe the human species might have a lot they could learn from the wolves, especially in how we get along with one another. As for the big cats, I can’t say it any other way than their innate grace and poise leaves me in absolute awe.
Sure, they have attitudes, but it’s not just conceit, although to the “amateur” observer, that might seem the truth. It’s much different than that. It’s an inner pride, a mighty resolve, a love for life, a vitality for living. The wolf has it too, but it’s different. The tiger and cougar - cats - exist as solitary entities: individual and alone. Whereas the wolf can get his strength from his friends and family and companions. But canines and felines alike have a gentle part of their spirits, where they are content to simply rest by your side, to enjoy the company of your presence, for as long as it might last.
I’ve been pet to two dogs (a Border Collie and a German Shepherd) and a cougar (Shasta), and prey - plaything - to a tiger (Kenti), so I believe I speak from experience. If you don’t believe me, all I can say is pick your beast, any wild beast, and work up the courage to enter their territory, walk up to them, and sit down cross-legged before them. Stare eye-to-eye with your noses an inch apart and look into the vast expanse of eternity that you will find there. If you don’t feel anything, well then, you’re right. It’s all just bullshit. But if you do feel something, then maybe you know what I’m talking about. Either way, so be it. To each their own. Everyone sees their own light. And awesome beauty is still, and will always be, in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure that’s a good thing.
So what did I see in the dog’s eyes? Everything. Even the pride was still there, if only a little. Life was rough. Everything about him - his caution if nothing else - said that much about him. But it hadn’t won yet. It hadn’t beaten him down so much that he couldn’t rise to his four, tired feet and tread on down the path of fate. It hadn’t yet extinguished that small spark and candle light of flame that burned behind his eyes: in his soul and spirit. I could only hope it never would. For with all animals, whether it be the canine or human kind, once that candle burns out, once that inner pride and strength is gone, we are dead. Perhaps we don’t stop breathing right away, but Death has still come for us, none-the-less.
Seeing that pride made me smile. What’s the song say? “All is well, with my soul!” But the pride wasn’t the best thing. Oh no. In fact, comparing to what I saw beyond that, even the pride was nothing at all. So here it is: once again, if you can sit there, eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and you do feel something, and if you can look into that strangely bright fire of life, and see trust there too, then... well then, you’ve gained something that is more precious than all the riches of the universe.
So the black dog and I had both come to trust. Was is given freely, or with restraint? The latter, I think. As with any sharing, there must be that. But it does not make the significance of that sharing any less. Wouldn’t that be like trying to put definitions and limitations on friendship? Perhaps my perspective is in error, but if there are those - definitions and limitations - then it’s not really friendship. It’s just interaction. And that’s not the same. You can “interact” with someone without giving up a piece of yourself. But you can’t be a “friend”. “Friendship” requires trust: trust is that piece of you that you hold out in offering, like a hand outstretched.
What caused me to stand back up? I don’t know. Maybe it was a deep-seated frustration that had suddenly lit in the core of my soul. I think that was it.
Once I started moving again, Chris moved with me.
Do you believe in happenstance? Do things just happen? Maybe so. But Chris’ next statement took me completely off guard. And it wasn’t the profundity of it so much as the strange coincidence that it was exactly that fire that now burned at my very core.
“It really pisses me off,” he said quietly, almost malevolently, “that people can’t take care of their animals.”
What could I say?
“I was just thinking that very same thing.”
...even though I didn’t actually realize it until he’d voiced it.
I think we were both silent for a moment. Then, perhaps out of necessity for getting onto less “angry” subjects, conversation started again: computers forgotten, animals - dogs - the new subject.
Somewhere in our journey, we noticed we had a new companion: the black dog, his tail still nothing more than a motionless pennant behind him, was following along. Oh sure, he was sniffing this weed or that one, giving this particular car’s tire a brief inspection, but always moving on, traveling with Chris and I as we journeyed towards Chris’ truck.
“I guess I gained a friend for life, huh?”
Chris watched the dog, silent for just a moment as we continued walking along.
He only nodded.
Again, I’m not certain, but I think we were quiet for the rest of the short distance to the truck. That silence continued as the dog went first from my side of the truck, to Chris’, then back to mine, and back again to the other. Our new found friend did this even after we had entered the truck and closed the doors. Never did he try to get in. He just paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. I didn’t see him anymore once Chris started up the truck. Neither did Chris. He let the horn blare for a moment as he backed up, just to be sure the dog wasn’t behind the truck.
Did I look after we had pulled out of the space and were driving towards the exit? No. In all honesty, I couldn’t. I had indeed given that cautious, black dog a piece of myself. Did I fathom the consequences at that very moment when it was happening? No. Does anyone? Ever? Hardly. As the saying goes: “Hindsight is crystal clear.” That’s certainly the truth, isn’t it?
Had I thought the dog would follow me? Actually, no. I didn’t. I thought it had been just a moment’s interaction: a gentle sharing of confidence and trust. I was a fool.
In that fraction of a second where the decision was made - to keep walking or to kneel down - I had failed to remember that there is a price to be paid. But only for the latter. To walk away is to continue on with life, unchanged. But to kneel, and offer that piece of one’s self, whether realized or not, whether desired or not, is to, in actuality, sacrifice it forever. For all that time, until I sat in the cab of the truck, I had forgotten that. Like I said, I was a fool.
As we drove out of that lot, and then down the road, heading towards our original goal, we were both strangely quiet for several minutes. But eventually, not long afterwards really, conversation started again. Maybe about dogs. Maybe about other things. I don’t remember. What I do remember, is that the dog was not forgotten. In fact, I couldn’t get him out of my head. That was the price for the sharing. That was the cost for stopping and kneeling down.
Was it about not forgetting? No. Not at all. It was about being angry that someone would abandon an animal, just like Chris said. It was about wanting with every fiber of your being to gather up that poor, abandoned animal into your vehicle, and take it home and give it a good home. And it was the frustration, that came with the reason - or the hundred of them - that you couldn’t do exactly that. So in the end, it was all in vain. It was all futile. The cynic rises to the surface and you curse yourself for being so stupid: being a fool. You open yourself up, when you ultimately know that even if you save the one, a hundred more will perish. That no matter what you do, you can’t save them all. That burden of truth can weigh heavily on your shoulders. It does with me.
In my moment of wanting nothing more than to pat a cautious, black dog on the head, I was foolish enough to think that such an action wouldn’t have it’s price and consequence. So my action had indeed been folly.
I’d sat at the proverbial table. I ante’d up. I was dealt my cards, and I played out my hand. Did I win? No. Probably not. But did I lose? Again, no. I don’t think so. If you can come through an event in life, and learn something from it, then all is not lost. There’s always something to be gained, if you choose to allow it.
Did I see the dog again? Did I look back to see if he’d yet again followed me? No. And no. But I will never forget my cautious friend, even though our separate lives touched for only a fraction of a moment. But they did touch. And perhaps it’s not so realistic to say that we were both changed by it. But, on the other hand, he followed me down the rest of that thin strip of dirt, through the hundreds of cars, when he could’ve gone in the exact opposite direction. What does that mean? Again, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe something profound.
But I know this: I am forever changed. I don’t quite know how, only that I am. And that I will never forget. It has been one more lesson that every moment in life is so very precious and sacred. Though friends may wander apart, or down different roads, never to meet again, that does not alter the truth that they are, still, friends. And that trust given, and returned, is all the more precious as a result.
So what is it that I’m really saying? I don’t know exactly. It’s not really about words. It’s about intangibles and unexplainables like “trust” and “friendship” and the sharing of those things, even if for just a moment.
So was I really a fool? Yeah. But so what? I will be again. Like I said: that’s part of the price. But what’s the gain? Only you can answer that. The price is different for everyone. What’s your price? What ante do you throw onto the table? What part of you do you risk as the cards are dealt? That’s for you to choose and decide.
I can truthfully say this: it’s all worth it. All the pain, the frustration, the futility, the few shed tears, and the lost hours of sleep because of all of the above. But it’s all still worth it. “Why?” you ask. I’ll tell you: because for just a moment, I gave a dog a friend. And he became mine in return. What wealth in all of the universe could buy that? If you find it, let me know. Or maybe, like I said before, I’m just looney-bins and it’s all just bullshit. You be the judge.

To the nameless, black dog: Wherever it is that you lie to rest tonight, wherever it is that you lay down to find slumber, I pray that a gentle hand may reach down to pat you on the head or scratch behind your ears. I pray that you have comfort and peace and friendship and security. But most of all, I pray that no matter where you are, you know that someone loves you, and cares about you, for as long as life shall last.

Written 22-May-99