Been thinkin’ about…Dog, hearth, magic

The rain beats down hard outside, surprisingly cold, especially after so long a hot, dry summer. The warnings on my phone turn ominous: flash flood alert. Floods are sudden on a limestone plateau. No thick layer of clay here to absorb all that run-off. For the first time in what feels like forever, I am resting, sleeping in on a school day, even if 7:30 a.m. is really sleeping in. Rapid thumping somewhere near my knees brings me out of my grogginess. My reaching for my phone alerted someone else in my private orbit. A wagging tail beats rhythm against orange bedsheets. Poppy Girl is awake and inching closer, paws outstretched, eyes full of love. A dog’s love is something unique, something special. Even one dog is a special thing. I have three.

Early morning is a magical time in my house. Skye, the ever-regal Basset, is convinced he runs the house, although he has yet to help with the mortgage or do any dishes. He does like to lick plates clean when he gets the chance, so I suppose that counts for something. He pads about, thick nails clicking on the floor, sleeps aristocratically in his choice of chairs, and taps lightly on the front door when it is his time to go outside to pee (which is often 4 a.m.). Once, I cut off Skye’s water intake at 8 p.m., cleverly surmising he would sleep through the night with a less-than-full bladder. He instead woke me at 3 a.m. I stumbled to the front door to let him out and looked around — No Skye. He was instead waiting for me in the kitchen, staring at his empty water bowl. I got the hint. He does run the house.

I grew up on a small farm of sorts, a childhood full of love and animals. But no regular house pets. Dogs stayed outside, stayed in the barn where dogs belonged. And for many years I resisted the idea of dogs in my house. I wanted to keep my house clean, my life simple.

Tennessee, my little boy born of a Basset mother and an opportunistic mini-Golden Doodle father, wriggles lightly from beneath the covers. He asks politely to get into bed, usually about 4 a.m. A stocky, beautiful little dog with piercing eyes, he finds every chance to keep his schedule, rather like an old man. And he is afraid of the dark, a strange attribute for an animal who obliquely resembles Anubis, the Egyptian god of death. If I wasn’t so used to him, I might find it unsettling, the way he stares, unblinkingly, into my soul.

So much for the ever-clean house. Now, I have to vacuum and dust every other day to keep the clouds of dog hair from piling up in the hallway. Front room windows are forever smudged by noses pressed against the glass. And I will likely never again cook without a full audience waiting for me to slip up and drop food on the floor. We don’t have hearths much anymore, but if we did, I’m pretty sure my dogs would find their way there. And it seems appropriate. Hearths — and today, kitchens — have a strange and special pull. It is at the hearth where the warmth, the magic, the love, always starts, and dogs are a strange combination of all three.

The Romans left inscriptions to their dogs, sometimes granting their dogs honored burials. The Celts celebrated dogs in myth. The druids — at least more than once — revered the dog in lore and magic. At the Hill of Tara, archeologists uncovered a great dog skull, placed with honor. A magical place, ancient and full of power. And the great Hercules of Irish myth was named Cú Chulainn, the Hound of Culann. “Cú” means “hound.” In dogs there is something elemental, something forever.

My own hound has now flipped over and is snoring. His speckled belly heaves lightly to the sound of his breath. I turn the page of my notebook and pick up my pen. No matter the weather, no matter the day, writing must be done, deadlines must be met. Skye, named for the Isle of Skye in the Scottish Hebrides, is now awake, wriggling closer, eyeing me as he lays his head on my bare chest. Despite what some may say, dogs have souls. Despite what others may say, I know Skye knows I’m more than just a purveyor of food bowls. Those bland ideas are the thoughts of a cynic, not a poet, and a cynic with no magic to light the way. Skye’s eyes are shining with love, love more pure than that of any human, a love that spans the ages. I’m grateful we somehow found one another again in our light blue sky. The house cleaning can wait another day and I hug him close, knowing the truth — There is great magic in the simplest of things and ever-always in our short lives, lived ever and again.