It is a mild, mild morning in Wichita, Kansas, and the morning of Valentine's Day. Walking into the school, I see small groups of students watching a dog that, searching for human company, walked into the school hall and now wants to be petted. It is a large, honey-colored dog, with big, warm, intelligent eyes that steadily keep contact with the person close to him.
Dogs are not allowed in the building, of course, but from time to time they visit us from the neighboring homes. Students try to take them out, but they do that only because "they have to." So, it usually doesn't work. A dog usually senses our inner needs better than we ourselves do. A sensitive creature, it knows how much we want to forget everything and just for a moment, an uncontrollable moment, get down on our knees and play with that warm, playful ball of fur that shares our need for affection.
To successfully remove the beast from the premises, usually takes someone who has no sensitivity to dogs (or other living things), a "You-have-to-do-your-duty. Business-first" type of person. If a creature of that kind (or mood) approaches, the dog stops lingering and wagging its tail, puts it between his hind legs with a mixture of sadness and shame, but understanding nonetheless, and leaves on his own. Not a single dog has ever barked, made any noise, or caused disturbance in the school halls. They are smart animals. Not one has ever shown any animosity. They know when they are not on their turf, and they play fair.
This one visiting us on Valentine's morning is a beautiful, healthy creature. Very friendly. perhaps lonely. Definitely wanting our company. He has no concept of Valentine's Day, because dogs are always loving. He just wants to lick your hands, wag his tail, and follow you till you respond with some affection. If you do, he rolls over on his back, trustfully exposing the most vulnerable parts of his body, while watching you intently and invitingly to touch and pet him. Usually, we are happy to do so.
I wonder, when a human being has the same need and tries to communicate it, why people almost never notice, understand, or respond. Do we prefer animals to humans? That is possible. It is easier to love an animal. Humans are riskier: known to hurt worse than any animal.
Maybe humans do not know how to naturally and clearly communicate emotions and needs, shamelessly, with no concern about rejection. No matter what, humans definitely do not respond with such genuine affection and lasting loyalty as dogs do.
Whatever it is, right now I have no time for philosophical discourse, the dog is here to be petted.
I am a widow and live by myself. All my life I have wanted to have a dog and never could have one. When I was a child, my mother thought it was not "hygienic," then I lived in a large city on the tenth floor of a skyscraper, then I had a baby... always something. I got my first and only puppy in my mature age. Six years later, my faithful companion died for no known reason (just like my husband, before,) and I still miss her (or them). Through that relationship of mutual love, I have learned about life's arcana and some universal laws essential for happiness; learned it better than in any other way. Not having my own dog anymore, I scatter the love I have on each dog I encounter. My craving is still unfulfilled, though. I want a dog of my own. Better yet, I want to be loved, as only dogs know how.
With this beautiful honey-colored mess of warmth at my feet, in the hall of my school, I am engrossed in the raptures of mutual affection, oblivious to anything else. Suddenly, I realize: that dog has just turned this day into Valentine's Day for me.
Early in the day, I have already received my Valentine's gift. Instantly, I remember another encounter of a canine nature.
It took place many, many years ago. It almost feels like a lifetime ago, in a different life, and a different place: in Europe, now-torn-apart Yugoslavia, and city of Belgrade, at the University, where I taught English at the time. It was a winter, too. Very cold, unusually snowy winter. Thick, white, downy blanket was covering the bushes and flower beds in the park surrounding the old, architecturally beautiful University building and the unfinished skeleton of a much larger, modern one being built next to it. Plenty of building material, pipes, tiles, and lumber, lay around, covered with snow, the construction obviously interrupted by the severe weather conditions. And severe they were, so cold that the hand glued to the metal, if touched, and the hands, ears, and nose felt dangerously numb in minutes.
Walking through the park, taking a short cut through the deep snow without any visible path, I was oblivious to the surroundings, probably thinking of the test I have just finished grading, worried about my students' carelessness with the grammar, when -- all of a sudden -- I became aware of something pulling me back to my immediate reality. My instinct was warning me to stop, or proceed with more caution.
In front of a huge metal pipe in the middle of the deep snow, I saw a skinny, exhausted, starved looking dog. It was watching me intently, standing there with a strange, tense look. This is not how dogs usually greet me. There is something wrong here, my instinct tells me. Then, I notice, this exhausted skeleton of a dog is a mother. Her heavy, big breasts are full of milk. What a contrast to her lean, almost flat and glued together flanks. No stomach, and nothing in it. The whole sustaining life is in her breasts heavily sagging with milk. Now I understand why this bitch, a mother, devoted and self-sacrificing mother, is so intensely protective of her territory. Before I can ask myself where her pups could be, one chubby, fluffy ball of fur is already rolling and stumbling through the heavy snow towards me, or towards its mother, it cannot decide. It cannot even walk straight, it is so young.
Mesmerized by that warm, charming ball of new life in the middle of the vast, white wilderness, I cannot but want to embrace it, to hold it and protect it on my bosom from the piercing cold, and everything else. I am longing for its innocent, freely offered love and curiosity for the world. Yet, its mother is watching us, and her big, dark eyes are too expressive to be ignored. With the last bit of her exhausted being, she will protect her babies with her own life. I am a mother myself. I know. A mother who never had enough babies of her own and is always fascinated by babies of any species.
The bitch is watching me. Our eyes are locked. Two pairs of dark, penetrating eyes, searching for the response in each other. (I never doubted dogs' sensitivity to read our intentions without a mistake -- mistakes being a human prerogative). I am watching my canine sister with understanding and empathy. She must know how much I love her puppy and would not harm it. She must feel how careful I am to not add more worry and hardship to her already unbearable fight with the elements. We are watching each other, trying to communicate honestly, but carefully. We belong to two different worlds, we are taught. What are the rules in this other, not our world? And, do we really belong to two different worlds if we understand each other so clearly, with no words needed?
Not knowing how, but desperately wanting her to understand that I admire her self-sacrificing devotion, that I mean well both to her and to her babies, I start talking in a soft, soothing voice: "Do not worry. I am not going to hurt you. I will not hurt your babies. I may be able to help. You need some food, some warmth. I don't want you to die of cold and hunger. Trust me. Let me help you." Her eyes slowly soften, I carefully move to the little fluffy bundle, and place it next to my heart, under the coat. The other puppies are already approaching too, rolling towards me out of the dark, big pipe through the white, flurry snow. With an armful of joy I return to the school office, in a second surrounded by women bringing milk, warm scarves and sweaters, while asking me for the details about my discovery. They want the babies, to adopt and save them from a sure death. For a while nothing is important: classes, our work, our families at home. These tiny symbols of life have powerfully grabbed our hearts and changed their own destiny.
Sadly enough, many years later, I don't remember now what happened to the mother, and whether she received the same care as her babies. What we may have overlooked and what I understand now is: in spite of the fact that we wanted to help, in spite of the love and empathy, did we not do harm? Did we not separate the mother from her babies, by conveniently taking only one at a time, only one of our choice, causing her another, deeper pain than the childbirth and survival in that cold, snowy winter? And that is what we constantly do, when we are caring. That is what we do all the time. That is what we do when we have the best intentions. Tragically, we still are two worlds separated by the ignorance of each other's needs (mostly, it seems, human ignorance of the animals' needs).
Many years have passed, too many for a dog's span of life. I am far away, but still remember my canine sister who had taught me a valuable lesson. She cannot be living anymore. I wonder how she and her babies ended their lives. I still feel that same pang of love and empathy mixed with the feeling of inadequacy and awareness that there are too many cruelties between our worlds to abridge. I promised her not to hurt her, or her pups, but what did I actually cause? Did I save their lives by causing yet another, deeper pain, separating mother from her babies? Do we ever know how to successfully interfere with Life and Nature?
Life is a glorious amalgam of splendor and sadness, love and cruelty. Thank you for the lesson, sister.
Only those who love can teach.