Aberdeen

Matt and I got a dog.

Before we got the dog, I had very clear ideas about where this dog would sleep and eat. I thought of this as “wise boundaries.”

When Aberdeen walked into our home, I showed her where to find her food and water (in our laundry room) and her kennel (in my office).  I explained that she could hang out with us as much as she liked, but that at bedtime, she would have to sleep in her kennel. “Furthermore,” I said, “Our kitchen is quite small. There’s not enough space for you to eat there with us.”

Ahem.

After two skipped meals, I caved and moved her bowls to a tiny space next to our kitchen table. She hasn’t missed a meal since, except for the weekend we spent with the kids in Tampa. She insisted on eating in the kitchen there, too.

Sleeping arrangements haven’t fared much better. On her first night with us, we put Aberdeen in her kennel with soft blankets, toys, and a snack. She cried like her heart was forever broken. Every howl sounded like, “How could youuuuuu?”

Now she sleeps at the foot of our bed. Except for the weekend we spent with the kids in Tampa, when she slept in our bed.

So much for wise boundaries.

Here’s what I think. I didn’t need to create space from Aberdeen. I just feared getting all emotionally entangled. I told myself rescuing a retired Greyhound was kind. We’d give her a home and bed, good veterinary treatment, and squeaky toys. But I certainly wasn’t going to worry about her when we traveled or obsess if a bark sounded like the start of a cough.

Now I love her, except for the part where she hurls all sixty-nine pounds of herself at me when she wants to go for a walk. I browse Amazon looking for just the right toys, ones I know she’ll love tossing in the air as she scampers down the hall. I read the back of dog treat packages, looking for I don’t know what, but feeling responsible and protective all the same.

The truth is, I avoid intimacy in all of my relationships—and once I give up the impossibility of that pretense, I switch over to care-giving. Aberdeen has revealed a pattern in me that I’m not super fond of.

Getting a tad to close to me? I’ll bake you something delish or tell you funny stories or buy you an amusement park, but do-not-do-not-do-not expect vulnerability. On those rare coffee dates with friends or sleepy nighttime walks with Matt when I crack open the window just a hair, my stomach fills with champagne bubbles. Telling the truth makes me giddy.

The thing is, I think vulnerability—with safe people—can be terribly freeing. Even though I fear it more than drowning or food poisoning, I always feel just a little lighter, just a little looser than I did moments before I said a true thing about me.

Recently, something scary happened with Aberdeen. I was feeling warm and fuzzy towards the beast, so I got down on all fours and then gently laid my head on the edge of her bed. 

That didn’t go well. She sprang to attention and barked at me, flashing all her big, fierce teeth.  I jumped away. She glared. We were both wary for several days.

It was a dumb thing to do, and I knew it. Greyhounds, particularly retired racers, are exceptionally persnickety about anything encroaching on their beds. She’ll let me lean over her when she eats, and she stands perfectly still for baths and brushings, but she will not tolerate invasions on her bed space.

Still, I felt sad. I wanted her to trust me. And I wanted to be able to trust her. Isn’t that the heart of vulnerability?

The day after Christmas, my brother did some poking around online to investigate Aberdeen’s past. Her found her race records and even footage of her madly chasing the mechanical rabbit. “Oh,” I breathed. “There she is.” She could not know, of course, that I got a front row seat to her years before she came to live with us, but as I scrolled through pages of data about her race times and siblings, something in my feelings toward her relaxed just the littlest bit.

When we adopted Aberdeen, the folks at the rescue agency told us she was born in January, 2010, but it was impossible to know the exact date. Silly new parents that we were, we chose a birthday for her, something in keeping with her Scottish name and red fur: January 25, the birthday of Robert Burns, Scotland’s most beloved poet.

Those records my brother found about our girl? They included her whelp date.

Yep.

January 25.

I know. It’s silly to see a correct birthday guess as an affirmation or a gift or a whatever. But I can’t help it.  Isn’t it possible, as I learn to love a dog or a grandkid or a husband—love in the way that leaves my underbelly exposed—that God or the universe or whatever you want to call her might just hand me little atta-girls now and then?

I say yes.

And thank you. Most definitely, thank you.