The Power of One

 

"The world needed to see what I was seeing." --Darnella Frazier

This is just to say… Thank you.

Thank you to all the strong, weary, defiant women who have been determined enough, angry enough, whatever enough, to say “Enough is enough.”

In September of 1955, Mamie Till-Mobley traveled from Chicago to Mississippi to attend the funeral of her son, Emmett Till, who had been tortured and murdered by two White men. Against the advice of everyone involved, Mamie Till-Mobley insisted on an open casket funeral, telling the press, "I wanted the world to see what they did to my baby." The disturbing photos taken of Emmett Till's mutilated face were distributed throughout the country and around the world.

On December 1, 1955, Rosa Parks boarded a bus, sat in the back—in the seating designated for Black folks—but was ordered by the bus driver to stand in order to allow a White man to sit down. She refused and was subsequently arrested.

On May 25, 2020, Darnella Frazier happened upon a scene in which police were attempting to take a man into custody. When the officers had subdued the man but continued to use force against him, she began recording the incident on her cell phone. Later that day, she posted the video on her Facebook page, footage that has now been seen by viewers around the world and which led to the arrest and conviction of Derek Chauvin, the officer who kneeled on the neck of the already subdued George Floyd until his breathing stopped, his heart stopped, and he could not be revived.

I love the image of her standing there on the sidewalk, phone raised, face determined. “The world needed to see what I was seeing,” she said. Yes, honey, we did. Of course we’d seen similar atrocities before, many times, in many ways. But not like this. Not when there could be no discussion of whether it was “a good shoot” or “a bad shoot” or whether the brutality could be justified. What we witnessed this time was a slow public lynching, with the perpetrator’s smug facial expression captured for all the world to see. 

Thank you, Darnella, for simply having the humanity to stand there and document what you saw. What was happening “wasn’t right,” just as you said. 

Time and again we wonder, What can one person do to change things? Turns out, one single person can make sweeping changes simply by caring enough to act.

Bringing Maya Home

The short version:

They picked her up and put her in the back of the Subaru, where I’d put the seat down and arranged some towels and blankets. She was quiet as I drove the 70 miles back home. When we arrived, I managed to get her to step down out of the car—and realized that on the drive she’d already chewed halfway through the harness I’d put on her at the rescue, and when I tried to lead her into the house, she looked directly at me as she bit all the way through the one-inch cotton lead I’d just purchased. So I picked her up and carried her into the laundry room. She went straight for the fluffy, cocoon-like “anti-anxiety” bed I’d gotten her, where she curled in a ball and silently remained for days, except for short periods of time when she was taken to the yard to relieve herself. One week in, she didn’t appreciate the sound of the dryer going, and as I watched, she excused herself by climbing over the “tall” pet gate I’d placed between the laundry room and kitchen. She trotted twice around the living room until she spied the den, then chose it as a much quieter habitat. I promptly moved her bed in there, where she spends most of her time sleeping next to my big writing desk.

She’s been here a month, and she’s made tiny increments of progress. She now (sort of) walks on a leash. Words in her lexicon:

No (when she starts to chew the leash—she learned this one in two days)

Collar (so she knows to sit still while I put it on or take it off)

Outside (whenever we go out)

Maya (not the name the rescue gave her)

On the first day, she was calm and lady-like in her meeting with Thomas, and he was equally a gentleman in meeting her. They now go in and out of the house easily together. The cats are curious about Maya, and she is curious about them, but everyone has made peace with the new pack member.

And they will all live happily ever after.

The long version (and this is the tougher one to read, so if you have things to do, click out, get on with your life, and just know that Maya Angelou Murphy is safe in her forever home now):

Last spring, I saw her profile on the website of a rescue I had donated to in the past. (Something I now deeply regret. Keep reading and you’ll understand why.) I saw her again in late December and was surprised she hadn’t been adopted. She was medium-sized and female, so she fit what I was looking for in a new hiking partner, since Thomas can no longer hike with me. I filled out an application and was told I could come meet her on the weekend.

Thus began a series of visitations with her that extended over a period of six weeks, during which time she began to relax a tiny bit in my presence, and simultaneously, I alienated nearly everyone (with one exception) on staff with the rescue.

The first time I went there, they had Maya in a small crate—with a chair sitting next to it. That’s how they wanted me to “meet” her. I explained that it would not be possible for me to assess her needs or her personality under those conditions, and I finally convinced them to put her back in her kennel so that I could sit with her in there, but it was a tense conversation, during which time the staff members admitted that because she “got upset” every time they put a leash on, they never did anything with her. No walks, no socialization—she had not even been spayed. I was told that “with a hundred dogs on the property,” there was “barely time to feed and clean up after them.” That was the care Maya received in the time that she was there—feeding and the feces removed from her kennel. Vaccinations when they were due. That’s it. She was filthy, her nails were overgrown, and she had no idea how to interact with humans. I thought they’d had her in these conditions for a year or so. She’d been like that for three. 

They told me she was three years old, and they listed that age on her adoption paperwork, but her rabies vaccination listed her correct age as six. At some point during my weeks of visitation, they finally had her spay surgery done. Her certificate of sterilization also shows her age as six. Staffers on site told me she’d been confiscated from a hoarder, but I later learned she was pulled from another rescue that had her for a long time and never did anything with her, either.

There were other issues with this rescue—too many to document here. On one of my visits, I was petting one of the dogs allowed to roam the property, and I discovered a huge, live tick (still trying to wiggle its way under his skin) on his neck. The staffer I notified was annoyed that I pointed it out. Nothing was done to eradicate or treat for the tick on the dog. Another small dog running loose tried to bite me. I managed to move my leg out of the way in time. There were, in fact, one hundred dogs on the property—barking, baying, howling, whimpering and spinning in their kennels. The noise and chaos were overwhelming every time, and after each visit I had to sit in the silence of my car for long minutes before beginning the long drive home just to decompress before getting on the highway.

Each time I left, I was heartbroken to leave Maya behind. But I couldn't bring her home if I couldn't somehow, at least minimally, manage her on a leash. Each time I returned, the hostility directed at me by the staff seemed to double, as if my request to simply sit on the ground in Maya's kennel and pet her was an imposition. But the day came when she finally relaxed and allowed me to handle her, so I decided it was time. I knew she wouldn't begin to recover until she came home to a quiet routine in a setting where she could feel safe.

The first day we met, at the so-called "rescue"

A dog like Maya is not what I went looking for. But….

A dog like Thomas is not what I was looking for when I brought him home, either.

Yep, it’s going to be another long road to recovery with this little girl. But doesn’t she deserve a chance? Just as much as Thomas did? Just as much as any dog does? And I would say to my critics (and oh my goodness, can I just say here—since my critics never read my blog anyway—just shut up. Shut up. No one asked you, it’s not your decision, and I’m the one caring for her), what is it you think Maya is going to take from me that I don’t have to give? Time? Love? Patience? Pffftttt.

I already know what I will get back from her eventually, and I can’t wait, but I don’t really have to. I love Maya… just as she is. Someday, she may be able to trust enough to love me back. Just knowing she is safe now, she has the care she needs, lots of love, good food, daily walks, ear scratches, a soft bed that she loves, treats, two kitty friends and a big brother carefully showing her the way we do things, is enough.

And they will all live happily ever after.

The Broken Ones

This was how Thomas looked when he arrived at Upland Animal Shelter in 2013.

For my thirty-seventh birthday, my daughter gave me a kitten. A scrawny little squalling thing with huge ears and a feisty attitude.

“The lady said she was the runt, so I picked her because I knew that’s the one you would want.”

My daughter was still a teenager, but already she knew me so well. Yep, I’m betting that is the one I would have chosen. Calpurnia (named for the beloved housekeeper in To Kill a Mockingbird) grew into a beautiful little cat who lived a long life and was a great companion.

When Cal died, I sought out a rescue group in Upland, and the nice volunteer introduced me to many a pretty kitty, torties and tigers and the like.

“Do you have any black cats?” I asked. Cal was black, my young cat, Boo Radley was black, and by then I knew that black cats, like black dogs, have a harder time finding forever homes.

“Well, we have one,” she told me. “She’s very small, and she’s missing half her tail.”

“I’ll take her,” I said. The volunteer insisted that I “meet” her, so she let “Sugar Plum” (I know; I cringed at the name, too) out of her cage. She jumped to the floor, strolled purposefully across the room to the bench where I was sitting, and, jumping up, hunkered down next to me.

So that was that.

(I told Sug on the way home as she rode silently in the cat carrier, “I’m sorry, but Sugar Plum is a terrible name for a cat. Don’t worry. We’ll think of a new, cool name for you.” Ha ha ha. That never happened, and for a dozen years with me, she was Sug, Sugie, Sugie-Pie-Honey-Bunch—and Sugar Plumpkin, the very fitting name my daughter gave her.)

Despite her rough beginning in life (she was not born with that stump of a tail; someone took the rest of it, and I don’t like to imagine how), Sug was absolutely the best little friend, a great mouser, terrific bed warmer, and, in her last years with me, my sweet little comfort at night as she developed the habit of placing her head in my palm as we drifted off to sleep.

Of course, I have blogged here on several occasions about my good boy, Sgt. Thomas Tibbs, the feral dog sheltered by the Friends of Upland Animal Shelter, good folks who refused to deem him “unadoptable,” despite how absolutely terrified and shut down he was. Thomas was so, so broken in his spirit, he would not respond to humans, would not even make eye contact.

“He just needs someone to take him home and give him a safe place in their yard to live out his days,” one of the volunteers told me. Thomas had languished in the shelter for six months, she said. No one wants the dog who isn’t tail-waggin’ friendly.

Except me, I guess. Because I brought him home—even though he turned his head away every time I looked at him, and I had to corner him in the garage every time I wanted to put a collar on him, and he flinched every time I touched him. (He still does, mostly, unless I warn him a touch is coming.)

At first, everything about him was challenging. He wouldn’t eat or drink or relieve himself in daylight. He walked on a leash but was so terrified of people walking by or motorcycles starting up (even if they were blocks away) or cars driving past that I had to always keep a tight grip on the lead because I never knew when he would suddenly bolt in the opposite direction, straining all the muscles in my left arm. He’s blind in his right eye, so I have to remember to hand him treats with my right hand on his left side.

Oh. Treats. He wouldn’t eat them at first. Then he developed the habit of showing up when I made toast in the morning. I started setting pieces of the crust on the floor near him. If I ignored him, he would creep up and grab his piece and run off with it to eat it. After months and months and months of this morning ritual, he finally, one day, accepted a piece of toast from my hand, turning and running away as soon as he’d secured it. Now he knows the command “take nice,” which means he has to very gently remove his highly expensive, low fat, human food grade peanut butter treats from my fingers.

Another new trick he has learned is getting into the truck for his daily ride by walking up a ramp. We began this process after I learned of the arthritis in Thom’s shoulder. No more jumping. I bought a sturdy pet ramp (after reading several reviews), then started training him (with his peanut butter treats) to stand on it while it was level, then walk on it level, then walk on it when it was slightly raised. The last step confused him. He didn’t understand why I wanted him to walk on the ramp and also get in the truck. His look said it all: “Can’t I just jump in, Mom?” But he’s a patient old guy now, and he humored me, walking up the ramp as I led him on the leash. Now as soon as it is placed, he walks right up it and into the truck, no lead required.

Who says you can’t teach on old dog new tricks?

Thomas last night, waiting patiently for me to peel his favorite dessert: A raw carrot.

Sadly, the one trick I can’t teach him is how to reverse the aging process.

Three weeks ago, Thomas had a seizure.

Thank goodness I was there to see it, to know what happened, to stroke his back and comfort him. I called Dr. Lebovic, the “Home Vet” and best veterinarian I’ve ever had. He validated what I suspected; while this could be “a one-time thing,” chances are Thom will seize again eventually as his body slowly breaks down. “When we need to” we will talk again of “next steps,” Lebovic said.

In the meantime, Thomas is taking a vitamin-rich food supplement and also a CBD supplement (again, human food grade) that helps with his arthritis and his anxiety.

I will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and comfortable. Because my point here is, as broken as he was when I brought him home, he didn’t stay that way. And he has been the best, best buddy. We have logged hundreds of miles walking and hiking together, and hundreds more driving around so Thomas could view the world from the safety and security of the extra cab of my Ford Ranger. His anxiety and fear of humans was completely justified and understandable to me, and he was worth all the extra effort it took to bring him around to being “almost a real dog,” as I like to tease him.

There have been those, even among my family members, who have criticized me for taking on a dog with “too many issues.” Let me tell you if you’ve never experienced it, the joy and triumph I felt when that sweet boy finally, after two years, trusted me enough to roll over onto his back and let me pet his belly was so overwhelming it brought me to tears. And I cannot count the number of times—especially in this past year—that I have been ever so grateful to be able to lie down next to him and stroke his fur until the tears stopped flowing or my heartbeat slowed to normal.

Thank you, dear, faithful Reader, for allowing me to reminisce for a bit, and for reading once again about how much I adore this big, fluffy, teddy bear of a dog.

All of that, really, is just preface to say this:

Six weeks before Thomas had his seizure, I met a dog that was described by the rescue group as “shy” and “three years old.” In reality, she is six (at least) and absolutely terrified of people—just as Thomas was. I had to visit her four times before I felt I would be able to manage her if I brought her home—which I did, having committed to her adoption the day before Thom’s episode.

So yep, here we go, another broken one. But ya know what? Thomas has taught me so much about how to help a broken dog heal, this one should be a piece of cake.

Okay, I’m joking. Seriously, I laughed out loud when I wrote that.

But stay tuned. For the most part, Miss Maya Angelou Murphy is spending her time either curled in a tight ball or hiding under furniture. But she’s home. And I will definitely keep you posted about her progress.

See what I mean?

Reading Little Women

 

When I was in the fifth grade, my best friend suggested I read Little Women. Cathy was an avid reader. She had her very own bookcases in her room, and the shelves were lined with all her favorites, plus several series: The Bobbsey Twins, Little House on the Prairie, Nancy Drew. To be honest, I was jealous. I loved to read as much as she did, but I had to resort to getting books from the school library, which meant only on class library days (because I didn’t have the courage to face the dreaded librarian by myself).

Cathy would have loaned me Little Women, but I refused it. Being the good pal she was, she tried to convince me that I would like it, but it was the title I found off-putting. Little Women? I had no interest in reading a book about little girls. I imagined them decked out in frilly dresses, using their miniature tea sets to serve pretend tea to their dolls.

Ugh. Don’t even get me started on dolls. Even as a very small child, I disdained them. I never, ever saw the point of carrying around a fake baby, pretending it was some kind of companion. Crying, wetting babies were worse. Seriously, what is the point of that? I remember once complaining to my mother that my brother wouldn’t let me play with him. He had a huge engineering project underway on the side of the house, creating a city and roads in the dirt with several friends and their combined Tonka trucks. In my mind, that was what real play was all about, and I longed to join him, but he had a strict “no girls allowed” policy when he was with his friends, so they shooed me away. Heartbroken, I appealed to my mother, who suggested I “go play Barbies” with my sister and the girl next door. Imagine my horror. Not just dolls, but hard plastic adult dolls who wore—lord help me—high heels and glamorous dresses. Why in the name of all that is sacred to me would I want to remove their clothes and put them back on again, over and over? How is that play? It seemed perverse to me.

I found it all baffling.

Why? Because (and let me attempt to express this without sounding too antiquated in my beliefs or sexist or ignorant) I did not have an interest in expressing my authentic self in the same way those around me identifying as females did.

In short, I didn’t think or act “like a girl” (or dress like one, if I could get away with it). Prior to meeting Cathy, my best friends in the neighborhood had been boys, Mark and Terry. We played cowboys and Indians, tag, and other rowdy “boy” games. I befriended Cathy after Mark moved away, and even then, my favorite pastime was riding my bike, an activity I enjoyed with other boys in the neighborhood.

Listen, I get how hard this is for some folks to understand, especially folks of my generation. Yes, yes, they will allow that some little girls are “tomboys” who want to do what boys do. But folks of my age generally think it’s because the tomboy has some sort of stubborn, egotistic, competitive streak, motivating her to “show the boys” she’s just as good. That wasn’t it at all with me. I coveted all my brothers’ toys—both brothers, including Kevin’s trucks, cap guns, and water rockets, plus Dan’s chemistry set—but I wasn’t allowed to touch any of them. If I asked for those gifts for Christmas or a birthday, my mother would sigh in exasperation and tell me for the hundredth time those things were “for boys” and to pick something else. The message there was that I needed to change myself in order to conform with societal norms.

I didn’t. In junior high, when I learned the word “non-conformist,” I reveled in it. That was me! This past year, when my transgender friends taught me the phrase “gender nonconforming,” I absolutely embraced it.

Thank goodness for language that helps us understand who we are!

But I digress.

Fifty-six years after Cathy offered to loan me her copy of Little Women, I finally understand why she did. Because I’ve just finished reading the book.

Yes, yes, I’ve seen all four film versions (though not the British mini-series), some multiple times. But until recently, I managed to avoid reading the book. A long conversation with my son about the various film depictions of Anne of Green Gables inspired me to read that classic (another of Cathy’s favorites), which put me in mind of Little Women. One night, on a whim, I downloaded it to my Kindle and began reading.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. That’s why she thought I would like it. Because Jo. Jo is me. I am Jo. Or was, as a child, only not as bold. Jo came right out and confidently expressed herself—sometimes directly—as male rather than female. (And just as an aside here, let me reiterate that I have watched all the film versions, and none of them capture to my satisfaction how truly “boy”-ish Jo is. Not even close.) Of course, Jo is also the writer in the family, something Cathy knew that I aspired to be.

The bittersweet epiphany that landed hard on my heart after I had read twenty percent or so of Little Women was that Cathy wanted me to read it because she got me—she saw me and accepted me for who I was, and she knew I would see myself in the character of Jo. What a humbling revelation to realize that about my bestie! And how sad it is that I cannot tell her how meaningful that understanding and acceptance is to me; in the summer after my fifth-grade year, my family moved away, and Cathy and I lost track of each other.

Thirty years ago, when I was hired to teach at Jurupa Valley High School, the first person I connected with was the librarian, Donna Staub. She quickly became my work bestie, and I still consider her to be the moral compass in my life, the sage Earth woman who sees with an all-knowing eye. When she recommends a book for me to read, I don’t question it. I read it.

To my long-ago bestie, Cathy Dodd: I hope you’re still out there somewhere reading good books and recommending them to friends. Just so you know, your best buddy from Grover Cleveland Elementary School would like to say thank you—for being my friend, for never judging or belittling me, and for offering to loan me your books, even if it took me fifty-plus years to take you up on your offer.

By Any Other Name

Oh dear! Yes, it's me, but so embarrassed to be wearing all the lace and ruffles!

While my legal name is S. Kay Murphy (yes, “legal,” as in “court order legal”), my brother and sister, my nieces and nephews, and a couple of guys from my long ago past call me “Cher.” That’s not really my name; it’s a diminutive of my original first name—the name I no longer use.

I made the shift over to using my middle name when I went to college. I didn’t want to hear my professors use my original first name, and the registrar insisted that I couldn’t use my nickname. “Fine,” I told her, “I’ll be Kay from now on.” And so it has been.

I never asked anyone who called me “Cher” to make the switch. I simply started introducing myself to new people as Kay. It’s a good name, a solid single syllable with a strong hard consonant beginning. It’s also not gender specific, as it was originally a male name. (I learned this from my daughter when she gave my first grandchild “Kay” as his middle name. “Mom, Sir Kay was one of the first knights of the Round Table.”) And Kay can be spelled with one letter. (If we’re in email contact, and I love you, you’ve probably read a missive from me that’s signed thusly: Love, K. Conversely, once while I was getting a pizza, the young woman taking my order asked for my name. When I replied, she said, “How do you spell it?” “However you like,” I told her. “I just use the letter,” which only confused the poor thing.)

My parents had no reason to name me what they named me, as my mother explained when I was very young. I wasn’t given an old family name nor was I named after some famous person or beloved friend. “We just needed a girl’s name,” she told me. “I think it’s a saint’s name.” It’s not. I checked. It’s just…random.

I changed my original name because hearing it spoken makes me deeply sad. No one ever called me that except my father. My mother and my siblings called me Cher. But my father called me that name, and never with fondness or affection. Even as a very small child, I could hear the disdain in his voice. His resentment and outright dislike of me were evident whenever he spoke to me, and he generally only spoke to me in order to issue some command or reprimand. That’s what I associate that name with, someone speaking to me with hostility. Someone who should have been using terms of endearment. He might as well have been saying, “Hey, ugly!” or “Hey, stupid!”

I didn’t change my name because I thought S. Kay Murphy was a cool pen name (my first book, Total Preparation for Childbirth, was published under “Cher Randall,” the latter name being my married name at the time) or because I am pretentious or to be mysterious when people ask, “What does the S stand for?” And boy howdy, do people ask. I’ve been known to prevaricate in answer.

Solstice 

Savannah

Serendipity

Searlait (Pronounced “sheer-lit,” this is actually an old Irish name comparable to “Charlotte” in English.)

What fascinates me is that some people can’t let it go. I’ve had colleagues attempt to look up my personnel file in order to get satisfaction, so that they could be the only person on campus with the knowledge of what the S stands for. Of course, had they been successful, all they would have found was my legal name, S. Kay Murphy.

Decades ago, when I first changed it, I would reveal the name if someone asked. What I learned the hard way was that if I told them what the S stood for, some folks felt compelled to call me that repeatedly, saying the dreaded name over and over again, insisting that it’s a fine name and that “there’s nothing wrong with it.” 

No, there’s nothing wrong with the name. I’ve had friends with that name, and I have no trouble saying it.

But I am not that name. I am not the person my father perceived. I am not the disappointment, the shame he foisted on me. I am my own person, with a strong sense of my own agency and independence, and because I am, I can discard what is harmful to my psyche, and I can replace that toxic thing with something that better represents my true authentic self. 

Thus I have done so.

Just…so you know.

Sunday

The Pasture, by Robert Frost 

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring

I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf

That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

This path leads deep into the forest. Care to join me? 

I chose this hike today for two reasons. The first—the best—is that it rained last night, and I love what happens to the woods when they are saturated, all the colors and contrasts, the rich scents and quiet drippings from the tall trees. The second reason isn’t nearly so nice; this is a hike I rarely do because Thomas, my favorite hiking buddy, doesn’t like it. No doubt he has gotten more than a whiff or two of the wild things that roam here, and he is always on high alert and anxious when we come. Alas, I resignedly accepted the news from the vet on Friday that Thom will no longer go on walk-abouts with me. He has severe arthritis in his shoulder, poor old man, so he has been placed in retirement, limited to short walks but not limited at all in the amount of love and affection (and treats) he will continue to receive.

If it’s 40° when you set out, taking a photograph—even with your phone—requires removing hands from pockets, the glove from your right hand, and the phone from your left pocket. Take the shot, then repeat the process in reverse. We may do this a few dozen times on this walk. Never, though, get so caught up in getting the right shot that you cease to be vigilant. Your eyes must always keep scanning for movement, for the deer or the bobcat or the bear or the coyote… or the mountain lion you’ve heard tell lives here but have never seen.

Have you noticed, as we walk deeper into the woods, that the rush of traffic on the freeway has died away? The soft crunch of our footfalls on the damp, leaf-strewn earth is all we hear. Wait—that quick, muted thudding we hear as we stop for another photo is… something. Deer? Probably. Let’s assume so, and keep walking.

Oh! Did you see that? If you looked up in time, you saw the redtail hawk gliding past directly over our heads. She carried nesting material in her beak. Is it time? Already? It’s time. This is what winter is for. Getting ready for spring.

A brightly colored male towhee hops around on a branch, eyeing us suspiciously without taking flight, flicking his tail dismissively. “I am not afraid of you, wingless creatures!”

You can see now how the rust color of the wild buckwheat looks almost crimson with its saturation of rain water, and the moss on the side of that tree trunk is the best color of “forest” green.

How do woodpeckers make such perfectly round holes in the trees? It's another one of those mysteries of Nature that makes us stop in our tracks in amazement.

My goodness—Have we walked a mile already? I have hot soup waiting at home. Let’s turn around now and walk back.

 

Gotcha Day #7

 

I used to love going into Petco or Petsmart, reading labels, talking to dog and cat rescue volunteers on the weekends, browsing the cat toy aisle. Then the pandemic happened, and at my daughter’s suggestion, I began using Chewy.com. Besides saving me money and allowing me to stay home and stay safe, the folks at Chewy actually sent Sgt.Thomas Tibbs a birthday card. How cool is that?

I count his “Gotcha Day” as his birthday. Sort of. I have no idea how old he is, but he’s definitely a senior boy now. At his initial exam, I asked my vet his approximate age and he replied, “Maaaayyyybe six-ish…,” so that would make him at least thirteen. How those years have flown.

Seven years ago, I went to my local shelter looking for a 30-40 pound friendly female dog. I came home with a 60 pound feral problem child with severe fear and anxiety issues. The first time I actually touched him was the day after I adopted him, after he’d been neutered and I had to pick him up from the vet. In those first hours, I wondered if I’d lost my mind. He wanted nothing to do with me. I had to corral him in the garage in order to get a leash on him. He was afraid of everything—people, cars, motorcycles. (The sound of a motorcycle engine blocks away would send him into a panic.) Cell phones. The cats.

The first five days were challenging. Then he adjusted to the routine, allowing me to catch him and walk him (though he kept his tail tucked the entire time). For months, he spent his days curled in a tight ball in a corner of the back yard, and he spent his nights restless and pacing. We walked every day, and I sat with him at night before bedtime, petting him and brushing him, but he would flinch every time I touched him. So that he wouldn’t feel alone, I gave him a stuffed bunny my son had given me the previous Easter. She became his favorite companion, his emotional support friend. I lost track of the number of times he buried her in the back yard. She would sometimes remain underground for months. But like him, she is resilient, and while he no longer ‘hides’ her, he does get anxious when I wash his bedding and, once again, Bunny Tibbs disappears for a few hours, only to return smelling of that awful stinky laundry detergent.

He still flinches when I touch him. Every. single. time—except in the wee hours of the morning, when I lean over the side of the bed, reach my hand down and stroke his head if he’s having a bad dream. Then he sighs and settles, stretching his legs and drifting back to sleep.

About a year and a half ago, it occurred to Thomas that he actually liked being petted and having his back rubbed at night (something I’ve been doing just about every night since bringing him home). He realized that my bedtime ritual meant he was going to “get love,” and he started his new habit of plunking himself down on the bedroom floor just outside the bathroom, wagging his tail and watching me brush my teeth. When I finish, he moves his head excitedly from side to side, sort of pointing to his back with his nose, if that makes sense. When I sit on the floor beside him, he immediately flops over on his side. As I rub his back and scratch his ears, his entire body relaxes. Sometimes he falls asleep there on the floor. Sometimes Purrl gets jealous and bites his toes. Or the tips of his ears. Owww! She’s lucky he never retaliates, just sits up, looking crushed and startled, then lumbers to his feet and trots away.

Lately, we have been doing fewer walks out in the hills together. His joints are old and creaky, and he hates doing hills. (So do I, but they are necessary in order to maintain fitness. As a dog, he doesn’t care about all that.) I’ve started him on a new supplement, and I’m hopeful it will help him with that, but even still, he’s not enjoying the walks out there, so I’ve had to go by myself.

We still walk, though, every morning after he’s eaten his breakfast, usually around 5:30. Sometimes we leave the house late enough to see the first glimpse of the sunrise. We do a lap around the block, during which time he basically power-walks me so that he can get back home and get his Kong filled with peanut butter treats. In the evening, I take him ‘round again, just at sunset. He hates to walk when there are people still out and about, but he has learned that part of being a good boy is to tolerate what I ask of him, so he goes, but reluctantly.

After all these years, he never overtly shows me affection apart from wagging his tail when he’s happy, and he’s still learning to trust me. His medical issues—first pemphigus, then a bout with pancreatitis a year ago, then another day-long ordeal in the emergency room for stomach issues in December—have drawn us closer, however. He is always so relieved to finally return home and feel safe again that it strengthens his bond with me. He knows that when he hurts, I will help him.

Conversely, I know that when I hurt, he will help me. The past year, with its social unrest and political chaos, to say nothing of the pandemic, has been difficult at best and heartbreaking in the worst moments of it. In those times, though, I seek out my own emotional support friend, who lets me say as much as I need to, or cry if I need to. He never interrupts or cuts me off in mid-sentence to interject a point he feels is more important than what I have to say. He just listens. And sighs. And goes back to sleep. Even if his fur is dotted with my tears.