Mercy

She sleeps on the sofa now, curled in a tight black and tan ball with a pointed head arranged so that the eyes can follow us around the room.  We didn't volunteer the sofa mind you.  She seemed to think it was her due and neither Margaret nor I could or would disagree to the point of unpleasantness.   It seemed a small reward for the changes she had been making; changes that endeared her to me and relieved the despair I felt when I had tried to control her.

Last March I adopted her from the North Texas Doberman Rescue.  When I brought her home I had serious reservations.  She was wound as tight as any spring I had ever seen.  An engine inside her seemed to race without reason and her attention span could be measured in milliseconds.  I had some control when I walked her on a leash but only because I was large and watchful.  She tired of dragging Boat Anchor Bob around after twenty minutes or so and we could finish a long walk in relative peace.  Without a leash she was a wild child.  I'll give her this, she would come when called but if anything attracted her attention well, coming would have to wait.  I began to feel like some gang member with a wild Doberman in tow.  A deaf wild Doberman with a penchant for fighting with smaller dogs.  Not a happy picture for an owner who wants to get along in the neighborhood.

That was March and April of last year.  Now, nine months later, the change is dramatic (to me).  She has figured out that I really am happier when she is within sight.  Earlier she would disappear when I turned my back.  Today I can read or work outside and she is normally within sight.  Back in the beginning she might or might not come when called.  Today I can depend on her rushing back to me if I whistle or call.  She really wants to be there and she warms to my praise as if she believed every word.

Her personality is universally sunny and her outlook is both hopeful and joyful.  Early every morning we greet one another as I rise from my bed and there follows a celebration at seeing me once again after a night of separation.  She chooses the sofa and I prefer the bed.  Her lips are drawn back in a lovely smile and nothing pleases her more than to tap my nose with hers.  I would have to be made of stone to ignore such enthusiasm.  I would have to have a hollow soul to refuse such a royal welcome.  The strange dog of last year's March has blossomed and the reservation has disappeared.  She belongs to me and is so happy for us to be together.

She has put on a bit of weight and I have decided to cut the canned dog food back to a rare offering.  She will eat Purina "One" when hungry enough but will plead for better.  I admit that I share some of my table with her. I know it isn't in her best interest.  She might be much healthier if I limited her to "One" but I have a heart too, you see.  I want to share with her some of my love and my affection.  I want her to know she is special to me.  She lives for the occasional steak bone or scrap of meat that survives my hunger.  I take great pleasure at making her happy.  There are mornings during the time she is greeting me with a thousand wriggles and kisses that I want to gather her in my arms and squeeze her to me.  She is becoming so important to me and I'd like for her to know that.  Alas, hugging is a primate gesture and dogs (this dog) aren't usually comfortable being so confined.  Usually she submits but I can tell she would much rather demonstrate our fellowship with a good game of "Pull-Toy" or a lively try at "Keep-Away".  She will retreat to the basket where we keep her toys and carefully extract the toy she likes today and we play a bit while the coffee makes.

She has put on a bit of weight and I have decided to cut the canned dog food back to a rare offering.  She will eat Purina "One" when hungry enough but will plead for better.  I admit that I share some of my table with her. I know it isn't in her best interest.  She might be much healthier if I limited her to "One" but I have a heart too, you see.  I want to share with her some of my love and my affection.  I want her to know she is special to me.  She lives for the occasional steak bone or scrap of meat that survives my hunger.  I take great pleasure at making her happy.  There are mornings during the time she is greeting me with a thousand wriggles and kisses that I want to gather her in my arms and squeeze her to me.  She is becoming so important to me and I'd like for her to know that.  Alas, hugging is a primate gesture and dogs (this dog) aren't usually comfortable being so confined.  Usually she submits but I can tell she would much rather demonstrate our fellowship with a good game of "Pull-Toy" or a lively try at "Keep-Away".  She will retreat to the basket where we keep her toys and carefully extract the toy she likes today and we play a bit while the coffee makes.

As soon as the coffee is finished I slip on my socks and shoes which is cause for another great celebration.  Tying shoes while my hand is being pried this way and that by a black nose calls for dexterity and strength. Soon enough the shoes are on and grabbing a jacket from the coat rack I step out onto the porch with Mercy at my side.  This is the first morning walk around the perimeter of our lake lot.  The path leads to the parking lot and then back through some native cedars and downhill toward the back of the place.  She once would disappear easily and I would spend more time than I liked trying to call her back.  Now she stays with me as if the two of us are a small pack and she is in charge of reconnoitering.  I get to be the leader.

The first morning walk is usually brief and we both slip back inside to escape the chill air.  Mercy takes her place on the sofa with the narrow head resting on a pillow and follows me with her eyes while I assemble breakfast.  Who knows, maybe I'll fix a bit too much bacon or there will be a scrap or two of egg to share with her.  Whatever the morsel she gladly accepts and I have never seen any reproach on her part if my plate bears nothing to share.  She seems happy to be mine.

When I picked her up on that over warm March Sunday I noticed that she seemed bluer than the Doberman she was replacing.  My first Doberman had died the week before and with her went a piece of my heart and soul that I would never recover.  I remember that Brunhilda (my first Doberman) had a short soft coat and a long narrow angular face that showed little emotion. She would sit, rock solid and steady while people milled around her and flinch not a hair when a sudden noise occurred.   She would sit beside me like a sphinx when we had house guests and allow me to stroke her ebony head and scratch just behind those natural and sensitive ears.

Mercy has a different coat.  Near the skin is a luxurious layer of fine warm hair and on top of that is a layer of coarse short guard hairs.  The feel of the coat is different than Brunhilda's.  The color is different as well.  Bruny had a black coat with lovely tan markings over the eyes and on the chest.  Mercy has the same Tan coloration but the black is more like a raven's wing.  It is blue-black and reflects the Texas sun with shimmering highlights that are a pleasure to see.

If I was asked to describe Mercy in as few words as possible I would probably say, "She is excitable and thoughtfully gentle, she is powerful and forever the optimist, she is loyal and friendly to a fault.  If the past is any predictor of the future she will become more and more beloved and ever more loving.

I have bumbled about and found myself another wonderful dog.  I have given very little aside from a roof and a meal a day.  Nothing humans would consider terribly generous but she is a dog and dogs have different standards.  She believes me to be the very best human she has associated with and would not willingly leave my side for the promise of better.  She celebrates living with verve and a gusto that inspires me to do likewise. She has a wicked sense of humor and often leaves me chuckling at the light that shines in those mischievous eyes when we begin a game.  Inside that blue-black coat beats a heart full of love and need.  Between those natural floppy ears lies a brain, a dog brain that understands imperfectly and cannot conjure speech.  That brain has determined that she and I belong together.  That brain has willingly changed to please me.  That dog is entirely willing to become different if I ask her to.  She is a student, a teacher, a companion, a dependent and a wellspring of affection.  She is a dog and (thank God) she is my dog.  Who could ask for better?

Bob Blakely
rblakely@digitex.net