By Carrie-Anne:Reagan
Nothing ever led me to consider the taste of bunny poo before the dogs came. They make it seem like a decadent treat, scraping it from the floor with their teeth. They follow the bunny around as if she is a candy dispenser, pawing her behind in search of her lever. She doesn't seem to mind; perhaps she is flattered. It is clear that Bog, looming over her with tail awag, is completely smitten. His brother Ziggy is not so impressed.
I feel guilty letting them eat poo. It seems dirty, but it saves me sweeping. Who am I to question what a dog values, anyway? Who am I to even have dogs? The cats haven't spoken to me since the dogs came to stay. One even peed on my bed, while I was in it. I was awakened by her desperate attempts to cover up the evidence, knowing she had gone too far. I am a sucker for animals.
The dogs came into my life suddenly, on a bug-bitten July afternoon. Mary, their frail owner, was moving due to her sister's death and couldn't keep the dogs. She sobbed on my shoulder, repeating a mystical phrase: "We never knew it would be like this." I had come to the moving sale to buy the water pump. I left with the dogs and a glimpse of madness: mid-life Mary, her life strewn about the yard, most of it for sale.The dogs are organized. Bog is our leader, he has chosen Bun-Bun to be his queen. Ziggy snaps at his heels and hogs the couch, a defiant little brother. The story is, they came from a home with ten other dogs, all dropped off at the pound one night in a frightened mass of snouts and paws. The day Mary was at the pound, their kennels were adorned with vases of plastic flowers, faded with use. It was their day to die.
Gentle Mary didn't have the heart to split them up; she even tried to take their mother as well. Mother didn't make the cut, but Bog and Ziggy began their second chance. Her sister's death dealt Mary a frightful blow, deflated her into middle age overnight. The dogs were her only anchor, she now had cast them aside.
On the day she comes to say goodbye, Mary asks if she could take a picture of "her boys", one last memory. Slapping biting flies and mosquitoes, I oblige. She wanders to her truck and pulls out a tripod. I struggle to keep the dogs in line while she fumbles with her camera. "Can we move back? I'm losing light."
We shuffle back. My legs are glowing with pink bites; dog wrestling has my swatting hand occupied. Mary runs into the frame, racing the timer. The dogs lunge at her motion, knocking her down as a metallic click freezes the moment. Mary is stunned as she rights herself, and collects her camera and tripod silently. The dogs nip at each other. I watch Mary crying softly as she climbs into the pickup. I am relieved she is leaving.
The boys don't seem to notice they have a new home. They hide in the
grass, swim in the river, and roll in all kinds of dead things. I never
have to leash them; they don't wander. Maybe their brush with termination
has sharpened their lives. They are calm for one-year-olds, with a placid
respect for living things. Bog's adoration of Bun-Bun is testament to
that. As he scrapes the wood of the floor sniffing for every last bit
of his beloved's poo, I reflect. I'm sure this dog never imagined meeting
a pretty bunny; maybe he never imagined himself escaping the pound. The
dogs are unconcerned with the past; they have found joy. They are love,
nuzzling my hands and nipping my clothes, ears perking to my laughter.
Gentle eyes gaze at my baby-talking mouth. They are panting contentedly.
I have found joy.