November 12, 2014

A couple of months ago, Gus started hugging me. He is my four year old Brittany, and about the time I started staying home with him in the morning, rather than getting in the car and dragging my sorry rear end all 45-50 minutes over to the east side to work, he started this thing with me. I had already been in the habit of clearing the sleep (i.e. "crud buds") from his eyes most mornings and one day, he just jumped up, stretched out his long skinny legs, dug his nails a little bit into my neck, and gave me the doggie equivalent of a hug: licked my face, let me pull him close to my chest and rub his ears, and stayed there for a good thirty seconds, before hopping off in search of his red rubber bone to offer me for toss games while growling wildly. I couldn't have been more pleased, really. The thrill of delight I exhibited each time he did this was probably his first and last clue that I liked this thing, and now hardly a day doesn't go by without old Gusser giving me a hugster.

That final section of the previous paragraph is intended as fair warning: back away slowly now, should you wish to extricate yourself from a canine lovefest. If the title itself weren't enough clue, what will follow is a day in the life with "Gustavo McGee," as Julie has been known to call him in the endless stream of nicknames that have attached themselves to Argos since he joined our family the day after the last day of school in June 2010. I chose Argos as his name in honor of Odysseus's dog whose tail thumping on the floor in recognition of his master's homecoming strikes me as one of the most movingly tactile moments in all of poetry -- across the centuries Homer gives us a commonplace talisman of the power of the return.

As you know if you have been following this diary, my day begins with a half hour walk with Gus and Julie which can be more or less stressful, depending, but is followed regardless by a couple hours of Gus doing what most dogs do best, sleeping, in his case curled up in a ball on the couch. I got my second hug from Gus today right after I finished my lunch, a leap from my feet as I sat at the table that, rather than a search for crumbs, I would much prefer meant, "Come on, old man, you know as well as I do that a brisk walk is the best thing for you after a meal." We took the whole twelve blocks today, and while cloudy and plenty crisp, it was glorious.

Gus will go down for more of his apparently inexhaustible capacity for naps, then will largely cede midday to the boys -- a quick walk around the block with Charlie right after school, then Walter and Jack before and/or after dinner. While maybe half the time he walks in the evening with Julie and me, the fact is that Walt and Jack need him more to bond over that time of day. I might get a hug from him after dinner as an invitation to play, but when I put him out in the back yard to do his business around nine, we both know the next step is bedtime for the Gusser.

A memory of my dog growing up, the one and only Duffy, triggered a particularly weepy therapy session more than a few years back. I suppose I should have called out The Great Man for stating the obvious when he pointed out that it seemed that dogs touched something deep within me. Instead, I only recall sniffling and murmuring, "Yes" before vowing to myself never to bring them up in therapy again -- such an easy recourse to tears seemed to me to cheapen the most precious bond I had known then, or will ever know, it seems to me now.