Here I am, 75 years old, knee in a brace, face in a frown and the checkout clerk at the grocery store, about 60 years my junior, says, “Do you need some help with your bag?” How heavy can four avocados and a 14-ounce container of Baskin Robbins ice cream be? But I don’t want to sound as irritable as I feel, and she’s just doing her job, so I say, “No thanks, I need the exercise,” and hobble out of the store. Inside my head I think of punching the next person who asks if I need help.
Of course I need help; but nothing that can be provided by carrying a plastic bag through a door that opens automatically. What I really want is a miracle. And since we no longer live in the middle-ages, even if it happens, no one would believe my claim. They’d just call me a kook or say I’m a head case and my problem is psychological.
So on the way home, to refocus, I stop at my friend’s house. She is fostering a dog for the Humane Society; a border collie (her favorite breed), maybe six months old. She says he’s wonderful. This is a high complement from Charlotte. She’s a whiz with dogs; trains them, shows them, understands them and how to work them better than any dog trainer on YouTube.
She always has three or four dogs, always border collie types, and generally given to her because no one else wants them. Her current batch, one male and two females, are no exception. Abandoned and gone feral these dogs have major personality problems. They are not nice dogs; don’t play well with others or each other; are at constant risk of running off; aren’t house broken or even crate trained; and only grudgingly tolerate being touched or petted.
According to Charlotte, Winky (that’s the new pup) is everything her other dogs aren’t. Sweet, docile, affectionate, calm, he never has an accident; goes to the door to indicate he needs to go out and actually comes back when he’s done his business. Charlotte is enthralled. She’s thinking of adopting him. And who can blame her. So I’m really curious.
The dogs are roaming around the house when I arrive. They pay only perfunctory attention to me. Winky gives me a sniff, then returns to the bone he is engaged in gnawing. Nothing special. Charlotte and I watch the dogs briefly then chat about her house – a work in progress. I feel a bit calmer and start to unburden about my dissatisfaction with my physical state, wish I was my old self. Winky stops his chewing, looks up and does “it”. He winks at me. I’m a bit taken aback but can’t help smiling. “Charlotte, did you see that?”
“Yes,” she says, “That’s why I call him Winky. I noticed it shortly after I took him in. I was on the phone with a carpenter who hadn’t shown up. The dog was looking at me like he was paying attention to the conversation. He winked. I didn’t think much about it but a few days later, during a heated discussion, this time with a co-worker who wanted me to switch my vacation date, he winked again.
Dogs don’t generally wink. I thought it was some fluke of the light. But then, I thought, well even if it is only my imagination, that might be a good name to give him. He didn’t come with a name and needed one.” We look at Winky again. He is back to gnawing his bone. I have to get home to make dinner and rescue the melting ice cream so I leave, but feel less angry now.
About a week or two passes and I again have occasion to visit Charlotte. The dogs, including Winky, are all there. They stop what they are doing and one by one come up to greet me, then sit by my feet. “Wow Charlotte, your dogs are so friendly and calm. How did you change them?” “Well, you’ve got me there,” she says. “They just seem more organized and less itchy; like they finally understand how to behave. There are hardly any accidents and they’ve begun playing with each other.”
“I’ll tell you something else that’s funny,” Charlotte says, “Last week my niece came over with her daughter. The child was in a rare snit, having a temper tantrum over something she wanted that my niece refused to buy.
They came in the door, and like a flash, there is Winky, right up close, face to face with that screaming child. Winky gives a little yip and Amanda unscrews her eyes and smiles. They look at each other for a second or two then Winky walks off and Amanda seems to completely forget her tantrum. It was weird. Amanda is a very persistent child. She doesn’t get over things easily.” We both look at Winky but he’s engrossed in scratching an itch.
A few days later, I’m reading a book about meteorite chasers, when I get a sudden urge to visit Charlotte. She’s just gotten home from work when I arrive. The dogs are all outside. They are crated all day so they really need the outdoor time. In spite of this, Winky comes to the door and wants to be let in. Charlotte says, “He’s Johnny on the spot when anyone comes over. And what’s funny is that lately, I’ve been getting a lot more visitors. They just seem to come over for no particular reason; stay a bit, then leave. Even the carpenter I was so mad at came by and apologized. He’s going to finish the work this weekend. I’ll let you know if he does.” We chat a bit more then just as I’m leaving Winky comes up and gives me one of his… you know, “winks”. I walk out the door smiling.
Following this, I seem to fall into a pattern. About once a week, I get this urge to go over to Charlotte’s. We’ve been friends for many years, but mostly it’s been a planned let’s do this or that kind of friendship. So my dropping in is definitely different. And the other thing I notice is that I always feel better after a visit…and it doesn’t go away. It’s only gradually that I begin to pay attention to this pattern and think about it. When I do, Winky’s always in the picture, doing his “thing”. Could there be some connection?
Now I’m a modern woman; believe in science not superstition. But “dog” is “god” spelled backwards and my leg, without any other changes, is definitely getting better. I think back to my rage in the grocery store. I know I couldn’t have gone on much more like that. I needed some help. Maybe it’s my imagination but I think Winky is providing that help; not just for me but for Charlotte, her other dogs and the various people who come visiting.
But I’ll leave that for you to decide for yourself. I’m just going to go on believing that my prayer, in the form of a winky puppy that makes me smile, is being answered.
©2019 Linda J. Himot
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