Oogy_ The Dog Only a Family Could Love - Larry Levin [31]
“Come here, pal,” I said. “Come over here.”
Oogy looked at me.
“Come here, my friend.” I patted my lap again.
Oogy looked at me.
Holding the moistened gauze pad in my right hand, I craned my torso, reached over, and gently picked him up. He did not resist. I felt the warmth of his flesh and the smoothness of him and the tensile strength of his rib cage. Depraved acts had been committed against him,yet he sat before me waiting for my love and help.
I said to him, “No bad thing will ever happen to you again.”
I placed him between my legs, and he sat with his back to me. I ran my hands over both sides of his head, careful not to draw any distinction between the scored and the intact parts of his face, and then stroked down the sides of his body, the flanks of his rear legs. I reached underneath and scratched his belly. I slowly scratched behind his remaining ear. And then, for the first time, just as I would every morning and evening for the next six months, I began with small, circular strokes to rub the dampened gauze pad over the raw pink flesh that was the left side of Oogy’s head. It was as though I were trying to wipe away what had happened to him. The blue liquid turned soapy-looking as I massaged the leathery skin. I talked quietly to him the entire time. “Yes,” I told him, just as I would tell him every time, “you’re a good boy. This didn’t happen because of you. This does not mean that you are a bad doggy, an undeserving dog. We love you very much. You didn’t deserve this. Nobody does. This has nothing to do with who you are. You’re a lovely doggy. You’ll never have to be scared again. No one and nothing will ever hurt you again.”
I think that the first thing I did with Oogy, acting to assuage his wound, initiating immediate and intimate contact with the symbol of his vulnerability, helped to set the tone for all that was to follow. I took pleasure in the intimacy of this act, in my ability to nurture and support the precious vulnerability of this amazing little being. I felt privileged to be able to do it. Oogy never moved or fidgeted or tried to pull away.
When we were done, I rose and threw the gauze into the trash. I consolidated all the chew toys in a cookie jar and all the soft toys and rubber toys in a wicker basket in the family room. Oogy followed me back and forth as I did this. I put his medicine on a different shelf in the same cabinet where our own medicines were stored. Afterward, I poured myself a cup of cold coffee and nuked it in the microwave for fifty seconds. I said, “Follow me, my friend,” as though anything else were even remotely possible. With Oogy alongside me, wagging his tail as he sauntered along, I walked back down the hallway into the family room, where I had been sitting alone an hour before. I sat on the couch and said, “Here ya go, pal,” and patted the seat beside me. Oogy climbed up and sat there, leaning against me while I cupped his ear and rubbed his neck. Then he rose, circled several times, curled up against me, lay down with a snort, and went to sleep. Mornings were no longer mine alone, and I was thrilled about it.
I slowly drank the coffee and simply luxuriated in the experience of having this dog’s warmth planted against my thigh. Then I stood and headed for the kitchen. Oogy immediately jumped off the couch and followed me. I placed the cup in the sink and picked up the leash off the table. Kneeling, I attached the clip on the leash to Oogy’s collar. I put on my old red-and-black wool mackinaw, opened the back door, and walked with him out into the yard. I let the line play out about ten feet and locked it. Oogy meandered here and there, all new smells for him to assimilate and define. We did two full tours and then returned to the house. I removed the leash and went upstairs. Oogy followed me.
We walked into the bedroom. Martha was plumped up in the middle of the bed, as if in meditation. She did not even look at Oogy. When he saw her, he barked. It wasn’t an angry bark. It was a short one, intended to make certain that she knew