A Boy and His Dog

Few relationships we form through our lifetimes will have the longevity, co-dependence or love as that we choose to share with a pet dog. The canine has been domesticated by man since before recorded history. There has literally always been a human understanding that a dog makes an appropriate companion. I don’t know why this is, but I can only imagine that those humans through the ages have recognized the same loyal companionship apparent in the species. Great and small alike, it seems the natural state for a canine to be a social creature and to accept man as immediate family.

There are many tales of dogs caring for wounded people or abandoned babies. We read these will understanding and emotion yet we aren’t really surprised by them. Indeed it seems few and far between are those in our society who don’t share an affinity for man’s best friend. 

There are good people and bad people in this world, and most straddle a line somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. But no matter the foulest person there is, I’ll bet there’s a dog who has at some point loved that man above all reproach. 

Dogs don’t need us. There’s plenty of evidence that they can survive in the wild on their own. But they seem to need us. And we need them. There doesn’t exist a truer, more faithful bond than between a boy and his dog. No woman can ever hope to provide that intense level of love and no parent can wholeheartedly express such empathy with that boy’s emotions.

I can be friends with people who are acquainted with those I don’t care for—I can trust them with my life. I don’t think I could ever trust a man (or woman) who didn't like dogs. The mere idea seems inhuman to me. 

I wrote this cradling my crippled, blind, 15-year-old miniature pincher, who has lately been having some gastrointestinal issues. I had to break away somewhere in the fourth paragraph to run her outside in the rain while I was barefoot as she had begun to lose control of her bowels on me. After tending to her and changing my shirt I returned to finish this essay. It strikes me that if any human, even my own daughter, were to poop on me I’d be so disgusted that I’d probably vomit up my dinner. With this poor creature, who’s given me her entire life though, I could only manage mild disgust and limitless pity. That’s the power of a dog.