Why the Dog?
"A flower is somewhat insignificant to a passerby, who sees it for only a fraction of its life, but to the gardener, who has tended the plant since a sprout, watched it grow, ensured it could reach the highest corners of its supports, it becomes everything."
For four years, I’ve had a dog. He’s fearful, aggressive, and unpredictable. My journey with him has been as rugged as it has been redeeming, with no shortage of potholes and gravel patches along our road. For the majority of people, such struggle might not be considered worth the outcome. I’m often stressed over managing his behavior. I understand the question “Why keep him?” I, like Lahiri, have always floundered to provide an answer with sustenance, a response that makes my questioners go, “Ah, I see.” In writing, it might be possible to staunch some of the curiosity of those who can’t relate using a pair of metaphors, drawn from my own experiences, I hope granting at least a little illumination to my rationale.
There’s an annual practice I’ve held for as long as I can recall. Not something passed down by family, no relative connection to my heritage. It’s a personal tradition, if such a thing can be claimed, and that is growing morning glories.
Recognizable by nearly everyone, with their signature blue crown and pristine foliage, the morning glory has become a symbol in my life. I take pride in propagating them each year, the process multifaceted and demanding.
If grown potted, structure is essential, otherwise the young vines will reach out only to find nothing, falter, and wilt. Twine, the simplest of gardening mediums, plays this crucial role. Tying ensures an upwards path, preventing chaos. It stops the vines from falling, a safety net should their grip slip, keeping them from snapping and withering. A guard against likely mishaps, twine can also, however, be overdone, too easy to over tighten.
Morning glories, on their own, are a metaphor for short-lived wonder, blooming for only a few hours at sunrise. Ambitious, curious, and beautiful, they’re also fleeting and fragile, lacking constancy and requiring attentive care when grown in the confines of a garden.
I see this dog and I echoed in these flowers. He’s this brilliant part of my life, a morning glory. From seedling to splendid vine I’ve grown him, though not without difficulties. A strange, messy plant, his leaves and strings a bit tangled. Sometimes he’s afraid, unwilling to reach out to the next rung on his trellis. His behavior is fickle, turning rapidly, a sprig shifting course overnight. One moment elated, and next, with just the glint of trigger–another dog too close, a person moving too fast, a breeze too coarse upon his leaves–spooked into a barking fit, a vine, snapped and falling to the floor in disarray.
This is where I find myself, the twine to his troubled nature. Each outing is taken in small steps, each obstacle passed a checkpoint. Carefully, I watch him, waiting to help navigate, help him reach the next rung on his path. As twine does, I intervene when needed, the aid to keep him from tumbling. Still, I can’t shield him entirely, can’t tie too tightly the twine. Overbearance with a dog lacking confidence, a fragile vine, can worsen it. He must reach for his own path, be curious, and my role is merely to keep him from falling when he struggles.
When asked “Why continue, why bother with him?” I may compare the few serene moments I have with this dog to the fleeting hours of blue blooms one receives from a morning glory. These instances aren’t often, our life not very relaxed. But whenever such times do arrive, I find them worth every second remaining of the day, regardless of the stress. There is pride to be had in the maintenance of such a plant, such an animal. It’s a dedication many seem unable to grasp. A flower is somewhat insignificant to a passerby, who sees it for only a fraction of its life, but to the gardener, who has tended the plant since a sprout, watched it grow, ensured it could reach the highest corners of its supports, it becomes everything.
Last week I wound up trekking through a field of grass. Ironically, this scenario took place with the dog, and works conveniently well as a metaphor for the day-to-day of our life. We dove off a trail into neck-high reeds evading bicycles which he would’ve otherwise chased. Moments after they passed though, still to our chins in the brush, the metallic rattle of a dirt bike ahead deterred us from the trail entirely. We instead pushed further into the field. The situation was so wild it became funny. I had no idea whether my next step would be into a hole and I paid little mind to the numerous cuts I was collecting on my shins. Neither of us had a clue when the grass would give way to the trail again, our reasoning to continue only my faith in a vague direction. Despite–once finally realigning with the path–the violent burn of nettle stings and a million little cuts, I can only recall the event with fondness. It was odd, but there was delight to be had in the uncertain adventure, and all I can think of now is how we enjoyed trekking together on a trail of our own making.
In learning to work with a “problem dog,” I never had many resources. My management of him was experimentation, our daily lives a cycle of trial and error. There was never a trail for me to follow. There was–and is–risk of stepping into a hole each time I chose to bring him outside, an outburst of frightening behavior. Every walk is a leap into the reeds, unable to see where we are going. All we know is a vague direction to be headed–a point where such reactions don’t occur. We can’t stop moving, stop trying, or we’ll never find where the field dissipates, where he can finally find peace in a world that scares him.
I’ve received many cuts on this trek that he and I have taken. Working with him hurts, physically and emotionally. Forging a trail without even the faintest of footsteps to follow is a feat to behold, and we are still in the process of pushing aside the grass. I’m not sure we’ll ever find a real trail, we may forever be stuck in the reeds, unsure of what’s to come, but at the very least we find joy in pushing through it together.
To “Why?” I must state I firmly believe that if I were to leave his side, even with my undefined sense of direction, he’d become lost. To give up our search for a trail would mean turmoil, an end to his trek. Less metaphorically, he’d likely be euthanized. I’m his source of guidance, whether I be the string that holds up while he climbs or the pathmaker that points the way. I choose to house, train, love, help him because of the moments in which all his flaws fall to the ground. When all that remains is the beauty of a flower so many others fail to see. For the journey we take every day towards a destination we can’t see on a path we must forge ourselves, as just the two of us.
Annalies Eindhoven is a Fall 2024 finalist for the Rutgers Writing Centers’ First-Year Writing Spotlights. This initiative invites instructors to nominate students for outstanding work on a piece of reflective writing in their first-year College Writing course. To read more of the nominated essays, click here!