OREO BOUNCED WHEN SHE RAN. With her nose low to the ground, the rest of her seemed to be forced upward, as if by springs, her rear end rising and falling in a happy cadence, as if loping about could have no other emotion. Life had no weight at all. The activity that engaged the front of her was as impassioned as the back of her seemed indifferent, oblivious. She did all this with a look of mindless delight. But it was more natural than that. For her, it was the normal business of living. It was something to watch. She made exploration and wonder look fun, as if that's how nature intended it to look. Pure joy, with all its buoyant life fully engaged. Boing, boing, boing! Happy, happy, happy!
We thought it might just be a Dalmatian thing, but it wasn't as evident in the other two when they came along. It was exclusively an Oreo thing. They too had sufficient bounce, and they were “happy dogs,” as my wife liked to describe it, but it was of a different intensity and character than Oreo's.
When she ran at full speed, it was quite a different event. There was nothing quite as fascinating as watching Oreo run. Her body seemed fluid, a creature at one with creation, life doing what it was intended to do, all stops removed. And like everything else she did, she put her full heart into it. It was raw nature on display. You could not help but feel the awe and true miracle of it.
If you want to know God, enjoy the company of lovers. Rumi
We lived on five acres at the time, so the three of them could break into a run whenever they pleased, particularly if a rabbit or a squirrel was the object of interest. “Grace” is the applicable word, grace and deep desire. As close as the dogs were to us, as much as they inhabited our private spaces, it was moments like this, watching them run particularly, that the mystery became evident once again. We were as much a mystery to them, I am sure, but the awe was mutual, a thing we shared, that suspended beautifully between us, a joint fascination that love prospers in.
As energetic as they were, they could also be as lazy as dirt. They put as much into their naps as they did anything else. Though the three of them shared certain breed characteristics, the bounce was pretty much Oreo's. It was reserved for an easier pace, a pace more agreeable with the beat of life. The lope. That is the pace they all made—the lope. Groovin' to the lazy ooze of time. Something else to envy about them. The lope the lope the lope.
We attributed everything to that bounce, as if it was the essence of what made Oreo Oreo. The attachments she made among us were immediate, and they too, were happy, springy. Her personality had bounce. Her love had bounce, as love should. There was a bright mischief in her eyes, a thing the other two never seemed to develop with as much verve and pure rascal fun as she did. Maybe we were wiser by the time they came along. Maybe her alpha standing gave her all the consent she needed to be her ultimate self, all restraints undone, all embargos lifted. Maybe it was just her way. She seemed to approach life as if it were truly interesting. It is hard not to attribute this condition to love, which seemed to be her true master.
The one thing Oreo could not do was hide her guilt when she had misbehaved. She knew her crimes, and had little cunning in covering them up. She knew us well enough to know what pleased and what didn't please us. And though she always wanted to please, she had lapses. Her devotion was strong, and it remains bookworthy, but she was nonetheless an enterprising dog. A great dog, a loving dog, a warm friendly devoted dog, but when something was amiss, or at the first sign of mischief, it was usually her.
Later, Salem seemed to follow her lead in household antics, but he didn't have the savvy for it that she did. Then there's Savannah at my feet, always at my feet; warm, rapt Savannah, hardly letting me out of her sight; obedient, fawning, soft Magdalene Savannah, protective, somewhat needier than the others, but beautiful, dedicated, intensely charming Savannah. Her need for me outweighed her need for mischief. More than the other two, she could quiet her instincts for the chance to be near me. Savannah and Oreo were two quite different girls.
One evening we were expecting company for dinner, maybe a week or so before Christmas. Our house was festive with the season, with that candlelit mysticism only Christmas can seem to make. All three of the dogs had bells attached to their collars. You could hear them all over the house as they loped about. They didn't seem to mind the small indignity. They figured we liked it. If you looked close enough, and knew what to look for, you would see what canine pride might look like, especially with Salem. He loved being doted over, particularly by Benita.
Benita had worked diligently preparing dinner. It was so long ago, I can't remember what we had that night, but I know it included appetizers, one of which was a large, round, decorative cheeseball, or so we dubbed it. About the size of a softball or a large grapefruit, Benita went to a lot of trouble to get it just right-the color, the shape, the texture, the appeal. It had the look of a large Christmas ornament. It was coated with walnuts, and other curiosities, some red, some green. The crackers were carefully arranged and cascaded in a complete circle around its base. You almost didn't want to eat it.
But the spell was broken when I heard Benita calling Oreo's name in a loud exasperated voice. I recognized the tone. It wasn't pretty. Piracy never is. Company had not yet arrived. Benita had stepped out of the kitchen to tend to something else at some other part of the house, and in a lapse of judgment, Oreo saw her opportunity, and took it. She may have been spying, a form of canine stake-out from the side, as she was known, waiting for the moment of pounce and grab, stealing about, as hush as death. A sudden attack, with kamikaze boldness. A day that will live in infamy. I can see her now, her eyes on the spoil, her front paws on the table, inching her way forward, making siege upon the unsuspecting cheeseball in jabs, and in a sidewise manner.
Whether she consumed the entire thing in one take (which is my guess), or whether she took her time and savored the moment's ecstasy, the one she knew would have a price, that bliss-filled solitude predator enjoys over prey, is hard to know except by guesswork. But with Oreo, little work is involved.
Benita didn't notice the offense when she first returned to the dining room, but when she saw a trail of crumbs and an empty plate with a smear of green, she knew instinctively who the culprit was. Not a difficult bit of detection either. Other than the swelling of her tummy, the small bits of cheese and walnuts around her mouth, and the odd green stains against her white coat, her actions gave her away. They always did. The dog walked with extreme caution around Benita, even before she was found out. The bounce had receded. There was an overall suspicious droop. Even in the sound of her bell. Benita knew the look, the slink, the dread in her steps. Something was up. It was also in Oreo's eyes. Gotcha!
The other two just didn't have the taste for exploit she did.
When company came that night, the evidence had been swept clean. There was no cheeseball. There were just a few guests, a great dinner of traditional Christmas fare, and one bloated dog, making light and obsequious steps around us, particularly around Benita. The dog courted her favor for quite some time after that. Even made little cries at times. She probably figured that if she couldn't hold a grudge, why should Benita? The worst thing for a dog, particularly that dog, was to be out of favor, to hear impatience, or worse, in the voice. She could easily read our expressions. She knew us that well. I can't remember any table offenses after that. And as the dog expected, Benita forgave the offense.
The bounce returned. But that's what bounce does.
