At the moment, I reside in a tiny little addition to a small house in Columbia, Missouri. I have my own bathroom and bedroom attached by a small hallway to the homeowner's garage and "dog room" (probably intended as a living room, but occupied currently by two large dogs and their accessories).
The next-door neighbors have a huge old black lab. He is huge, and he is old. He walks with stiff legs, head hung low and swinging from side to side. He spends most of his time wandering around aimlessly between his backyard and my landlord's, and his favorite spot to lie down seems to be in the no-dog's-land between them. From here he barks at me, my landlord, and whoever happens to be walking down the street. He barks long after the offending trespasser is out of view, and I think I can see by the look in his eyes that after a while he no longer knows exactly what he was barking at, but barks for the sheer joy of barking, with a contented glazed look on his face. His name is Hank.
One of the first days I lived here, I saw him lying in my landlord's backyard and went over to meet him, not knowing where he lived. He wagged his tail and let me pet him. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember me, since he still always barks at me. My landlord's dogs bark at him from inside; they like to sit in front of the big, curtain-less sliding glass door (located right next to my room) and bark at all moving things any time, day or night, much to my chagrin. But when the door opens and they bound outside, they take no notice of him. He doesn't bark at them. He just lies there while they frolic and pee in the grass and careen through the tree-fence separating my landlord's and neighbors' houses from the ones behind. He watches them.
I don't really think he wants to join them, and I don't think he's jealous of them.
Tonight as I was trying to enjoy a cool early autumn Missouri evening, watching a prime time sitcom peripherally while doing some Googling, I heard a very strange noise. It was certainly a dog, but it sounded like some kind of demented poodle being strangled. It went on for quite a while. It was distracting me from my very important tasks of Googling and half-listening to my sitcom. I peeked through the blinds on my window. It was dark, and I didn't expect to see anything; but the very next time the dog barked, I was able to locate the source of the sound.
There on the neighbor's back porch was Hank, crying to be let inside. I couldn't see his head, but every time I heard him bark, I could see the shape of his huge belly heaving. I watched him for a few minutes. Periodically he turned around and walked a few steps toward my landlord's house, shifted his back legs like he wanted to lie down but couldn't quite get his arthritic hips to cooperate, then turned back and continued his high-pitched pleading at the back door. This was nothing like his normal, deep boom of a bark, but a cry that seemed almost despondent.
The neighbors clearly weren't home. I finally pulled on my bathrobe (which has a dog embroidered on the front pocket), exited my room, took two steps to the sliding glass door, and walked outside. I clapped my hands once and Hank turned his huge head toward me, staring at me but making no move. Suddenly I heard the sliding door open again as my landlord let her dogs out, and they did their normal frolic and pee in the backyard, completely ignoring Hank. Hank walked to the end of the concrete patio and watched them with his head hung low, a lonely silhouette against the glow of the porch light behind him.
My landlord's dogs, used to the evening routine, quickly returned, and I let the younger, more hyper one inside while I spent a few extra minutes giving the older one a good ear scratch. I kept my eye on Hank.
He watched us for just a moment longer, then finally turned away, slowly laid down on his belly, and rested his head on his paws. He was faced away from us.
As I opened the door and let myself and my landlord's dog back inside, I thought about Hank. He didn't need or want to be scratched behind the ears, he didn't need any attention from me or the other dogs - I think he just needed a reminder that he wasn't alone.
I think that's why he watches them, and why I feel like he's not jealous.
For some people, secluded places or grand vistas overlooking natural, human-less landcapes offer the best places for reflection; but I find that I always seek humanity-filled places to do it. I've spent much of my adult life hiking in national parks and forests, found myself atop high mountains, breathing in crisp, pure air, and while I will always love doing these things, I never find peace for my soul in these places. I never find inspiration or revelation. Give me a busy street, a stadium filled with passionate sports fans, a concert hall or movie theater or church (especially just before the action happens), and I am inspired.
Humans - and dogs - were not meant to be alone, and sometimes all it takes is a reminder that we're not. Life goes on aside from our little problems, our arthritic hips, our insecure futures, and sometimes watching someone else's joy is enough to make us remember what joy feels like.
