She has a need to be alone. It is her
primal nature, for she was bred in the north, Calgary, where the cold
wind blows. She was meant to stay in solitude for hours in small
spaces and to keep quiet, the perfect condominium animal, bred over
twenty generations for solitude and minimal barking. Keeping still
and silent is necessary for some animals, the owl, the snake, the
wolf. Now it is in her genetic makeup as well.
In her essence: a she-wolf. She
observes, focuses, and is a watchful waiter when human food is
being consumed. Patient, patiently watching and waiting until that
last bite, knowing it is saved for her, is gratefully taken with
intense poise into her gentle mouth. It is almost a kiss she gives
when taking her small treat. Her mustache is smoothed down with a
light human touch, and she is told she is loved.
This is her day: a short walk led by
the man of the house, a bit of play time, kibble and water, and then
sleep. For sleep consumes the majority of her day. Snuggling down
into the pillows on the bed, uncovering the bolster if necessary in
order to reach her master's down pillow, her favorite, she takes time
to make her day nest. Here she will stay for hours, only nature's
call for elimination of fluid urging her out of this nest that only
she inhabits. The others in the house, her sister animal friend and
the humans, do not inhabit this space of hers called the peoples'
bedroom. Those others stay in their own dens doing whatever it is
they do during the daytime hours...reading, knitting, cooking,
talking. But here, on this bed and on the once forbidden pillow, she
stays.
Occasionally, when dreaming, a slight
whimper will come from deep within her throat. It is not unlikely
that she yelps. Perhaps a play date with her sister dog is in her
dreams, or maybe it is one of those pesky UPS men ringing the
doorbell and making her jump to attention, shaking her from that
sleepy lethargy. Whatever the cause, those yips and slight low growls sometimes can be heard from farther rooms when she is deep in
slumber. Her distant presence is made known.
Now the night comes. The people in the
house retire to this, her place, at night. At first she welcomes
them, and snuggles down, this time at the foot of the bed, into the
old down comforter throw that is kept just for her, although the
feathers are slowing disengaging from the seams, and little white
fluffs can be found on the bedspread beneath her silky throne. With the
lights off, now surrounded by these human masters of her universe,
she again settles and sleeps.
After two or three hours of this
nighttime darkness, she awakens and feels the presence of the humans
and realizes she is, indeed, not alone. She jumps from her downy
nest on to the wooden floor, her toenails making a soft, padded
sound. She yips, awakening her masters. They interpret the yipping
noise to mean that she wants out to pee, and the one called Gene
cooperates, reaching for his flashlight at the headboard of the bed,
pulling himself up and out of slumber, releasing her out into the cold
night air. Upon command, she performs her duty, and both the human
and she return into the room.
Circling round just the right number of times, she replaces herself on the nest. She again sleeps. But I
often wonder if what this canine really craves is to be alone,
again, on the bed she calls her own. Sometimes, when the owners correctly interpret throaty call, her name is sternly called out in the
darkness to return to bed. Reluctantly, she comes back to her rumpled place at my feet. Perhaps she woke to realize she has others in her
space. Her primal need was again calling her to solitude. All
she really craved was to be alone.
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