Facebook is just fucking filled with people expressing various levels of bummerhood today. I don’t know what the hell is in the air, but it prompted my buddy Indigo to exclaim (on Facebook): “Dude, are they crop dusting with depressives around here, or what?”
Good fucking question, my friend.
There aren’t enough happy things happening for people right now. So, here. Look at this fucking dog. This dog right here. LOOK AT HIM. He’s fucking happy. Look at that fucking smile. Holy fucking shit, this dog is adorably thrilled to exist right now.
This fucking dog just had a fucking treat. It was stinky and gross and he fucking LOVED it. This dog’s name is fucking Guinness. How fucking awesome is that name for a fucking dog? Guinness is 90 fucking pounds of dog. That’s a huge fucking dog. And all he wants you to do is fucking cuddle and scratch his fucking butt. That awesome fucking place right above his tail. That’s all he wants to be this fucking happy.
Guinness has the best fucking ears ever. Fucking look at them. They are lopsided and fucking soft and you fucking wish you could pet them right now.
So if you are having a fucking awful shitshow of a day?
Look at this fucking dog.
If you follow me on Instagram or Twitter or pay even the slightest bit of attention to my (personal) Facebook posts, you know that at my new job, we have an office dog. He belongs to Toni, the founder and executive director of our organization. His name is Guinness, but I tend to just hash him as #officedog. For those of you who have the good sense and taste not to follow me on Twitter or Instagram, this is Guinness:
Guinness is not always content to hang out on the couch and watch me work. Sometimes he has to tell me just exactly how bored he is and just exactly how much attention I am not giving him. Now, he’s a Rottweiler-German Shepherd mix, so he’s not just a relatively large dog, he’s strong. His method of getting attention from me involves shoving his nose under my arm and flipping my hand over his head. Repeatedly.
Note: Guinness only speaks Dog, but he speaks it A LOT. He’s a talker.
Me: *working diligently*
Guin: Arrrph. *nose on arm*
Me: Hey, Mister. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Hrooo. *armflip*
Me: Okay, okay. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Ahroo. HRF. *armflip*
Me: Guinness. They aren’t paying me to scritch you. *pets dog, goes back to work*
Guin: Yes they are. *armflip*
Me: WTF, you don’t speak English.
Guin: ROOROOOROOO. *armflip*
Toni: GUINNESS. LIE DOWN.
Guin: HMPH. *curls up directly behind chair* *heavy sigh*
Me: *quiet sigh*
Of course, I’m completely in love with this dog. I’d happily put up with his armflips pretty much all day if I could. I think the love is mutual:
Anybody who knows me personally figures out pretty quickly that I adore animals. It’s not a walk home from the BART station unless I have stopped to pet and talk to every neighborhood dog and cat I can reach. Even the dog who so vigilantly and vocally guards the erstwhile itinerant squat and crackhouse around the corner from my humble abode gets a thumbs up and encouragement from me—I’m not offended, he’s just doing his job, and a damn fine one.
Animals tend to enjoy my company as well, and it is very rare for a wee beastie to reject my advances (and that usually only lasts for a day at the most). The number of times I have heard, “Whoa, wait a sec, s/he doesn’t let anybody else do that but me” is sufficient to make me think it’s a bit of a thing.
So when, in the days just before the wedding of one of my dearest friends, I had the opportunity to visit the Earthfire Institute and hang out with some beasts who were not especially tame but were deemed unfit (for reasons of health/fitness, usually) to be released back to the wild, I could not have been more excited. Excited enough, in fact, that I was one of three people awake early enough for the morning session (note: excited enough and not so painfully hungover that a morning was required to recover) at the Institute.
My friends Kelly, Ken, and I were warmly received by Susan and Jean, who gave us some quick background on the Institute, introduced us to their dog, Boychuk, and then took us into a brand new enclosure area. There they informed us we were going to meet some wolves.
“Don’t make eye contact,” they admonished gently, “and don’t let them sneak up behind you. These wolves have been around people, but they aren’t tame.”
Being a person of both wit and intelligence, I was sufficiently cowed by that spare warning that it took some effort to remain relaxed and breathing slowly; I did not want the wolves to be put off by tension or anxiety.
They let the wolves in. One male (Wamaka), large and confident, and one female (can’t remember which one she was), diminutive and skittish. Each tried their hand (paw?) at sneaking up behind me, the female several times. Each time I whirled around, looking just to the side of their beautiful faces, wishing I could meet their intelligent, lovely eyes without it being a sign of aggression. Their paws danced on the ground as they nipped in to smell the new humans in their midst, and their tails wagged and brushed my leg and side as they explored and examined the situation.
I left my hand down for them to smell and snuck scritches in when they got close enough. The female rarely got close enough for me to touch her; I was only allowed to get that good spot behind her ears once. Wamaka, however, began spending longer and longer at my side, allowing me to bury my fingers in his thick silvery fur, to feel the muscles shift under fur and skin as he moved, to let me feel just how soft his ears really were. He took to leaning up against me so I could get that spot between his shoulders as I tried not to let him unbalance me. He played with me a little; we were both cautious about that, for I did not want to inadvertently threaten him and he was still unsure of me. I suspect, given a day or so, we might have been running about the enclosure like two pups, but we didn’t have a day.
When we were informed that the wolves were going to go back to their homes outside the enclosure, he was leaning up against me again, so I leaned down and, with the abandon I usually show when faced with a large, particularly friendly dog, put my arms around this wolf and scritched him all over, as if he’d just triumphantly returned a frisbee to me. He huffed in my face, sneezed (but not in my face, for Wamaka is a polite wolf), and ran off with the the female and the two humans who cared for and fed him.
It was one of the best experiences of my life. I have rarely met two people so dedicated to the animals they serve as Susan and Jean (and Jean might as well be half-animal himself, for the way he communicates and bonds with the beasties there, from fox to bear to wild cat), and the few hours I was there fundamentally realigned how I felt about the world around me. I recommend a visit to their website, and think it would be rad if you could make a donation to them so that they can keep doing what they do. And if you ever find yourself heading to Idaho, it’s definitely worth a visit, or more.