The beach dog who walked me through grief

I got to the beach before sunrise. The dog was a light, sandy brown. I could have tripped over him. When I saw him sleeping in a ball I respectfully crossed to the other side of the path to the beach. To my surprise he got up and followed me. I waved my hand back and forth, as if to shoo him or dissuade him from getting too close to me, not knowing what his intentions were. 

I walked west towards apartment I rented last winter, towards my friend’s restaurant where I used to go. I was hoping to find the Englishman with the red hair and the dog who chased coconuts into the ocean. To my surprise the dog followed me and kept following me. He kept pace right next to me, pausing every now and then to search for crabs. As we walked, he ran up and barked at a Mexican man on the ridge of the sand carrying a stick, probably having had negative experiences with Mexican men with sticks. Wanting to help my dog friend, I fussed at him even though he had no control, even though I had no control as we don't really have a relationship. 

When my sandy dog would pause to hunt crabs I would stop and wait for him, watching the hunt. One time I saw a crab that didn't got his attention and I indicated with my hand where to look.  When it moved he went after it. I felt like this endeared me to him; he could see we were on the same team. I found a washed up reed on the beach near a smooth spot of sand. Walking, thinking about making this walk with Harley, thinking about being back in this place without her. This time I don't need to worry about her daily exercise schedule or the heat carrying her on my other shoulder along with my heavy computer, or worry about how each dog we passed would react to her and if she was safe. Even with her exquisite social skills, the dogs here have a code neither of us quite understood.

Alone on that section of the beach, I let myself cry, the kind of crying that changes your face in a way you don't want anyone to see. The dog, who had been staying within a bubble around me, but not coming too close, looped near me as if to check in. I reached down and scratched his head once to let him know I was all right. As he walked on I was grateful for the company. It can be hard to feel alone. I realized when we read that you'll probably misinterpret it. What I mean is it can be hard to feel when you're alone. We aren't really designed for it. His being there helped me release in to the sadness more than I would have on my own. 

Grief breaks us down and makes us want to believe a lot of things. I want to believe he knew that I needed the company before I did. I want to believe Harley is watching over me and she sent me a friend. I want to believe that of all the people who walked by, he chose me consciously and for a reason that means something about me. I think I believe that even though we're strangers because of what I know about dogs. We built a language - one where I can show him crabs and ask him not to bark when it might get him in trouble, one where we seem to have an understanding that we would wait for each other and work together. I want to believe, but I don't know if it's true.

This is part of why we get dogs. They're dependent on us. We can train them. We can let ourselves believe that they need us.  People get partners, get married for the companionship, to be chosen, to feel less alone on this earth. Children are dependent on us. They want our love. They need to ensure it for their survival. As they move through the world, we are the one constant. They reach for us. They reach for us. They reach for us, but we can't always be there. 

Perro, the uncreative name I've given my new dog friend approaches another dog, his body language stiff. I take a video, curious what he'll do, curious how the other dog will respond, if it will confirm my suspicions about his authority in the street dog world. The other dog politely sits, dips their nose down and away. He's pleased that his seniority has been recognized. After a quick sniff we walk on. I coo "good boy, good boy" because I’m pleased he moved on when I did. He wags his tail. You don't have to speak the same language to understand that happy, positive energy is a good thing. 

I love that about dogs. I want to say they don't hide their emotions, but then I think of Harley being tired, being sick, being in pain and so stoic. I wonder if she was worried about me, so obviously worried about her. I wonder if she was hiding what was going on inside of her from me to protect me or because she loved me or just because that is what animals do. 

I can tell from Perro’s wide head, from the way he carries his tail, from the way he approaches other dogs asking for their respect, that he moves through the world in a leadership role. When he spots another Mexican man I step towards him, trying to prevent a repeat performance, closing my hips, broadening my shoulders, making a sound that says no like the rumble strip on a highway. I annoy him until he decides it isn’t worth the trouble and he's back on track.

Perro has followed me quite far from where I found him, but I imagine he knows this simple long beach and can find his way back. I hope I'm not disrupting him as I indulge my deep desire for company, companionship. Me, usually so proud to be so fine alone, but I’m grateful he chose me, especially this morning, walking this beach without Harley and being unprepared, even though I knew it was coming, by how it grips my heart.