Robert Simpson: Adjusting to changed life in the doghouse

As some Facebook followers already know, a female companion recently moved in and is sharing my home. She has, I must say, changed my life drastically. She is beautiful, affectionate, playful, and full of energy. Too much energy, in fact, to fit in with what had been my lifestyle, a more sedate and mature way of living. Yet when she gazes into my eyes with a look of undying love, my resistance melts, and I forget the stresses and frustrations that arise when a man my age, having still not fully regained the physical strength lost a year ago, undertakes to house, train, and live with a one-year-old, sixty-plus pounds and still growing, German Shepherd.

It almost feels like cheating to write about animals, because it’s too easy. Everybody loves to tell stories about their pets. And most of us love to hear or read a good dog story, although I’ve heard that there are actually people somewhere who don’t like dogs. That may be a myth. I know for a fact, though, that there are people who don’t like cats. I’m even related to a couple of them, but of course I don’t publicize it, just as I wouldn’t want anyone to know if I had relatives who support the wrong political party. Cats have been as much a part of my life as dogs have, and I have always loved their independence, superior air, and the craving for affection and belonging that hides just beneath their surface. But I’m unlikely to be owned by another cat any time soon. Nikki, my Shepherd, is wired to chase prey, and a cat would be too much temptation for her right now.

Which is why Samson, my Yorkie, tries to spend most of his life as far from Nikki as possible, even barking a signal for me to come escort him to the water bowl if she happens to be nearby. Given the slightest opportunity, she can’t resist charging at him, not to attack, but because she thinks he would be a neat toy to toss about. Samson, 9 years older than she, does not appreciate this. I have told Nikki repeatedly that she should show more respect because Samson has seniority, but my lectures fall on deaf, albeit large, ears.

Nikki, like other German Shepherds I’ve known, is intelligent and eager to learn and to please me. We’ve gone through a professional training program together, and she never lost her enthusiasm, no matter how repetitious the commands and the desired actions, and no matter how high the temperature. I, on the other hand, was eager only for about the first ten minutes. Even now, when we work on our own, she wants to do what I ask, though outside factors keep interfering. Such as deer that bound across the driveway in early morning. Or turkeys eating grass seeds in the field. Or an armadillo that dashes across the yard in semi-darkness. Or a grasshopper that flies up from the lawn. Like a human youngster for whom all the world is still new, she finds it hard to concentrate on the subject at hand. Unlike most human youngsters, she is incredibly strong and has proven more than once that she is, when excited by a new interest, capable of dragging me off my intended route and into the trees. I have numerous scratches and bruises to prove the point.

Despite the downside of this shared life, though, I think the prize is worth the pain. Through the years, the animals I’ve lived with have paid me back far more than they have cost me. They have served as valuable training aids that have helped me better understand how to compromise with and appreciate other humans. And when this large bundle of energy and affection, after one goodnight pat on the head, settles down at bedtime on her own bed beside mine, where she’ll sleep silently though on guard throughout the night, I easily forget the bruises, exasperations, and even the chewed furniture. Because I know she’ll be delighted to see me in the morning. And I her.

This story was originally published August 13, 2016 at 6:49 PM with the headline "Robert Simpson: Adjusting to changed life in the doghouse."