I recently read the interesting biography of Rin Tin Tin by Susan Orlean (Rin Tin Tin: Life and Legend). After finishing the book I clearly understood why German Shepherds make good guide dogs. They were originally bred, in Germany (of course) in 1899, to reflect those qualities valued by the founder of the breed, Max Emil Friedrich von Stephanitz. Orleans quoted from von Stephanitz’s book german shepherd dog that he liked dogs that demonstrated “attentiveness, imperturbability, malleability, vigilance, reliability, and incorruptibility.” The last trait they showed that ensured the herder’s suitability as a guide dog was his “unique ability to bond with humans,” particularly his individual masters. That deal breaker also gave me a clear understanding of why French bulldogs, including my Phil, would never serve well as guide dogs. At least not the traditional kind, and herein lies the lesson.
My dog fact book accurately describes Frenchies as “courageous, active, and alert.” So far, as good as a guide dog’s potential, right? But then he goes on to observe, with fabulous understatement, that a French bulldog “doesn’t care much for submission.” SAY OH! When I adopted Phil when he was two and a half years old, he was a well-mannered, well-mannered show dog owned and handled by an experienced breeder, Pat Pearce, who said he was placing him as a pet because in the acting ring “lacked focus.” He now disagrees. He has focus, as long as he’s on what he wants. I often joke that I take Phil for skating, not walking, because he plants his four meaty bulldog legs, simply on the principle of non-submission, and I end up having to drag him anywhere. Once, when my husband was doing the same thing, a woman came up and threatened to sue him for abusing a dog by pulling him. (She didn’t realize we used a chest harness on him, not a neck collar, to humanely accommodate her hard-wired stubbornness.) My husband asked her, “Ma’am, have you ever owned a bulldog?”
I have now learned to work with him a bit better, but nevertheless I finally understand what the vet exclaimed on Phil’s initial visit to the clinic: “You chose a bulldog like your first dog?” Yes, and I’m heartbroken.
The data book also says that a Frenchy “needs a lot of love.” That’s because a Frenchy gives a lot. When I was getting information about Pat’s breed, he asked me if I was looking for a watchdog. “No,” I replied, and she said, “Good, because Phil could try to lick someone to death, but that’s the most he’d ever do to an intruder!”
Phil loves everyone, not just his master là the German Shepherd. Well, almost all. There’s been the occasional snub, usually right after I’ve said, “Sure, you can pet him! Phil loves people.” Embarrassing. But in the four full years I’ve had it, that’s happened maybe a half dozen times. Because he’s usually such a social person, he especially likes to walk (and randomly skate) around downtown. We live in a small town in New Mexico that attracts a lot of tourists and the town’s central plaza is the place to be for tourist activities. Although Phil has been photographed many times by visitors from all over, I think he is one of those activities himself. It no longer surprises me when I hear Phil call his name during an outing. A true city dog, he has made many friends. He is adorable, he is affectionate, he is kind.
Our city also attracts another type of traveler, which Phil has always been intrigued by as well. Seasonal homeless visitors begin to arrive in the spring for the warm months. I think they gravitate here because our city is politically liberal, tolerant, and generous (not to mention lightly policed), and word has spread among the region’s transient community. They come, they beg for money at traffic intersections, I was anguished thinking whether or not to give them money through the window of my car. Would you be helping an addiction or providing a hot meal? I don’t know. Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. But my husband and I constantly contribute to a local organization for the homeless and their pets, a nice and distant way of assuring my guilt. I guess that marks me as charitably ambivalent. Which my dog definitely isn’t.
Phil knows there is another way to give. Since the beginning of our life together, when we hiked during “homeless season,” he has approached groups of itinerants (who always seem to hang out in herds) to say hello, to satisfy his curiosity about them, to inhale their often nervous scents, to connect simply. Although I was uncomfortable with the likelihood of having to interact with these people, I didn’t want them to watch me forcing him to move away from them; I will always be the product of my southern upbringing, so I have to convince people I don’t like them. the most that I don’t really dislike them (don’t ask what it is about, because I don’t really know). So I began to anticipate his detours into such a crowd well in advance, discreetly directing him in another direction. His love for the homeless explains my learning to better manage his intractability. And mine.
Last summer, one Sunday morning when I wasn’t paying attention on a walk with Phil, he sneaked up on two young passersby sitting in a small park near downtown. Too late for a discreet change of course. “Can I pet your dog?” one of the guys called me. “Sure,” I said as he came towards me. He was skinny, not too dirty, dark haired, nervous, hyper-alert. We started talking while Phil stopped and received attention from him. The boy asked me: “Do you live in the city?” I answered yes and then asked if he was too. “No, I’m just a street kid. My mother died and I’ve been living alone.”
I told him how sorry I was for his loss and asked how long he had been dead. “About two weeks ago,” she said. “But she wasn’t a very good mother anyway. She was an addict and she eventually got old, so no one could save her.” We kept talking about her stepfather (she didn’t know where her biological father was) and how the boy had gone to her funeral. Finally, I asked him if he had a professional I could talk to about all this, that I knew of places in the city where I could receive counseling at no cost. She knew about the center for homeless youth, she said, and the people there had been very helpful.
The next morning I called the youth center to volunteer. Something about that boy saying that he was fair a street kid I found devastating. That little word revealed his opinion of himself, as if he didn’t count for anything, as if “a street kid” wasn’t human. Surely people just showing up would help convince him, and more like him, otherwise. However, I was told that the center currently did not have a coordinator to train prospective volunteers. I leave my name and number for when the situation changes. But he hasn’t done it yet, evidently.
In the meantime, I follow Phil’s lead. During our most recent visit to a homeless group, my husband was with us. He stood to the side as Phil and I approached the four people. I spoke to them, waiting for breakfast at a nearby church, and Phil received a head massage at eye level from one of the two teenagers sitting below on some steps. “He likes to give love,” I told the boy. “Well, I sure do,” he replied. We chat some more, all four of us interested in finding out more about Phil. And they told me about the places in town that served them the richest meals, confirming that food is more than nutrition; it is one of life’s pleasures and it should be for them too. In the end, the boy kissed Phil on the top of his head and then let him go. As we walked away, I heard him say to the others, “What a great dog.”
Phil fearlessly makes his way into a community I would be too shy (or eager) to enter on my own. He gives me the opportunity to be with these people simply as human beings, in a more equal way than a volunteer necessarily relates to a recipient or a benefactor to a beggar. In his own way, he is loyal to them to the core. The very acceptance of him is his charity.
He is my guide dog.
