Bitey-Face and the Secret Passageway

We turn into the driveway and the umpire flings his arms wide and yells, “Safe!” It’s the feeling I get passing my mailbox. Mister and I went to Texas on a blind date to meet Jolene. She said yes. After three days in a truck cab by day, a tiny camper at night, we became a small, but wonderfully dysfunctional, family. Jolene traded eight siblings for just one stoic mid-life dog and one woman-of-a-certain-age with big teeth. We shared some sweet moments getting familiar on the trip, but now we needed to move beyond seatbelts and leashes. Things are about to get real. 

We went straight to the dog yard. Mister struck up a jaunty trot toward a favorite bush and I put Jolene down. She peed instantly, took off like a cannonball, and broadsided Mister mid-leg lift. Once Mister caught his balance, they bolted, but a second later, Edgar Rice Burro saw me and hollered. His ears went wide, he extended his nose and heaved a few times, spreading his ribs, and finally bawled out a melancholy lament. A tenor two-note melody that eventually petered out in a dramatic sigh like an old country song. Jolene, whose bark is more of a shriek, was awestruck at his vocal range. And she saw them. She didn’t know I have horses. Probably the only one who didn’t. 

Let the tug begin. To the uninitiated, the game looks simple, but it is no less complex than an elite chess match. Mister baited her with a frayed lead rope. Jolene has played the game since birth. She grabbed on and Mister dragged her around the yard. He wore her like a bad tie. When he paused to preen, and the Grand Master took the rope away. Or the chewy, or the toy, or anything else he has. He blinks and she swaggers off with her plunder. Mister has a sterling, but average, intelligence. Jolene has a tarnishing effect. 

Minutes later, the two of them are curled up together in the shade of a lilac. The dog yard looked like four trash cans had blown over. Dog toys everywhere. She’d dragged a couple of rugs and sweatshirt into the yard. Dog beds and a jacket. One glove. The towel from underneath the water dish and the belt from my bathrobe. One half of every pair of Crocs I own, although I put them up. But did you notice? They nap touching each other.

That night, I lifted Jolene onto the bed. Mister came up the dog stairs, and we tucked in. In the morning when I went to lift Jolene down, she gave me a sharp I’ll do it myself yap and took the stairs down like Mister. Trained, not by me. 

The next day, bitey-face took over like a nasty rash. I was teaching online, but Mister had barked for a solid hour. Even Preacher wasn’t that consistent. I finally asked the class to hold, and I went out on the off chance they had cornered a skunk. Teeth and bellies were all I could see. Jolene was drenched in spit and Mister was glassy eyed. Like kids with a birthday party sugar high, hysterical with joy.

Every time I get a new dog, I train them less than the one before. I’m learning. When I was younger, I was a deadly serious trainer. Living with me was like going to boot camp. I showed my love by making everything a learning opportunity. Humans are the only animal who believe it’s their God given right to know more than everybody else. I was lucky. Spending quality time with chestnut mares and female cattle dogs broke me of that foolishness. Any donkey will tell you humans are self-important chatterboxes with less common sense than a duck. So I’ve learned to shut up, keep my hands in my pockets, and listen. 

And just like that, I hear the dog door slap. Ours is huge, and she charges through it like a high school football team entering a stadium. She does what he does. Trained, not by me.

Every day we do something new to socialize Jolene. My favorite is going out for beer. She accompanies Mister to get his nails done. We bought flowers at Lowe’s. She’s getting close to a normal walk while being cruelly clicked onto a leash but crossing a parking lot is impossible. Jolene flirts with old ladies and small children. She’s better at meeting people than Mister and I combined. 

It isn’t all perfect. Sometimes Mister puts himself in the crate when it’s all too much for his bookish nature. Just a moment to collect himself. But she took his crate away, too. She says it’s the perfect wolf den and fun to chew. Trained, not by me.

Is Mister jealous? We project our worst traits on animals, calling them lazy or stubborn. Humans are famous for jealousy, but thankfully, dogs aren’t human. We stare into each other’s eyes. Sometimes we see sheer exhaustion but never regret. Then Jolene slams into the room with coils of toilet paper trailing. Mister leaps to his feet and they race out to bark at cats. They don’t need actual cats.  

I’m a writer who is proud of her vocabulary. So, I go fishing for a word that means the opposite of jealous. 

“Compersion is a feeling of joy or happiness in response to the joy or happiness of others, particularly in the context of ethical non-monogamous relationships (ENM). It can be described as the opposite of jealousy, representing the vicarious pleasure or sympathetic joy experienced when one’s partner is happy with another person.” 

Is that what Mister feels watching me scoop poop on a muck fork as Jolene leaps up to bat it off? Because it’s what I feel when I see him curl himself around her when she’s napping. Does that make us an ethical, non-monogamous, inter-species relationship? I’d worry about DOGE, but Jolene would eat those boys alive.

When I come back from the barn, Jolene sits in front of me as soon as I close the gate. The rule is if she asks for my attention, she gets it. As I reach toward her, Jolene lays her ears down so my hand can conform to her head and the smooth lines of her body. The diamond-edged puppy teeth rest. Breathe in chaos, breathe out peace. For as long as she stays.

Since they do everything together now, Mister wanders up. The persnickety gentleman who doesn’t like his head touched says, okay, if you’re handing them out. He does what she does. I dream she has a recall. That one day, she runs to me at the sound of her name. Maybe if I’m lucky, Mister will tag along. Trained, not by me. 

Jolene is growing, looking more like her beautiful mother. She has an intermittent waist. The dogs are humming the bitey-face song. It’s late and I must finish this essay. But she scratches my chair, and the rule applies. Jolene needs help up to my lap, but petting her soothes me. I wonder for the millionth time if all the bitey-face silliness is really a secret handshake. A hidden passage to escape this human mess we’ve made. Because dogs know the way home. To our real home.

For now, I keep falling for that ancient herding dog joke. A dozen times a day, I go look for Jolene. She follows me until I find her. 

*link to the video https://vimeo.com/1084789979/75fbb2da72

Part 5 in a series. (Here’s Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3 and Part 4)

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