Willa and Henry

"Joyful, joyful, joyful,

as only dogs know how to be happy

with only the autonomy

of their shameless spirit."

Willa and Henry have brought a different kind of rhythm to my life. A rhythm rooted in keenness and intuition, silence and reverie. Willa is my white German shepherd. She is the alpha female of our pack. It is her position by virtue of breeding and instinct. She is snowy-white and soft as goat cheese, which we almost named - Chevre - but decided instead on Willa for the novelist Willa Cather. She resembles the Arctic white wolf in looks and temperament, is proud and persevering and only rarely selfish or mean-spirited. She sleeps with me every night, either beside my floor-bed or in it. Since the separation from my husband three years ago I allow her and Henry (the hound) to sleep with me. They are a comfort to me on cold winter nights or nights when I feel worn out by the grind of a long day. Willa came from a Mennonite dairy farm, from the lovely rolling hills outside of Harrisonburg. Her father was an enormous white specimen, her mother was named Daisy. She came with papers so we thought we should give her a grander name and decided on Willa Rosebud to keep a connection to her mother. But later on a friend renamed her Willabean because she is the color of vanilla and it stuck. She is white with tremendously big ears; pink, pointy satellite dishes that range back and forth picking up silent signals. Her nose is flesh-colored now, it used to be black but changed after her first year. She is persnickety in her eating habits, waiting to indulge late in the evening. Sometimes I will hear her munching in the kitchen long after I have gone to bed.  She is vigilant and restless and doesn't like to sleep unless I coax her into lying down, rubbing her fleshy pink belly or soft white fur, whispering to her quietly, "goood guuurrl." I have, on many occasions awoken in the middle of the night to find her staring at me wide-eyed, waiting for a command or break of day.

Henry, on the other hand, is my earth-dog and defender of our home. Named for the writer's Henry Charles Bukowski and Henry Miller, he is my rouser of critters and chaser of cats. He is an opportunist when it comes to food, fastidious in his grooming habits and the laziest of companions. My cripple-dog with a bad hip and slight limp due to an inherited dysplasia; Henry was adopted when he was a three-month old pup with a swollen belly and yappy disposition. The first time I saw him in the cage at the adoption center I knew he was my dog. Beautiful with brindle markings and a black mask which has changed over the years to grey and white, Henry like Willa, has his peccadillo's. He loves to eat anything, especially breakfast; particularly hot food and always a bowl or two of milk. Every morning he waits near the refrigerator for his morning milk and on those days when I have none to offer him I say, "I'm outta milk Henry" and show him the empty container. Only then will he grudgingly eat the rest of his meal. It makes me smile, this simple rhythm of my life. My sweet, patient dog yearning for his morning milk, accepting when there is none and licking my face with gratitude when there is. He loves to lie on his bed a big, single mattress covered with sheets and a fleecy blanket. He will stretch out full-bodied, sometimes lying on his back, all fours splayed open, head turned sideways, ears twisted back. He loves a morning belly scratch and late-evening snuggle, sometimes he will wrap a paw around my arm and lean in closer. Then I push his ears forward, nuzzling the fine hair; the still-puppy like hairs and smell that linger there. I inhale deeply, holding him close and tight against my nose saying, "don't leave me for a very long time, please Henry." Every time he goes on a critter chase I wonder if that will be the last time I see him and pray he will not be hit by a car or lost to me completely.

I feel a deep gratitude and love for my animals. They have watched my pain, physical and emotional, have licked the tears from my face when I have cried, have pushed their muzzles against my chest to rouse me when I have fallen. I have a deep gratitude for their language, for their patience and the rhythm which they have brought to my life.