Insomnia

A love story to my dog

It is not even four AM and I find myself awake at a ridiculously early hour once again. The sound of Gibbs whining alerted me, and I found him fallen by the back door, unable to stand. His back legs gave out, and he had no chance of recovering on the hardwood.

Gibbs turned 17 last Halloween, or thereabout. We don’t know his precise age because– insert Sarah McLaughlin music– we rescued him at around age two and don’t know his exact birth date. And so, we celebrate Halloween as his birthday, because this is the day we brought him home.

I say “we” and not just “I” because while I made the initial visit and knew in my heart and soul that Gibbs was the right dog for me (and hopefully the rest of the family), Paul accompanied me to pick him up after our second visit. The rescue required two visits even though I knew after the first visit. Gibbs had spunk but didn’t chase after the shelter’s test cat. They must have a better term but this cat is like the Chuck Yeager of cats– a test pilot of dogs. This cat had seen some shit and obviously lived to tell the… tail? No word on how many dogs s/he had crashed along the way.

Gibbs instantly reminded me of my dog from childhood. Caine was a petite bundle of terror wrapped in long white hair that lofted onto every surface of the house. Given that the name of his breed is offensive when referring to a person, I’ll use the abbreviated Eskie. Dogs are not people, and while the term is a derogatory term used by white people to classify indigenous people, Caine never objected to the term. And he never ate raw meat, though he did love some raw snow peas picked fresh from the garden. Please don’t get me started on his cricket hunting skills or I’ll fill the page with those exploits.

One of my favorite stories of Gibbs is one my Dad enjoys telling. Quite a few years ago now, my Dad noticed that the shingles on my garage roof needed to be replaced and offered to help do that. If you don’t know my Dad, that might seem odd but if you know him, it makes perfect sense. When I was a kid, we did so much work on the house, and helping neighbors work on their houses. It took years to understand why. After seeing photos of family members gathering to re-roof the barn on the farm where my Dad grew up, after learning that the house where his cousin lives is the house that her father, my Dad’s father, and other family members built– it all made more sense than ever.

So my Dad comes down to help* re-roof the garage. (*Given the previous digression, I’ll spare the long explanation and just say it was like Shake-n-Bake.) Gibbs was in the back yard and alerted to my Dad approaching the fence. Gibbs had quite the ferocious bark. My Dad had a ham sandwich.

Much like Han Solo, my Dad shot first, tossing a piece of the sandwich to Gibbs who promptly thanked my Dad by– dare I say– wolfing it down. Pleased with this, my Dad reached for the gate latch only to be rebuked by Gibbs. A ham sandwich was great but did not guarantee an invitation. It wasn’t until I returned home and introduced my Dad to Gibbs that the pup allowed my Dad free access to the house and yard.

Gibbs has been a loyal companion, a guardian to the home and our family, and my personal friend for many years. Some people are dedicated cat people, some are dedicated dog people. I love both animals and feel a very strong affinity to both– stronger than my affinity to random people I meet. Still, I was raised with (and by?) a dog. I know that the term “spirit animal” should not be used lightly, so I avoid it. I’ve had quite a few dogs, and I’ve loved them all. And two of them I call my brothers.

By now it should be obvious why I’m awake at this ink black hour. I wish I could sleep peacefully and freely. And I dread when I can.