My Summer As a Dog

My Summer As A Dog

At first the prompt “What kind of animal are you?” puzzled me. Why do people think they might want to be an animal? I mean, after all, animals have a much shorter lifespan than humans – well most do. I think tortoises have longer lives, in the 150’s or so I seem to remember having read, but basically humans live longer; a lot longer if you think of Mayflies that live for 24 hours.

Europeans frequently think they might like to be a dog or a cat while Chinese probably think more along the lines of a dragon I suppose. I don’t know about people from India. Do they think they might like to be a sacred cow? The natives of Alaska, those of pre-European contact at any rate, never have seen a cat or a monkey, just dogs, birds, caribou and sea animals. Do they think of being a seal or a whale?

Then, of course, there are Native Americans, which can include those of us who have been adopted; who identify with an animal clan or have an animal totem such as the wolf, bear or sometimes eagle. Still, I’ve not yet heard of a Native American who thinks he’s a fish, but, then, I’m new here so what do I know?

I pondered the question for about two days and, while emailing a friend here on WDC, my mind flashed back many years ago. (Yes, “many”, let’s try 65 years). I was four or five at the time and I had a series of favorite books that my mom would read to me. Over and over I demanded that they be read. I could follow the pictures but couldn’t read yet. I knew those stories by heart. They were all about “Rusty”, a big Cocker Spaniel; a friendly dog who loved butterflies. He’d chase after the butterflies but never caught any and never, ever harmed them. I think he talked to them too, but my memory is thin on that point, maybe I just thought he talked to them.

At any rate, I knew those stories word for word. If mom would accidentally skip over a word, I’d correct her. “Mommie, you forgot ‘high’, Rusty jumped HIGH,” I’d say and she’d back up and re-read it to me -- the right way.

I must have really gotten into those stories about “Rusty the dog” for one day I got down on the living room floor and started walking on all fours (which I hadn’t done since I had given up being “a baby”) and began barking just like Rusty would do when he was chasing butterflies.

“What are you doing?” Mommie asked.

“Arf, arf.”

“Are you a puppy?”

“Narf, narf,” I shook my head “no”.

“Are you a kitty?”

“Grrrrroooowwwwl.”

“Are you Rusty?”

“Arf, arf” and my head bobbed up and down.

Mommie reached down and patted my head, “Nice Rusty, good doggie.” And she went off doing whatever it is mommies do when they aren’t attending to washing or ironing or cooking or petting dogs.

Off and on for the rest of that Summer I took up the persona of ‘Rusty’. I’d only talk dog language; I wouldn’t even answer adults unless they called me ‘Rusty’.

Years later, after I married my wife and we had kids, I remembered being “Rusty” and I started searching through kids’ books at garage sales. I found a couple of the old Rusty books and bought ‘em. I said they were for our youngsters but, really, they were for me. Memories, you know what I mean?

Now you know about the Summer I WAS a dog.

See "Rusty at School"  for cover of book

(594 Words)