The Christmas Dog
Part I
Before there were kids, before there were a string of Christmas Eve services to keep us up late, before there was an endless series of preparations, when things were altogether quieter, I fell into the habit of stealing away for a run on the afternoon of Christmas Day. The roads were blessedly empty, and there was a stillness to the day that I relished. But I also loved the contours of a day that included scenes of togetherness in the morning and evening, but that included some moments of precious solitude as well. But really, my reasons for running were far simpler: it served as an insurance policy for my stomach. A mid-day run meant that I could indulge all the cakes and cookies I wanted in the morning but then be ready to go again by the time the evening hors d’oeuvres were laid out. I’m telling you, nothing said Merry Christmas better than a mid-day run.
It was 1998, and that year we were spending the holiday with Rachael’s parents in western Maryland. Rachael and I had been married less than a year, and, as I learned that year, nobody, but nobody, does Christmas better than my in-laws. There were stacks of gifts, there were games, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace, there was music, and there was a spread of wonderful food in the early morning and then a gorgeous breakfast after that. A run would be necessary.
If you haven’t been there, western Maryland is a beautiful part of the country, with rolling hills and farmsteads, and it makes for some of the most picturesque running that I’ve ever known. There was only one problem. It was the dogs. People in that part of the country keep some of the fiercest, meanest dogs ever. Ever. And much of the time, they’re not leashed or chained or anything. No one installs those electric fences that give the dogs a little jolt if they cross the line. There’s not much car traffic, there’s even less foot traffic, and so dogs are left to just roam the yard. That has consequences for people like me. One summer day, a golden retriever, who looked otherwise friendly, chased me into the street, and stood snarling, blocking my path so that I had to run in the opposite direction. Another day, I was passing by a house and a Dalmatian startled me out of my wits. I hadn’t seen him, but he saw me, and with an explosion of furious barking and bared teeth, he ran at me and lunged, only to be yanked back when he reached the end of his chain. It unnerved me enough that I avoided that particular road ever after. And then there was the German Shepherd on the corner lot who just prowled about, waiting for a squirrel or a rabbit or a runner to happen by. When he saw one, he was off in a flash, snapping and growling. He wasn’t always out, and I would cross to the other side of the street when I passed, but that dog too would chase me out into the road, though he usually wouldn’t venture far beyond the yard. But it scared me enough that I quit running in that direction too. It got so that I confined myself to a fairly short loop where there were usually no dogs to be found. But just in case, I started carrying rocks in both hands when I ran, just in case I needed to throw them. Other times I carried a big stick.
But not on that Christmas afternoon. I was feeling ebullient from the day. What a Christmas. I felt lucky to be with Rachael’s family, light, buoyant, and upbeat. There was a light cover of snow on the ground, the air was crisp, and the scent of wood smoke drifted through the trees. I had never encountered a dog on the loop I was set to run. And anyway, it was Christmas. Who wanted to run with stones and sticks on Christmas? There could be no dogs on a near perfect day such as that. I would take my chances. And so I set out. I headed down a hill, and then along a road that followed a mountain stream for a half mile or so. After that, I made another turn and then another, and there wasn’t a dog to be seen. I was flying, running on air. I approached several houses, where there were multiple cars parked in the driveway and on the street. Inside, I could tell that there was a large family gathering happening, but fortune had cursed me, for outside, sniffing around the tires of cars, were three large, fearsome looking dogs. Unleashed.
There was no way around the house. I had to go past it. I slowed a little, and considered. Maybe, I reasoned, I could get by unnoticed. Yes, that’s it, I would slip by and the dogs wouldn’t see me. I began running on my tip toes and breathing as lightly as I could so as not to make a sound. I got closer and closer and it was working. The dogs hadn’t noticed me. And then I was past the house, and they still hadn’t noticed, distracted by some scent or other coming from indoors. I was going to make it.
Now picture the scene if you would. The road made a sharp right hand turn at the house with the dogs, and a long and steep hill began, one that lasted nearly a quarter of a mile. I began to run up the hill, still on tip toe, moving as quietly as I could. The house was receding behind me little by little, and with it, the dogs. I began to relax.
And then I heard them. An explosion of barks and snarls. They had seen me. What’s worse, I looked over my shoulder and they were coming. And fast. I let loose a string of words unfit for church and began sprinting up the hill, the dogs running hard after me, frothing, barking, teeth bared.
Part II
It is proven science that creatures with four legs tend to run faster than creatures with two. I wasn’t even half way up the hill and I was gasping for air. The dogs were gaining ground. I doubled my pace, wheezing, and one of the dogs got tired or bored and gave up. It turned around and trotted back toward the house. After another few seconds, another dog did the same. It stopped, and went back. But the largest dog, the one that unnerved me most, just kept on coming, gaining on me by the second. I knew I wouldn’t outrun him – the hill was too steep and I was out of air, out of gas. In a panic, I looked around for something, anything, with which I could defend myself. A rock, a stick, even a tree to climb up…but there was nothing on either side of the road. Just some underbrush and brambles, but nothing I could pick up, not even a pebble. My mind raced during those last seconds before the dog was on me – I couldn’t run anymore, but maybe I could kick it. No, no, it was too big. I could go for its eyes…no, that was too gross. In those last seconds, I cursed my luck – I was going to be shredded by a mean dog, and on Christmas Day! There would be an emergency room, stitches, a whole ordeal. I would never be invited back for another Christmas! It was all so cruel. And then I was out of time, the dog was just a couple strides away, and so I did the only thing I could think to do.
I whirled around, put out my hand, put on my most playful, friendly face, and I said: “Hi dog! Hi! How are you?”
And just like that, the dog stopped in his tracks. His countenance changed. His teeth quit showing. He didn’t bark anymore, or growl, or snarl. In an instant, he went from fierce to friendly. He began wagging his tail, his tongue lolling out. His eyes were lit up and playful and he drew near to my hand and sniffed it a little. I couldn’t tell what sort of dog he was – he was large, yes, but he was also what seemed to be a mix of several breeds I couldn’t identify. Part Lab, maybe? Part Irish Setter? Was there some sort of hound dog in there somewhere? I petted his head, relieved as could be, but also a little irritated. “What, after all that, you just wanted to play?” The dog just looked at me, panting happily. “You’re not mean or fierce at all, you were just pretending?” And again, the dog just looked at me, happily panting away. I searched him for a collar or a name, but found nothing. Then I said, “OK, I’m going this way,” pointing in one direction. I pointed in the opposite direction. “You go that way. You go home.” The dog…just looked at me, almost plaintively now. “OK, go home,” I repeated, but the dog studied me with what seemed a bemused expression, head cocked to the side. I shrugged, turned and began ascending the rest of the hill. But now the dog followed, running right alongside me. I continued for a little, and then stopped, addressing the dog one more time. “No, you can’t come with me! Go home!” But the dog just cocked his head to the side one more time, studied my face, and when I turned to continue running, he continued too, right alongside me, the fearsome attack dog now become a Christmas companion. I rolled my eyes, exhaled, and just kept running.
Soon we reached the top of the hill, and the road curved to the left. Just past the curve, there was another house, where yet another dog stood, as if waiting for us. As soon as the new dog noticed us, he erupted in a fury of barks and snarls. Thankfully, this dog was chained to a clothes line, and gave chase until he reached the end of his chain, at which point he began lunging and rearing on his back paws, hurling what must have been threats and curses at us in his dog vocabulary. I watched to see how the the Christmas dog would react. He was a little spooked, just as I was. He lowered his head and slowed to a trot. Then he looked up at me to see what I would do. I kept running. Meanwhile, the Christmas Dog had slowed a bit. He looked first at the other dog, and then at me, and then at the other dog again. He seemed to make a calculation. When we reached the house where the new dog was positioned, the Christmas Dog stopped and stood there, immediately in front of the other dog, but just out of reach. And he stayed there, just like that, until I was well beyond the yard, well beyond where the other dog might roam. He was acting as a barrier between me and the mean dog on the chain. Then, confident that I was safe, the Christmas Dog looked once more at the dog on its chain, and then he raced after me, quickly closing the distance between us.
When he reached me, I petted him on the head once again, and rubbed around his ears. “Thank you,” I told him, “thank you. But you have to go home. Go on home!” I ran just a little way in the direction we had come, trying to prod him along. But the Christmas Dog just looked at me with those plaintive and soulful eyes, and he sat down, right in the middle of the road. He refused to budge, and so I returned, and continued in the direction we had been heading. The Christmas Dog came right at my heels, trotting along.
As we ran, I began talking to him, because we still had more than a mile to go. I don’t know why, but I told him about my habit of running on Christmas Day. I told him that I was usually afraid of dogs when I ran, and that I had been afraid of him when he first started chasing me. And then I told him about other things – that I had just gotten married the summer before, that I had applied to graduate schools a few weeks prior to that. I told him about the place I worked, a college that I loved but that had also come to seem intellectually and spiritually claustrophobic. I told him that I was glad he had come with me on my Christmas run.
On the final stretch of road, I slowed down and walked, in order to extend the time just a little longer. The Christmas Dog just looked at me with his soulful eyes. He licked my hand, and then padded alongside of me a little longer, his nails clicking against the asphalt of the road.
And then we were back. The Christmas Dog had come all the way home with me.
Part III
What to do with a dog that follows you on a run for several miles? What to do with a dog that had seemed fearsome and mean, but that had turned into a wonderful, near miraculous Christmas companion? He wasn’t mine to keep, and I though I enjoyed dogs, I had no real desire to own a dog anyway. But I had bonded with him in an instant. His eyes seemed all knowing, as if by looking, he could bore his way into my soul. I sat in the driveway and stretched, while the Christmas Dog sniffed around the yard. And then he came and laid down in front of me, placing his head on his paws. He just looked at me with those soulful eyes. When I was done stretching, I sat petting him for a while. The light was starting to fade from the sky, and by then the hors d’oeuvres would have been out. The steaks were probably close to ready, and I was still in my sweaty running clothes. And yet I lingered with the Christmas Dog. Eventually, Rachael came outside and saw the Christmas Dog. I told her the story of how he’d chased me, and then of how he had watched over me. I told her of how he’d followed me all the way home. “What are you going to do with him?” she asked me. “I guess I’ll put him in the car and take him back to the house where I first saw him.”
“Would you like to go home?” I asked the Christmas Dog. His ears perked up a little bit, and he studied my face quizzically. I stood up, and then he did. I went inside to fetch my keys, while the Christmas Dog sat on the porch waiting. When I returned, I went to the car, opened the passenger door, and the Christmas Dog reluctantly got in. He sat in the front seat, alert, interested in what was happening. And then we retraced the steps of my run, down the hill and along the stream until we turned onto the road where the house and the hill and the dogs all resided. All the cars were still there, but no one was outside. I pulled my car over, got out, and opened the passenger door. The Christmas Dog looked at me, and I swear, he wouldn’t get out of the car. He relented when I tugged him gently on his collar, emerging from the car and standing on the front lawn of the house.
And with that, I patted him on the head, gave him a little hug, and said goodbye. I got in the car and drove up the hill where the Christmas Dog and his companions had so recently chased me. As I drove I glanced in the rearview mirror. He was still there, standing at the foot of the driveway, as if deciding whether to start the chase one more time. This time he stayed put, watching with eyes that might have been God’s, or a child’s, and yet belonged to a dog who came to me on a Christmas Day.
Concluding Thoughts: Try a Little Tenderness
If I was choosing a single song to accompany the story of the Christmas Dog, as if on a soundtrack, it would be Otis Redding’s 1966 classic, Try a Little Tenderness. And if there’s anything I hope you’ll take away from the story, or from the very story of Christmas, for that matter, it would be just that: Try a Little Tenderness. We’re often hounded and chased by real and metaphorical creatures that inspire our fear, and as often as not, we respond in precisely the way I did on that Christmas day – we run like hell, and when we can’t run any longer, we prepare for a fight. It’s not that there’s never anything to fear, or that certain dangers aren’t real. It’s just that we might do well to see what could happen from time to time if we tried a little tenderness, rather than hurtling rocks, brandishing sticks, or, as the case might be, building taller and longer walls to keep out that which we fear. What if what we feared, what we ran from, what seemed to be hounding us, was actually a trusted companion, waiting to find us? What if that which roared and snarled initially – the person, the emotion, the scary situation – was as scared of us as we are of it, and exposing a hand was actually a way of taming the fears that live inside us both? What if our fears were waiting to be converted into trusted friends, wise, understanding, guiding us toward more compassionate ways of living? And what if that was the truth residing at the heart of the Christmas narrative, where a human population hell bent on destruction is shown a kind of tender affection? The child in the manger, not unlike the Christmas Dog, stands as an open invitation, to me, to you, to us all in these impossible and cruel times: to try a little tenderness, and to see where it takes us.
