During the Christmas 2010 season I was gifted with a puppy. Not just any puppy, but a puppy of mammoth proportions. Perhaps Godzilla Puppy. Except her name is Matilda.
The day I received her she was at 9 weeks of age already four times bigger than my sister's full-grown and very spoiled Jack Russell terrier. I wanted to take Matilda to my sister's house on Christmas Day to show her off, but was afraid she would eat her dog, or perhaps just peruse him as a snack. He's the nervous sort, so it would not have promoted feelings of goodwill, let alone holiday cheer.
Oh, I wanted her, and how. A Great Pyrenees mountain dog. Majestic looking creature with regal bearing and a luxurious white coat. Eventually.
I had been introduced to the breed several years ago by a couple whom I was interviewing in regard to their very successful venture into breeding, training, and leading into herding competition their clever and agile Border Collies. They had sheep for the collies, and to protect the sheep they owned Great Pyrenees. They were surprised, as was I, when one of those quiet and loner dogs, Amanda, seemed to become infatuated with me and trailed me throughout the day. When I said goodbye, this massive dog rose up on her hind legs and put her forelegs on my shoulders and licked my face. Doggy hug, big style.
At the time she came to live with us, Matilda — Tilly for short — looked like a polar bear cub, all fluff and innocent eyes. I would set her in my lap, and because she was so big she matched me gaze for gaze. I would coo at her, and she would blink her innocent eyes ... dark with black-rimmed eyelids, yet with snow-white eyelashes. You notice and find endearing these little details, finding yourself filled with love and adoration for your infant ward, and nonplussed by the little puddles that appear here and yonder (and sometimes to the shock of sock-clad feet as they stumble to the bathroom at night).
I would let Tilly lie beside me on the sofa when she was just that wee pup, and she took up one cushion. At 18 weeks she looked like a teenage version of the Coca-Cola mascot, and took up the middle cushion and most of those on either side. She would stretch. She would pat me with her huge, heavy, Pupzilla paws. She would chew. And chew. She's still chewing. A lot.
Oh, and she likes sushi.
I have a nice, little fishpond in the back yard, dug by hand and stocked with two humble goldfish about 10 years ago. It has been a source of great peace and tranquility over the years, with the addition of a little waterfall, and the steady propagation of the pond's inhabitants. Much work and patience has gone into it, including a center dugout in which the fish could sink deep enough to over-winter. This little oasis is created within a heavy duty, industrial strength liner. We also have a nine-year-old lab/chow who has occasionally dipped into the pond's healing waters during the summer months and left nary a scratch. It was equally relaxing to watch Raleigh wade elegantly into the pond, her black fur floating in the cool water, the goldfish swimming about her in lazy circles. Sort of like a very organic Esther Williams scene; the only thing missing were the synchronized dives of ribbiting bullfrogs.
When Tilly discovered the pond in January while the water was still free of ice, it was with a stumbling, awkward belly flop. But the fish were so content in their mid-winter slumber at the bottom they simply stayed put.
Winter progressed, and with it came bone-chilling temperatures. After one of the big freezes, when the sun had come out long enough to melt the tops of frozen puddles, I looked out the kitchen window and realized ... "I see no ice on top of the pond. Wait. I see no water!" I ran out to find two sets of claw marks along the liner, and one very large ice cube at the bottom of the pond. Fortunately that day the temperature was above freezing, so in a desperate attempt to find my fish, I hauled out the garden hose and began filling the pond with water to loosen the ice. Tilly watched with great interest, and not one bit of shame. She sniffed her claw marks, looked at the ice cube, then looked up at me with what seemed like a grin that said, "Dang, look what I did!"
The damage became evident as the bottom of the ice cube began to melt and release its contents. All my fish were dead, or at least sleeping very quietly on their sides in the bit of water that remained in the pond. I stood there looking at them and counted. Twenty-one. Our plight was broadcast on the web and my cousin from New Hampshire advised that I should let them stay there a day or so because they might just thaw out and be revived.
Yeah, right.
But the truth is I couldn't bring myself to yet scoop out the fish and dispose of them. And where does one put 21 dead goldfish? It was an oddly pretty but macabre scene that afternoon — bits of snow framing the pond, the sunlight glinting off the water's surface, as well as the golden-scaled bodies that bobbed about the mini icebergs.
The next morning I stepped out the front door to head to our old schoolhouse/barn to feed the dogs and found Tilly sitting just beyond the stoop, chewing and going "mwaa mwaa smack smack" on a goldfish bigger than my hand. And then she saw me .... and did that "JOY!" jaw drop of recognition, the fish impaled on her teeth. She began to bound toward me with gleeful abandon, tongue lolling to the side, goldfish braces adorning her mouth. I screamed and ran back in the door.
Later, when brave enough to go to the schoolhouse I found Tilly nestled in her bed of straw, a bit of orange fin stuck in the corner of her mouth. Ironically, she was also chewing on the toy, hard-rubber shark we had given her.
Oh, but I still love her. Every last violently expanding inch of her. She is developing many interesting talents as well. In the beginning, she would sit beside me on the sofa with her head cocked in curiosity as she watched the television, particularly during the dog food commercials (ah yes, her appetite ... hmmm). But because she is a mountain dog, now the size of a Vespa, and because I make cakes and other confections, she is an outside dog. Not that it has interrupted her television habit, however. One night, I felt a bit guilty as the Little Caesar commercial came on, knowing it was one of her favorites. I looked longingly toward the living room windows only to see Tilly's profile there. Apparently all she needs do is stand on her hind legs and prop one foreleg on the windowsill and she has the best seat outside the house. All she really needs is a recliner.
It was a bit surreal ... her lovely white head framed within the window, the white snow and the black sky in the background, the soft glow of the outdoor pole light shining upon her face. And for just a moment, she turned her gaze to me, and I swear she winked and gave a sly smile.
Kinda like Godzilla.
