Dog Named Leaf (17 page)

The Arthur Murray dance lessons were a mix of embarrassing missteps and delightful fun, with a lot of laughter. In a millisecond I’d forget the intricate dance steps, stop during a routine, and freeze on the floor while I tried to remember what to do next. I had to go to practice parties at the studio and socialize with people I didn’t know. Holding the female dance instructors and other women who took lessons in my arms was awkward at first. But everyone made me feel OK, even when I fumbled. Thankfully no one refused to dance with me.

My biggest challenge was not steering Linda into the other dancers. I joked that the best part of the experience was that my independent wife had to let me lead. Taking dance lessons was turning out to be better than marriage counseling at getting a longtime couple to perform in harmony.

At home when we practiced before the next week’s lessons, we moved the furniture in the living room to give ourselves more space. We’d pop a CD into the player and attempt to remember what we were supposed to do with our feet, arms, posture, frame, and facial expressions. My feet landed everywhere except where they were supposed to be. I was so uncoordinated at times that I almost fell over. But my attempts at smoothness only served to make us laugh even more.

Leaf, never one to pass up an opportunity for playtime, was not content to observe from the sidelines. While we did our version of a cha-cha, samba, or waltz around the living room, Leaf followed. He literally danced with us by jumping up and standing on his hind legs. He bounced around to the music with his paws waving in the air. In every way possible, he encouraged me to take risks, forget about looking foolish, and have a good time.

Seeing Leaf dance with us reminded me how this alert little boy watches everything we do and often tries to imitate what he sees. Sometimes when I hold Linda’s hand, he walks up to her and lifts his paw as if he wants to hold her hand too. Often when she sits on the couch to watch television or read, he sits next to her and places his paws in her hands. With his paw in her hand, he watches the activities on the street and sidewalk through the living room picture window. How far he has come.

When it was time for us to graduate from our first round of dance lessons, a woman the studio called a “master teacher” administered the test. As she asked us to do various steps and routines, I said, “I’m nervous.” I didn’t want the master teacher to think our instructors hadn’t taught us well just because we might still be klutzes. The master teacher said, “The tests aren’t for me or the instructors. They’re for you to show you how far you’ve come.”

When I looked back at all this, it occurred to me that there are times in life when dancing, laughing, and playing with others are spiritual practices too. Truly observing each moment as a spiritually rich, intensely enjoyable opportunity is being true to yourself as a divine spark. There’s no need to back off from the way life wants to flow just because you’re a small dog or have never danced before. None of that is worth stopping the party.

I
T WAS ANOTHER PERFECT WALK BY THE LAKE
. T
HE SUN WAS SHINING
and the air was brisk. There were no pressing deadlines, no emotional upheavals, no imminent health scares. Even so, something felt off in Anderson World. For the past week our animals had acted strangely and seemed to need extra petting and attention. Linda complained, “I’m so worn out. I don’t know why.” I was feeling oddly anxious. Although my moods weren’t fluctuating as wildly as they had in the weeks after surgery, I still had my highs and lows.

My unease stemmed from a recent dream. With Leaf trotting along happily between us, I started telling Linda about it. “I dreamed that the area where I’d had brain surgery didn’t properly heal.”

“What an awful thought,” Linda gasped. Leaf, hearing the alarm in her voice, looked up fretfully at me. I patted him on the head and took a deep breath before continuing.

“As soon as I realized fixing myself was hopeless, the nightmare ended.”

“Do you think the surgery wasn’t fully successful, and you’re only now finding out about it?”

Linda had voiced my thoughts. We rounded the lake and headed toward the parking lot. I just wanted to go home, sit in my recliner with Leaf on my lap, and contemplate the meaning of the disturbing dream.

Linda stayed quiet while I opened the car door after our walk. Leaf jumped into the backseat. I could tell she was thinking while she poured
cool water in his bowl. After she got into the front seat, she opened another bottle of water and handed it to me for a drink.

“You know, I read an article that said the body remembers trauma,” she explained. “There have been studies showing that on the anniversary of something dramatic, the body goes through the emotions again. They called it the anniversary syndrome. It’s been a year since your surgery.”

I suddenly understood why our entire family was feeling and acting out of sorts. One year ago I had brain surgery. Beneath the surface of my subconscious mind, the memories of it were affecting me on some fundamental level. My body had registered the trauma. Now a year later the physical reality had hit me full force and communicated with my conscious mind in a dream.

During the course of the year following my surgery, I’d often wondered if I’d ever have the same brain functionality as before. My memory and my ability to stay focused had definitely diminished, but for how long? At night I’d lie awake, wondering if the doctor’s assurance that he could clip anything had applied to me. Had he been able to do the work so that I would actually be cured? Even a year later I occasionally experienced fight-or-flight episodes during which I panicked or felt anger rise up in me unexpectedly.

On the anniversary of my surgery, I thought it might be a good idea to think positive. What benchmarks had I passed? What concerns had been resolved? Had Linda and I made all the changes we promised each other prior to the surgery? Was life better than ever?

I remained employed by the same company, but from all signs our division was gasping its final breaths. I would have to deal with finding a new job. My daily life was not much different from what it had been. The pressures and bills were still there, maybe even more so with extraordinary new medical expenses to pay.

I recalled the Building of Life dream and the vision in which Leaf brought me my ticket. In spite of some things being the same or, as with
my job, worse, something profound had shifted inside of me. I was alive. I could breathe and feel and think. I could hug people and shake their hands. I laughed and felt contentment. Having been pulled back from the brink, I ultimately considered myself to be the luckiest man in the world.

Much more than ever, I cherished all living beings. With the aid of everyone who had helped me through the crisis, some of whom I might never see again, I had come to know that relationships, not work or achieving all my goals, are what’s important. The presurgery flashes of regretful and painful memories stopped after surgery. They had given me the opportunity to see the consequences of my past words and actions. As a result, being kind to everyone I met had become an automatic response. I honestly did not want to hurt or do damage with a foul judgment or word to anyone ever again. To exert control over my emotions, I’d become extremely careful. I perfected the art of stopping and thinking before speaking whatever came to mind. I felt appreciation and respect for each soul. Without a doubt I knew that we are all connected with the light that guides us through our life journeys.

My moments with Leaf added a richness and joy beyond anything I’d ever experienced with an animal. I made a point of taking him to dog-park heaven by the river just about every week. We explored trees and creeks. He climbed high onto fallen tree trunks to survey the kingdom. I set no time limit or deadline, made no plan, and allowed myself the freedom to be fully present in the moment.

With my dog and my wife, I loved sitting on a fallen log by the riverbank. I’d feel the warmth in my throat from the coffee we bought from a shop that also gave Leaf a biscuit. I’d take in the peacefulness of a flowing river, the birds swooping overhead, the smell of wet dog, the sound of barks and rustling leaves.

One day I watched a man and his young son walking with their golden retriever close to the river. The father was letting the boy throw a tennis ball into the river for their dog to swim after and retrieve. I wondered if they
knew they were sharing an experience to remember forever, moments in time when they felt the purest love for each other and for life.

Prior to my brain surgery and all its ordeals, I would have missed observing this example of love in action. Preoccupation with a long list of responsibilities I needed to accomplish after our walk would have obstructed this image of father, son, and dog forming a circle of love.

Now that I’d arrived at my one-year anniversary, I realized that gradually happiness had inched into and then blossomed in my life. Each moment I could still take a breath had become a miracle, a gift I no longer took for granted. I felt exquisite gratitude for every person I was privileged to meet. No one came into my life by accident. Each had a purpose for being part of my journey, as I was part of theirs.

I found it much easier to let go of my concerns. Very little merited fretting over. For the first time ever, at the deepest level I knew this to be the truth.

P
OSITIVE CHANGES WEREN’T JUST OCCURRING IN MY LIFE
. T
HEY WERE
also manifesting themselves for Leaf in the form of a new canine heaven. Keith and Patrycia (Trish) Miller had just opened Pampered Pooch Playground, a state-of-the-art doggy-day-care center and boarding facility in our community. After my first visit there, I believed this would be a place where Leaf could become more socialized. I brought Leaf with me to see the new place and he immediately took a liking to Keith. Each subsequent visit he’d hurl himself into Keith’s arms and wiggle with gusto.

“Leaf is ecstatically happy no matter what he does,” Keith told me one day after Leaf had been going to the doggy day care for about six months. “He’s different from our other dogs,” he added. “He brings a smile to everyone because he emotes genuine bliss being here. He is saying when he comes in that this is the most wonderful thing ever!”

As we talked, a door opened and released Leaf into the lobby. He danced and twirled in the lobby until Keith squatted down and petted him, while Leaf squirmed in his arms.

“I’ve seen this guy grow,” Keith said, looking up. “Remember, he was one of the first five dogs to come here. He was kind of wild and scattered back then but so lovable.”

Along with Keith, the doggy-day-care staff affirmed what we’d observed about Leaf’s ability to strategize and get what he wanted. Their experiences with him also reinforced something we had come to
appreciate about our dog: Leaf was adept at communicating whatever he wanted, needed, or felt.

“Leaf is obsessed with water,” one employee told me. Keith added, “If the doggy pool has water in it, Leaf is there. If the hose is turned on, he wants to play with the running water. If the water bowl is full, he plunges his paws into the bowl and tips it over.”

If there is a thunderstorm, Leaf stands in the doorway and barks at the wind. His long ears flap with each gust of wind and rain. “It’s like Leaf dares storms to come closer,” a staff member told me.

The staff marvels at what a master Leaf is at avoiding conflict and defusing tense situations among the other dogs. Because of his diplomacy skills, among other attributes, he quickly became a staff favorite. Keith decreed that no matter how busy the facility might be, Leaf would always be welcome, because he “gets along with everyone.”

In no time Leaf trained the staff to let him play in either the big-dog or the little-dog section. When he decided he’s had enough in one, he paws the gate to tell them that he’s ready to change venues. They honor his request and let him move into the play area of his choice.

Most of the dogs didn’t pay much attention to the day care’s humans, but Leaf was different. “He watches us,” a young employee told me. “He pays attention. If I leave the doggy playroom, even for a few minutes, he
lets me know. He points his nose in the air, takes a deep breath, and lets out a substantial passionate howl like he’s asking, ‘Where did you go?’ ” I recalled this same employee would sometimes carry Leaf in her arms with no argument from him. He seemed to like her personal attention. “I love that guy,” she said to me one day.

Leaf’s world was really beginning to expand. Our neighbors played with him whenever they walked to their garage or did yard work. Strangers at the dog-park heaven by the river commented on his engaging manner, energy, and indefatigable desire to retrieve balls.

The security guard at the public library near our house told me that he watched out for Leaf whenever he saw him in our backyard. He looked down at Leaf and said, “I got your back!”

An artist saw one of Leaf’s photos on Facebook and painted a portrait of him. She was enthralled with the intelligence in his eyes and how he radiated an understanding far beyond his
dogness.
She entered her portrait of Leaf in contests and won top prizes.

It surprised and gratified us when Leaf started communicating with people outside his home and neighborhood. On November 1, 2008, he declared his candidacy for president of the United States. The campaign of 2008 had grown so contentious that Leaf decided to throw his leash into the ring. For his YouTube video “This Dog for President—Funny Dog Shaking Hands and More,” Leaf wore his trademark blue suspenders and shook the hands of voters as he walked around Lake Harriet. His Facebook page garnered many comments including those from people who claimed they would make Leaf their write-in candidate. Craig Wilson, columnist for
USA Today,
became one of Leaf’s fans. Leaf’s campaign became a rallying point for adopting shelter dogs.

Now that Leaf was becoming something of a celebrity, we decided to take his training to the next level and registered him for intermediate
training, or what we called Training 102. He not only passed all the tests but also showed his competitive nature. When Heather, the instructor, pitted one dog against another for the final tests, Leaf outshone them all. He graduated with highest honors. Heather named him MVP, “most valuable player.” The fact that Leaf loved winning was a new discovery about our cocker spaniel.

Leaf was always two steps ahead of figuring out our tricks to get him to obey commands until we stumbled upon a new strategy that helped him become a fully cooperative family member. If we needed him to do something that wasn’t an obedience command he’d learned at dog school, we had to give him a detailed reason first, and then he would comply. But he always required the full explanation.

For example, I’d tell him, “Leaf, Linda got up early to finish some work we had to send to our editor. She’s very tired and wants to take a nap. We need you to be very quiet.”

Usually this high-energy boy would run from one part of the house to the other to bark at people passing by the living room window. But if I asked him nicely, there wouldn’t be a peep out of him while Linda slept. And then when she woke up, he’d run to get his squeaky toy and squeak it once. It was as if he were saying,
See, I could have been doing this. But I didn’t.

“How was your day?” Linda asked Leaf one evening.

His responses were something that sounded like,
Great! I saw a rabbit out back. Ate apple pieces. Stole the cats’ food. And barked at the mailman. A super day!
Linda and I looked at each other, puzzled and pleased. Leaf had started talking.

While one of us patted his head, he chatted away. If I touched his throat, I could feel his vocal cords vibrating. He moved his mouth and emitted sounds. He accompanied these vocalizations with intermittent licks. The intense expression on his face showed that he was seriously attempting to communicate by imitating the way humans spoke.

He mostly confided in Linda. At night she’d ask him, “How was your day?” His answers came in a series of snorts, squeals, grunts, and mumbles. It often seemed as if Leaf was trying to say “I love you,” the way he hears humans do. He used the same vocal inflections.

We remembered when Barbara Walters confided to her skeptical cohosts on
The View
that her dog Cha-Cha talked to her. She endured a lot of ridicule after making that remark.

We asked readers of our Angel Animals Story of the Week newsletter what words their pets understood. We compiled a long list of words, commands, and questions that included “Want to go for a hike?,” “Do you want a bath?,” and “Time for bed.” One person said that her dog understands key words she uses for him in English, French, Spanish, and German.

I’ve heard that dogs have roughly a three-hundred-word vocabulary. So Linda and I decided to start a list of the words Leaf responded to most consistently:

Of course he still remembered (well, sort of) his dog-school training commands:

For all his ability to communicate with people, Leaf was an incredibly quiet dog. He padded around the house so silently that most of the time, we had to go look for him. He had a way of pulling in his energy that made him nearly invisible when he didn’t want to be noticed. Linda wondered whether he had been a cat in a previous lifetime. On countless occasions I’d call, “Leaf, where are you?” only to turn around and find him standing right behind me.

To my delight, this remarkable little dog started appealing to many people around the world with his website, blogs, videos, and social-networking pages. It seemed as if everyone who met, read about, or saw photos and videos of Leaf had his back.

He would need it. He was about to face the most dangerous phase of his life since having been abandoned at the animal shelter.