Licking The Wounds Only A Dog Can Salve

Dogs have an interesting and storied history, both outside of, and including humans. Domesticated dogs as we know them today may bare little to no resemblance to their wolf or jackal ancestors but their important role in the fate of men has remained steadfast throughout the centuries.

In ancient Egypt, much like cats were likened to Gods, dogs shared a similar sort of apotheosis. It was not uncommon for dogs to be mummified as with the elite members of society, heralding their significance to society.

The ‘Jackal God’, a memorable symbol throughout Egypt, can be seen depicted across many ancient artifacts, and helps provide a glimpse into the role these early canines played.

While our modern-day interpretation of the Jackal God is open to debate, the academic consensus is that these canines provided an essential service to the Egyptians, serving as guides and protectors in the transition of life after death and into the afterlife. One could say they served like the canine equivalent of Virgil to Dante’s inferno, helping to guide them through hell and into the ascended realms of paradiso.

Why is this brief history lesson important? Because, despite the vast amount of time between ancient Egypt and the 21st century, the space is not so dissimilar.

I found my own Jackal God in my German Shepherd, Ducky. She was my Virgil, my guide, helping me to navigate the difficult time of mourning the loss of my Stepfather and the subsequent struggles with his family after his death.

The story begins about a year before my reunion with my four-legged furry familiar. I had just begun my ‘real’ career, years after the ‘Great Recession’ and the economic impacts it had on the job market had found me under-employed and over-educated with a mound of student debt. The economy had started to rebound, and I was fortunate enough to find myself gainfully employed in a position which spoke to both my latent talent and keen interest in technology.

My career quickly took off, with me swiftly assuming the responsibility of managing international projects, traveling every Monday, back every Friday if time allowed, living out of a suitcase. Because of the type of work I was doing, I was under strict orders to only call three places my home for the better part of 6 years: the airport, the hotel, and my client site. And to trust no one. Couple this with a language barrier, and it is safe to say that it was a lonely existence. My intellect was more than sated, but I was starved for real contact outside of the ones I made with motherboards.

Red eye after red eye found me quite literally with red eyes, burnt out and exhausted after endless months travelling between countries and gaining and losing hours of time zone each week. When I was lucky enough to meet my sofa at home on a Friday night, the reunion was short-lived, with a chorus of my snoring soon to follow. Until one Friday near the end of my work overseas.

I returned home at the end of the month, unlocked my door, and entered my flat with expectation of a long hot bath and a much-needed weekend sleep-in. To my surprise, my opened door found me face to face with a furry German Shepherd, no more than five months old. Her chocolate-brown eyes looked sweetly into mine, and her paws jumped on my chest for a hug before she promptly peed on the tile.

I quickly cleaned the small puddle before calling my flat-mate, who confirmed he had bought the little bundle as a surprise. He knew I would be home for the next several months, and this would be perfect to train the little one and keep my mind occupied. He was right for more reasons than one.

Little did I know that those next few months would be some of the most difficult I would have endured to date. Shortly after welcoming my new fur-baby into my life, I would lose another loved one: my Stepfather. His death was sudden, due to stage IV cancer, and left my family with an underwater mortgage, bankruptcy, and a stepfamily which cut and run.

Thankfully, his illness was swift. A younger me may have wished for more time, but it is selfish to want someone to live when they are in pain. Fortunately for my Stepfather, it was a brief fight, but the pain that was left resonated through the months and years to follow. The stepfamily had decided to completely cut ties with me and my ‘blood’ family, leaving my mother without a husband, and me without the ones I once called home.

But Ducky changed everything. She loved me unconditionally, without regard for my past, present, or future, and lived purely in the moment. She taught me the importance of presence, of being here, now, and enjoying the moment as is. Pain, pleasure, puddles of pee, all of it.

It may be a strange memory to hold dear, but I hold it nonetheless. I remember hearing of the story of her rescue from a local dog store. It was clear that this store had been cutting many corners in their pet care, including not providing animals the space they needed to roam, exercise, and simply do their business. Instead, this location left many of the animals in their crates with pee pads, rather than allowing them to walk on the grass outside.

When I learned this, it clicked as to why my little one had an aversion to walking on the grass, let alone leaving her mark on it. I remember taking her out for a walk one day, and her legs trembling when we inched closer from the curb to the grass. I slowly lifted her onto the grass, and eased her into the concept after weeks of patience and training. She gave me a purpose, meaning, and love in the midst of turmoil.

One evening after we had surmounted her fear of the dreadful grass monster, Ducky found me inconsolable on the couch, crying. Without my speaking a word, she licked my cheeks where the salt made its small rivulets from my mourning the loss of my stepfather and the disbelief of how things ended. Without a single word, she understood my pain, and consoled that which I thought was inconsolable. She helped to guide me through my pain, and helped me find the strength within myself to face the world again.

Agatha Christie once said, “Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do not rejoin the world until they are whole once more.” My furry friend taught me this lesson: the importance of feeling your pain, licking your wounds, but then licking them clean with the healing powers only a dog can salve.