photograph by anna traverse
It's Dido!
My ankles itched from slicing through tangled grass and clover; the ground was still damp as cake batter from spring’s deluges. On her leash in front of me, Dido bounded through tall weeds. Named for the first queen of ancient Carthage, Dido is a dog — just a puppy, really, all of four-and-a-half months. She’s a new addition to my family’s pack, and a very happy one. This particular weekday afternoon, she and I had driven to the river to explore its swollen banks (and to take her third walk of the day — again, puppy). As she romped along the path, I thought about how new every experience is for her, how fresh and strange, and how much we both still have to learn.
We adopted Dido from a rescue (New Beginnings; her rescue name: Dolly) in early April. She’s a curious, sweet, floppy-eared, goofy-pawed puppy of unknown breed; my phone’s AI photo identifier tags images of her, variously, as German shepherd, Australian kelpie, Australian cattle dog, Rottweiler, coonhound, German pinscher, and … chiweenie. Who knows! She is a Memphis special through-and-through. Dumped unwanted at Memphis Animal Services (MAS) earlier this year, along with her brother, the two were pulled out of the shelter and into a loving foster home soon after.
photograph by anna traverse
I’ve thought daily about the recent distemper outbreaks at MAS, and how narrowly she likely avoided exposure, avoided being euthanized along with hundreds of other dogs and puppies at our local shelter. I’m so thankful to have this little puppy, and so brokenhearted to think about the brutal and short lives of so many dogs in this city. I can’t drive down Elvis Presley Blvd. to the warehouse where we store our magazine archives and meet delivery trucks without seeing at least a couple of dogs by the side of the road, hit by cars and then just left, for weeks — and without seeing at least a few more dogs darting along the berm, through drainage ditches and cratered parking lots, cemeteries and gas stations. Little Dido could have been one of that crew, too — it was her likelier fate. Instead, as I type, she’s snoozing in a sunbeam, curled into an almost-perfect circle in the center of her bed, like the bed’s a bagel and she’s its hollow center.
Living with a dog again — especially one who currently requires three walks per day — has tuned my consciousness more finely to the natural world; you notice the earth differently when your puppy’s paws are marching across it. The week after we brought her home was the week of “generational flooding” here in Memphis: It rained, and rained, and rained some more, and then for good measure, rained a little extra. With a new puppy, hunkering down inside is not an option, so we tromped through the new lake in our backyard and forded the small creeks newly flowing down every street. I wondered a few times what she must think of her new home: Maybe she imagines she’s been brought to a place of constant, steady rain, like Narnia’s eternal winter. But no, I think it’s more likely that every moment is distinct and alive for her unto itself, and not yoked to the stream of moments before and after.
photograph by anna traverse
At the river, she sniffed the air, curious about every note the breeze carried — fish and oil, crab grass and cottonwood, poodles and pit bulls. I walked down with her toward the water’s edge and introduced her to the banks of the Mississippi, and she looked up at me with her floppy ears and smiling eyes, as if to say, “I don’t know what this place is yet, but I’m on the case.”
Puppies are a lot of work, and this one’s no exception. But I’m already seeing a deep sweetness and curiosity in her. She didn’t have an easy start, and we don’t live in an easy place, or in easy times. And yet, she’s reminding me that if we stay curious about what we can learn from each moment — each smell on the breeze, each paw sinking into soil, each person or dog crossing our path — life can feel rather lucky anyway.
