“All his life, he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For, after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.” – Charles Schultz.

I love Zinnia – Maria even sings a song called “Somebody Loves A Girl Named Zinnia,” but I’ve seen Zinnia differently in the past few weeks. She is so chill, it’s easy to underestimate her or take her for granted.

Today, I appreciate her and have seen the depths of her love, empathy, and compassion, something I knew but never quite felt so clearly.

I’m not a sentimentalist when it comes to dogs. They are not furbabies or children to me.

What I love most about them is that they are dogs, not people. They don’t feel what we feel, don’t think like us, speak our language, aren’t jealous when we pat another dog, don’t mourn us for very long, and I believe separation anxiety is caused by people projecting their neuroses onto their dogs.

So I suppose  I was unprepared for how much it meant to me that Zinnia was always there.

In my work at the Mansion and with the refugee children, I’ve learned that what matters most is not what you say or do but that you show up. That’s what matters most to them. Somehow, my Lab has learned this lesson also.

Every time I reached my hand out, Zinnia put her head in it. Every morning when I woke up, her head was on my chest (gently), and she was staring at me. Every time I lay down to rest, I heard her sign as she dropped down next to me.

Every time I went to the bathroom, which was often, she was waiting for me outside the door. Sometimes she nosed her way in. When I went out, she came to the door; when I came back, she was sitting and waiting for me.

She wanted to know everything I was doing, no matter where.

When I couldn’t reach down to pull my pants up, I leaned against her or put a foot on her back, and she stayed still. She never took her eyes off me all week or strayed more than a few feet.

___

I got sick about 11 days ago, and I was sicker than I have ever been. I still have no idea what it was or is. It’s not done with me yet.

And in all that time, up until today, and except when we left the house, Zinnia stuck to me like glue. She was at my side; every time I looked, every time I looked down, every time I opened a door, she was there.

There is no drama in this dog and no drama in this story.

She doesn’t get excited; there is no theatrical part of her; she was the Queen Of Chill, the rock of affection. She never changed expression or got the slightest bit vocal or excited. She worked in absolute silence. There was never any change in visible moods.

The message I kept getting was this: it’s okay.

She knows things, this dog. Time and again, I’ve seen her walk into the Mansion or Bishop Maginn High School and go straight to someone who was sick, sad, or lonely. She knows I was sick and hurting. I don’t know how it works, but I see it daily.

I never expected to be one of those people who needed a therapy dog; it was, I admit, amazing to be on the other side.

What surprised me was how she transferred her calm to me, just like humans share their anxiety and emotional issues with their dogs. We get the dogs we need. I took in her steadiness and quiet.

It was almost as if she was passing it along to me, and I could take it in.

Day or night, inside or out, upstairs or down. When I needed to steady myself, I just looked down at her, and she looked back at me. Steady and present.

I was surprised at how much it meant to me to have Zinnia so close by. She just shifted gears without fuss or confusion. It was her job for as long as it took me to get better. She kept me hopeful and forward-looking.

She is a trained therapy dog, but not for what happened to me. She was working to keep me steady. She knew just what she needed to d by looking at me and smelling me.

And it is very much what I needed.

____

That first day, Maria was away. I was frightened, sicker than I had ever been. I could not stand up, get to the bathroom or move off my seat. I had lost control of my body,  soiled myself, and felt bewildered and afraid. I was shaking and shivering.

For a while, I thought I wouldn’t be able to get through this.

I knew I should call an ambulance, I was on that redline, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t permit strangers to see me that way, even if it cost my life. I’m not saying that was the right decision, only that it was the one I made.

The other two dogs backed away and watched, anxious.

Zinnia got closer, as close to me as she could, leaning on me as if to give me support and prop me up. She stood up and licked my arm and stared into my eyes, confused, I think, but focused.

She never lost that focus. She sat like a marble statue, eyes fixed, head straight ahead.

I couldn’t move for an hour or two and fell into a deep and coma-like sleep. I was barely conscious, my face was red and hot, and I knew I had a fever – of 102.

When the phone rang, it was Maria, coming out of the woods after a day-long nature tour. It took her two seconds to sense I was in trouble, and I told her I was sick but nothing more.

Maria arrived two hours later, helped me get into the bathroom, took my temperature, asked me questions,  and cleaned up. I took a shower, but I spent much of the night in the bathroom. So did Zinnia.

I don’t know what all this means. I do not believe that dogs think like us and have our vocabulary. They are very different. Yet thousands of years ago, dogs emerged out of the mist and began to protect and serve human beings.

This strain is deep in them, especially the working breeds, who have served people for centuries and been bred to do so. I’m moving more freely, and my sickness is not so dire. I have a ways to go. She is still here.

Zinnia has let up a bit, but she is always there when I turn around and look for her. I am less afraid, and in pain and sick, so she is less vigilant and concerned.

I don’t want to presume to know what is going on in her head, only to say I have never appreciated a dog more than I did those first two days. She knew what she was doing, whatever it was, and I am grateful to her.

I love her, of course, but I will also see her differently.

I thought of Jack London, my favorite dog writer,  bonding with Buck. I felt this with Orson and also with Rose.

But my life is different now, and my dog is different. For a long time, some great dogs have marked the passage of my life.

Zinnia marked this one. I guess you really do get the dog you need.