Another Fine Dog

When I was a little girl, my grandparents had a memorable dog named Spotty. I don’t remember her as being particularly spotted – she had a brown head and a black and white body so I suppose she was. Long hair, maybe a collie or Spitz mix.  There is no reason to fixate on her name – this was the period of Rover and Rex and so Spotty was probably a fine name, spots or not.

She was a sweet old girl, and I remember how much she liked it when my grandmother would feed her tiny elm leaves in the spring.

However, she lived her life on a tether. My grandparents’ back yard was narrow but deep (as city lots are), and unfenced. There was a long clothesline running front to back. Because there was no fence, my grandparents came up with the solution (I suspect my grandfather here) of putting Spotty on a very long, soft cotton rope, clipped to the clothesline.

Oh, how she could run! She made the metal clothesline sing! She’d run from one end to the other, playing in the sunshine of my memory.

When she came in, the end of her rope was tied around the kitchen doorknob. It was so long she had free range of the kitchen, but no further. When you’re a kid, you don’t think too much about these things. That’s just how it was – Spotty lived in the kitchen.

But that changed, for a while, one summer when my grandparents took a trip, and Spotty came to stay with us.

Our very, very large front yard was fully fenced. What a treat, we thought, for Spotty! We turned her loose, expecting that she would race from one end to the other, maybe even barking to show how happy she was. But, disaster struck. She crouched down on the sidewalk by the porch door, refusing to move. She was miserable.

So, my mother, who knew something about the need for security and holding tight to the familiar, took Spotty to the back yard. She clipped Spotty’s lead to our clothesline, and Spotty immediately felt at home. Ears up, happy smile, she was running up and down the line.

Soon it was time for Spotty to come inside. Ever the optimist (despite her love of security) my mother said she thought it was ridiculous for Spotty to be confined to the kitchen. Spotty’s lead was taken off, so she was able to go anywhere she liked.

Disaster struck again. Spotty crouched down on the floor, refusing to move. She was miserable, and absolutely refused to move until mother tied her rope to the pantry door. Up she came, had a little sip of water and settled into her bed for a well-deserved nap.

As with so many of my memories, this one haunts me. Spotty was only able to relax when she was tied. Am I that different? Are you? We tie ourselves to the familiar. We may even appear to enjoy our ropes.

And why did Spotty only run and laugh when she was tied to the line?