When Dianne and I bought a small north woods cabin last December our Shetland sheepdog, Calvin, settled right in.
We moved in on a bitterly cold and snowy late December afternoon. We kicked the place to life after months of being closed up and frozen. But even before the place warmed enough for our tracked-in snow to start melting on the carpet, Calvin was already cozy and fast asleep on his new bed in the corner of our bedroom.
This was strange for a dog who did not like to travel. Dogs love routine and familiar things and Calvin was no exception. In fact, when we tried once to bring him to a neighbor’s cabin on this very same lake he jumped out of the car and within five minutes was back in his spot in the car, looking straight ahead. He was telling us that after a brief survey of the surroundings he was ready to go home. Thanks but no thanks.
Yet within an instant of bounding into a place as new to him as it was to us, with no sights, sounds or — maybe most important to a dog — smells that he knew, he was instantly comfortable. We couldn’t reach any conclusion other than that somehow — without understanding deeds or mortgages — Calvin knew that this place belonged to him, that this cabin far away from the mothership in Madison was also home.
Recent research has suggested that dogs understand both human words and the tone in which they are delivered. So, the phrase “good dog” said angrily does not soothe and “bad dog” said with lilting sweetness does not deliver a reprimand. Owners have to match the meaning of the words with the correct corresponding inflection to send the desired message. Dogs apparently can see, or more accurately hear, right through us. They know more than they let on.
And one of the things they seem to understand intuitively and immediately is the concept of home. That’s especially poignant right now as Madison struggles with an increase in homelessness and when the world confronts what has been defined as the largest refugee crisis since the end of World War II.
There might not be any more fundamental human need, after food and water, than a place we can call home, a place where we can keep our stuff and be ourselves.
Home is a place not to be taken for granted. So when, after 12 ½ years of Calvin being part of our household, it became clear that we needed to humanely say goodbye to our little guy, we did it in his home. On a perfect late summer morning with a gentle breeze wafting onto our screened porch, our vet made a simple injection and as peacefully as can be, Calvin slipped away from us.
We still have a home, Dianne and I. But it’s quieter now, more empty. We all need the shingles, the bricks and mortar, the running water and heat — and too many of us lack even that. But there are intangible things that fill a place and make it home. The idea of home is a place where, as Garrison Keillor has suggested, when you go there they have to take you in.
When you invite your dog to take up residence under your roof, he kind of earns property rights to the place. Our dog Calvin took his place in our hearts, and under our roofs, for granted — as well he should have, because he did his part. He paid his way and then some. He helped make our places feel like home.
Someday we’ll refill the space with another dog. But not right away. Calvin gave us so much that’s he’s owed the time to feel his loss. We didn’t realize until now how much chatter went on in our household when we were talking to Calvin. His absence is felt in the silence. We hear him in the quiet.
