When I arrived home, I could hear Marigold, stumbling up the stairs. Marigold is my blind dog.
Marigold hangs out in our basement. It’s a safe place. We have a sofa down there. She lives on it. When she knows we’re home, however, she staggers up the stairs to find us.
She is a coonhound. Black and tan. About as big as a minute. We call her “Tiny.” She has long floppy ears and a sewed-up eye. Scars all over her body from past dog fights.
Marigold was blinded by her previous owner. A man who bought her for a hunting dog. He paid a lot for a purebred. He kept her in a cage. When he found out she was gunshy, he made her pay.
I don’t know what he used to blind her. The butt of a rifle maybe. Perhaps a length of rebar. Either way, he fractured her skull. Screwed up her optic nerve.
When they found her, she was ribs and skin. And her cranium was broken. Wandering along rural highways, avoiding cars by sound. Someone put her in the backseat of their car. And somehow, she made her way to us.
Other than her vision, she is a healthy dog. She loves our backyard and bays at local cats. If you’ve never heard a hound dog bay at a cat, you don’t know what you're missing.
“I’m home, Marigold,” I said when I enter our house.
I was answered with the tenor voice of a hound dog.
When she got to the top of the stairs, she began negotiating obstacles. Looking for me.
It’s impressive to watch her navigate. She uses her muzzle to find her way. The floorplan is in her mind. She knows where all furniture is. Knows where all walls are. Knows each obstruction. Marigold traces the perimeter, and finds her way.
I was just watching her. Tail just a wagging.
When she got to me, the tail sped up. She pressed her snout against my leg. I held her in my arms. She used her nose to probe my facial features. Because that’s how she sees me. With her nose.
I placed my hands on her little body.
“Daddy’s home,” I said.
Sometimes I wonder about that man. The man who hurt her. I don’t know he is, or what is problems are. His situation probably isn’t what it wants it to be. He probably has pain in his life.
I don’t know what he’s doing. Or where he lives. But someday, I hope he sees something I’ve written about her. I hope Marigold’s face sails across the Internet. And I hope he recognizes her.
I don’t want revenge. I don’t want him to suffer. I don’t want him to pay for what he did to my baby, for divine retribution would be more than any single human could bear. What I want is for him to see her.
I want him to see her as she is now. With a stitched up face. I want him to know that she is not nothing. She is not worthless. She is not refuse. He attempted to end her. He attempted to ruin this child of God.
But if he’s reading this…
I hope he knows his attempts failed.
I cannot conjure up an image mean and ugly enough to picture the person who would beat a dog for being gun shy. Or beat an animal, period. Or a child. Or any other living thing. We are commanded to "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." So simple, and yet so profound.
Years ago, when he was young, my son was driving from Ohio to see friends in Virginia. When he stopped for gas at a country store just off the highway somewhere in West Virginia, he noticed a skinny half-grown hound dog approaching another traveler and being shooed away. When he went inside to pay for his gas, he asked about the dog and learned he was a stray that had been hanging around for a couple weeks. Five minutes and a small sack of dog food later, the dog sat and watched as he made a bed and placed bowls of kibble and water behind the front seat of his van. He turned, looked down, and said, "Dog, get in!" The dog didn't hesitate - he jumped in, curled up on an old blanket (fleas, ticks, and all) and settled in for the ride. That ride lasted 14 years. The only thing I ever knew that dog to fear was the sound of fireworks. He was profoundly gun shy,
and would stop in his tracks, slowly and silently turn around, and head for home at the sound of a firecracker a block away. There was no negotiating. I am thankful his previous owner simply let him go and didn't take his fear of gunshots personally - or the dog was smart enough to hightail it into the mountains the first chance he got! Jackson was a really good dog. We miss him every day.
You make it easy to see and feel your love and compassion for Marigold, Sean. It makes my heart ache to imagine the depth of hate in her former owner's soul that could motivate him to injure such a wonderful animal. With you, she has learned about love and is healed by it. Her joy in having you in her life is equal to your joy in celebrating her spirit.
What are angels anyway? I think they are black and tan and have long, floppy ears with a tail that furiously wags to bring joy and grace into our world. What a fortunate man you are to have Ms. Marigold's love shining over you in this life! You are truly blessed.