Our beautiful dog
Her name is Manon. It’s a French name. She’s a Louisiana dog, a rescue, and because we live in Acadiana, in south Louisiana, and my wife, Gaywynn, is Cajun, we wanted a name that is French. The name Manon will be familiar to those who know the movie, Manon of the Spring (Manon des sources in French.) It’s not a well-known name in America, and so we inevitably have to say it more than once to people and explain why we chose it.
Manon is a pretty dog, a black and white female, about three years old, of indeterminate ancestry. We think there must be some Border Collie in her. That’s what people who see her for the first time often say. But we don’t really know. Clearly, she’s got more than one breed in her past.
She weighs about forty pounds. She has ears that are luxuriously soft to the touch, flopping like beauty in your hands. The tip of her tail is white. She has wide, darkish spots on her belly. Her most distinguishing feature, though, is her underbite. You can’t see it when her mouth is closed, but when it’s open, you can. It’s both comical and a bit scary.
We adopted her when she was about six months old. We don’t know what happened to her the first months of her life, but we suspect something that wasn’t good. She’s very shy around people—including me, sometimes—and can be skittish. She doesn’t like it when someone raises their voice and will slink away when they do. If you try to pet her head, she lowers it sometimes and moves out of the way. She’s much more comfortable around females and often takes to new women and girls we meet. Not so much with men. This makes me feel guilty for all past male behavior. To make a dog fear you seems to me to be a sin, but people do.
She doesn’t bark much. In fact, when we first got her, she didn’t bark at all for weeks. We thought she didn’t know how. She does, though. She will bark, but never superfluously. Usually when she hears the UPS truck approaching. As she has grown used to us and to her home, she’s become protective.
When we first brought her home, she chewed everything in sight. Probably from anxiety in being in a new place with new people. Eventually, she became accustomed to us and to our home, and she stopped. Not before many items were destroyed. She hasn’t relapsed, thankfully. Her favorite activity—what she lives and breathes for—is squirrels. To be specific, the chasing, catching and demise of said squirrels.
She’s a sweet soul. She loves to play with other dogs, but she’s deferential around them. She’s never exhibited one aggressive tendency in her life. I’ve never even heard her growl. If there was a war, she’d be a pacifist. (She once jumped back in alarm at a cricket.) She’s fleet afoot. We have three acres here in south Louisiana, including a long, stretching front lawn, and she loves to dash around it like a comet. She’ll chase and retrieve a ball and likes me chasing her. I will, until I run out of gas, which is usually soon.
She’s Gaywynn’s dog, really. When Gaywynn comes home in the evening, Manon is beside herself. We’ve all seen crazy-happy dogs greeting their owners, leaping, running in circles, just flipped out seeing their beloved human. That’s Manon greeting Gaywynn.
I’m a bit jealous, I admit. Not pathologically, I hope.
Last winter, it snowed here. It snowed heroically. We had ten inches in southern Louisiana—unheard of and spectacular. It was a snow worthy of New England. And to boot: it was a lovely snow, the kind people adore skiing down, buoyant, deep and lasting. Gaywynn took Manon out that morning when the snow was pristine. She had never seen snow before. It astonished her and made her, for a brief minute, cautious. Then she went bananas. I don’t know a prettier sight than a dog going wild in snow.
Manon is a bit mysterious. There’s part of her that she keeps to herself. She doesn’t always act like a typical dog. For instance, when we put food in her bowl, she’ll often ignore it—for the entire day. Then, for whatever reason, after leaving the food untouched all day, she’ll walk up to her bowl and eat. No rhyme or reason—to us, anyway.
We’ve grown to love her very much. Like many fervent dog owners, we talk about her when we’re not home with her, especially when we go on trips and have to board her (it’s a nice, caring place that she likes) for a few days. We might as well be talking about our child we just dropped off at college and how lonesome we are without her. It usually starts the minute we leave her. We are beside ourselves when we pick her up.
A dog adds something inexplicable to a home. Yes, affection, humor, sweetness and playfulness. Also, the delight of being around a creature who acts on pure instinct. What freedom not to have to think about everything. Manon was homeless when we found her, and now she has a home. That sense of providing a home for her partly fills a hunger in me for a home. When you give a dog a home, you give yourself a home as well.
We are grateful that she found us. Because that’s how it seems after a while. They find you. If you’re lucky. And we were. We hope we have many years with her to come. In the meantime, she’s here, with us, alive and well, youthful, the singular dog she is. We love her. Manon of the Spring.
This totally makes me smile. I'll send you a pix of our grand-dog who comes here off and on when Tate (12) and Faren (10) and their mom and dad all go away.
"She will bark, but never superfluously." What a good girl.