Sustenance

Seven a.m., pouring outside. Fred followed me back into the house after I let him out. Wet-furred and asleep on the rug, he moves his legs like an idling wind-up toy turned on its side. Scott says Fred's running in his dreams. I take his word for it because I have nothing to base my doubts upon. I've given up my doubts to Fred, along with my fear.

Fred doesn't know that he's the first animal I've loved, that because of him I have a new respect for animals. He certainly has no idea he's the reason I stopped eating meat.

I'm one of the last people I'd have picked to become a vegetarian. I grew up without pets. For most of my life, my relationship with animals was reserved for childhood teddy bears and characters in "Winnie-the-Pooh." I used to resent non-meat-eaters for limiting the options when I had them over for dinner or making me feel guilty for ordering a hamburger. I was cynical toward animal-rights advocates--I let one friendship peter out because I couldn't imagine having enough in common with someone who refused to wear leather.

When I was four, my sister was bitten by a dog, and I rushed to the doctor with her and my mother. I don't remember seeing the accident or the wound. I recall little more than leaving the doctor's office, my sister holding her bandaged arm in front of her. Even so, for years I had to remind myself that I hadn't been attacked, and I've always regarded that day as the seed of my fear of dogs.

I used to resent non-meat-eaters for limiting the options when I had them over for dinner or making me feel guilty for ordering a hamburger.

I had more direct experiences with dogs as well. A St. Bernard roamed unleashed at the end of our street. If he was out front when I passed by, I'd leap onto my brother's shoulders like a circus performer. Once, when I was in our front yard, a small dog appeared, sprang onto my back, and started licking me. I flailed as if attacked by a swarm of bees. For years, whenever I came upon a dog, I'd run or clumsily back away, the animal yelping after me.

I was in my twenties before I realized that not all dogs bark, few bite, and their approach is generally benign. In my thirties, Istarted noticing men with dogs. I was drawn to something boy-like in their companionship. My attraction was, I think, a desire to capture a sweetness I'd missed.

Then I met Scott; his eight-year-old basset-beagle, Fred, was simply part of the deal. When I let Scott into my life, I had no choice but to let Fred in.

Fred was quiet, sleepy, non-demanding--the perfect starter dog. The first time I was alone with him was a weekend when Scott was away. Ordinarily, when Fred was the third party in bed, I'd endure the cramped arrangement but wake up grumpy. When it was just the two of us, though, there was plenty of room and I took unlimited pleasure in his sighing, lip smacking, settling in on his own terms with no regard for my comfort, yet facilitating it all the same.

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