Chance made me a better person. People often say that about their own
dog, but Chance is a neighbor. You know those blind spots you have about
your personality? I had a couple. I would stick my nose where it didn’t
belong and then fly into a rage when that business was not conducted as
it should be. These two dysfunctional missiles tended to intersect and
explode whenever dogs were concerned.
Chance on the left, O.G. on the right.
A few years ago this scruffy terrier and his buddy, a big mastiff,
showed up on our property. We were able to grab the terrier and read his
ID tag, which gave us his name–Chance–and owners’ phone number. The
two belonged to the people who lived across the road from us. It’s a
country road, but don’t tell that to the Silicon Valley commuters who
whip by at 50, 60 miles an hour. I didn’t know these neighbors, so we
got to meet when I returned their dogs and let them know I was concerned
about the pups crossing the road to our place.
Then the dogs showed up again. Missiles loaded and at Defcon 6, I went back over and screamed, I mean screamed,
at the owners about how generally awful people they were to not watch
their dogs better. As St. Paul might say, that was the Damascus moment.
Who was this person? I asked myself. And, why was she so angry?
According to an essay in Malcolm Gladwell’s marvelous book “Blink,”
smiling could improve one’s mood. So I began to smile. Not now and then,
but as often as I could remember. That facial expression felt so
foreign that I was sure others mistook me for a Moonie.
It worked, however. The anger gradually disappeared, replaced instead
by a general sense of contentment and well-being. And, yeah, it really
was that simple–not therapy, not religion–just kept the corners of my
mouth up. Apologies made and fences mended, Chance became a paying guest
when his folks were out of town. He still drops by without an invite,
but he fords a nearby creek instead of crossing the road. Chance is
always welcome, given what he’s done for me.
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