My dog is not one for affection. Elliot doesn't seek out the humans for petting or lap sitting unless you have food. He'll then put up with anything in the off chance you'll take pity on him and offer a morsel delight.
He prefers to come to humans when he wants a belly scratch, pounding his paw on the floor or couch until he gets it. But a human attempting to do that without permission? You'll get the look, and he'll move away.
Up until two years ago, he never cared one iota about storms. Sometimes he'd bark at thunder, but that was it until our new neighbors next door set off fireworks when Tom and I weren't home. They did this directly outside our house for hours. The girls said it was what they imagined of a war zone under attack. The result--my dog is terrified of anything involving loud popping, grumbling, sparking noises like storms.
A few weeks ago, we had one in the night. I awoke with the feeling that something wasn't right. Sure enough, I found myself staring straight into the eyes of Elliot, who stood at my bedside like Darcy used to do after a nightmare--not speaking, just staring. As soon as he saw me awake, he began these pitiful little whines. I put him on the bed and spent the next twenty minutes comforting him.
It happened again last night. We hadn't been in bed long, maybe fifteen minutes, and I was in that period of wakefulness and sleep, drifting slowly toward the sleep portion when a rash of acorns hit our roof, the wind howled, and suddenly our room was lit up as if Alexa had turned on our bedroom light. Within seconds we had the BOOM. I could hear Elliot pacing from his sleep spot under the window to my side of the bed and back again. I got up to use the bathroom before tending to him.
FYI--I don't use lights at night. So, I sat on the toilet to do my thing in the dark, and suddenly there was my dog intertwined in my legs, nose on my thigh, whining. What the what? I pushed him gently away, and gently he returned.
He ended up in our bed.
He rarely sleeps in our bed. At least not when we are in it. He has a spot at the end of the bed by the window where he sits during the day to keep an eye on the hood, and occasionally I've found him napping.
But when we are in bed? Yeah, rarely his thing. Sometimes on the weekends, he'll jump up to check on why Tom hasn't awakened, standing over him, pawing him to make sure he's alive, and if Tom responds sleepily, Elliot will lie down at the foot of the bed. Other times, he'll be on the bed before we crawl in, and we try to keep him with us, but he doesn't like the idea of getting in between us. In fact, if I face him, Elliot will turn around and offer me his rear. If I face away from him, he'll turn back around. Not a dog that loves attention.
But last night? Last night that dog was practically on top of me. For an hour, I had to keep my arm around him while the thunder howled, the lightning roared, and Tom snored, oblivious to it all. Elliot began at my feet for all of one minute before he was standing over me. I finally got him to lie down between us, and Elliot settled in under my armpit, keeping an eye on the window, his distress in his panting, his yawning, and his sad little whines. I lay awake until almost one o'clock, petting him and speaking reassurances in a low volume. He has never let me pet him and love on him this long in the nine years we've had him.
Despite the late hour and the stress he was under, I will admit to a tiny piece of joy. I was needed again. By a child frightened and seeking maternal comfort. Elliot didn't go to his father, and make no mistake, this dog is my husband's dog, but as did my children, Elliot knew.
He knew who would give him soothing, reassurance, and loving attention. I did as I'd done with my girls, and as I did then, I lay quietly offering the dog what he needed, pushing aside my own sleep, secretly enjoying the little bit of time I got to spend loving on my child.
Ah, the good old days. Only seriously, just like my children, this dog needs to brush his teeth.
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