Unlikely Friendship

Most puppies probably learn how to behave when they attend doggie training school. By the time they are adults, they have mastered obedience techniques. I have seen some of them in the park while walking my dog or on the streets near my house. They will drop to the ground immediately at the sound of their master’s command. A whistle, a short order, or a hand gesture, and they stay motionless waiting for their owner to tell them what to do. Seeing that alone has given way to too many questions in my head. How do they do that?

My king-sized, overpowering, obstinate, and handsome yellow Labrador, Melo, did not fall into this category. His name, given at birth by his breeder, was Boss Hoss. I later understood the meaning behind the name, and a little too late at that. And I must now confess that taking him out for walks was not exactly the highlight of my day.

His formidable sense of smell determined how hard I got pulled each time he discovered something of interest to him. And it is not that he had not attended training school, but as it turned out, he was not a brilliant student. At the training school, the trainer himself had a difficult time teaching him not to jump at the other dogs upon seeing them. This trait played out very well every morning, when we went by the neighbor’s house, who owned an equally formidable dog.

His name was Leo, short for Leopold. Whenever we approached his house on our walks, he appeared behind the garden gates like he had been there all along. As if he always sensed our coming before we even had entered his street. He might have even programmed his internal clock to our routine. Compared to Melo, he obeyed his master unequivocally. No doubt, he was well-trained, unlike mine.

Leo never missed the opportunity to bark at us, and Melo never allowed such impertinence to cross his path, or at least that is how my human mind interpreted his retorts. Melo had been bitten a couple of times before by smaller-sized dogs, and that had resulted in an operation. There remained a scar to prove the tear on one of his ears.

“After that operation, Melo no longer accepts any dog barking at him,” I explained to my veterinarian one time.

He smirked at my psychological evaluation.

Every morning, my enthusiasm for an inspiring walk waned as soon as we approached Leo’s house. My options for a walking path were limited to two, and I chose Leo’s street because it was the quickest way to the fields. However, I was never sure if I would be able to hang on to Melo’s leash should the usual scuffle take place. As it happened one time, I fell to the ground and lost my shoe in the process, with a couple of neighbors watching the usual scenario unfold.

On rare occasions, Leo would not be there, in his usual spot, and Melo would whine to make sure Leo could hear his arrival. And as soon as we passed by the house, everything would go back to normal, like there had been no innuendos made.

Yet other times, Leo and his parent, Melo and Myself would cross paths in the neighborhood in the village. I would receive this knowing stare from Leo's parent which translated to something like this.
"You can't control your dog!"

History repeated itself as flowers bloomed on the linden trees, autumn leaves adorned the streets, neighbors lit their fireplaces, and snow covered the village for about ten years. My Melo passed away after losing the battle to a dreadful skin disease. It was surprising that he even lived that long, according to the veterinarians.

We parted ways.

Although I love and enjoy walking daily, I stopped taking walks in the neighborhood for a while.

Several months after Melo’s passing, the first time my daughter and I took a walk on Leo’s street, he was standing outside with his owner by his side. I was not planning on engaging in a conversation with Leo’s parent, but he looked at me quizzically as Melo was no longer with me. Right at that instant, Leo came onto me. I took a step back, as I was unsure what he wanted.

He fixed his gaze right in my eyes, and I could hear him in silence asking for a dear old friend.

Where is he? Why isn’t he with you? What happened to him?

I looked at him wearily and did not know how to behave. Leo wanted answers from me about Melo.

How could such a thing slip by me?

I had not known them to be friends. My interpretation of their interactions had been inaccurate. Therefore, their relationship remained in my mind more obscure than it had ever been.

Leo’s owner also figured out what his dog wanted to know and broke the awkwardness by inquiring about Melo. Upon hearing that he had passed away, he pulled Leo back, and my daughter and I went on our way.

That night, I sent Melo a mental love message.

"Leo says hello."

A few days later, I went for a stroll on the same street by myself, where Melo and I had had promenades for so many years. Leo sat at his usual spot. His head followed my steps; this time, he remained quiet as I walked by.