The Dog Who Hugged

The last time I went in to walk dogs, there weren't too many available. As I tend to do, I went back out to the front desk to touch base with the workers about dogs who had moved on.

"Did Fudge get adopted?"

"Fudge? Oh yes, finally."

"Ah good," I said. "The dog who hugged got a home."

"The dog who barked, more like."

"Huh?"

The workers explained that Fudge, who had been surrendered more than once, had severe separation anxiety. If they left him alone for more than a moment, he started to bark, and then to dig to get out.

Hmm. This was news to me. To me, Fudge was the dog who hugged. When I'd gone into his kennel, he'd been so lonely and so eager to see me that he'd reared up on his back legs and wrapped his front paws around me, pressing his muzzle to my belly. It was as if he were saying, "Oh god, oh god, thank god you're here. I'm so glad someone is here."

I had to peel him off me to go for a walk, on which he was a perfect gentleman. To learn he'd been so irritating was a shock. Upon reflection, though, these were two sides of the same coin. He was lonely, so he hugged me. He was lonely, so he barked for attention and dug to get to people. The same need, different symptoms.