Several years ago Robert Fulghum wrote a best seller called All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. He talked about the life principles he learned from that first year in school, like Play Fair, Don’t Hit People, Clean Up Your Own Mess.
Before “real school,” I went to kindergarten in a lady’s private home. I learned two life lessons there: (1) If you strip all the green plums off the teacher’s tree and lead a plum war, you will get your fanny whupped. (2) If you stand up to say the Pledge of Allegiance and don’t keep an eye on the kid behind you, he may pull the chair out from under you; floors are hard.
After kindergarten, one of the most constant learning opportunities of my life has been the presence of dogs. Most of what I really needed to know, I learned from dogs.
As a toddler, I saw a fat cocker spaniel munching on food in his dish. I eased up behind him and grabbed him around the middle to express my love to this sweet, fuzzy bundle of pooch. Shocked at being suddenly separated from his Doggy Doodles, Pooch turned around and snapped me in the nose. I still have the scar.
From this encounter, I learned not to grab anyone while he is eating. Wait until after he eats to grab him.
My grandfather kept a pack of hunting dogs. They lived under his house and came out when he called or when he brought leftovers out to them. They loved my visits too, especially if I took them something to eat, though they grazed on all kinds of odd things they found in the yard when they didn’t have real food.
From them I learned that almost anything is edible. I have put many things into my mouth, as those dogs did, just to see what it was. Once I ate some kind of green pod I found on a tree, reasoning that Granddaddy’s hounds would probably have eaten it. It left me feeling a little fuzzy for a couple of days. I ate bites of mud pies because they smelled so good.
Once I ate a small square of screen wire. I’m not sure even the hounds would have eaten that, but I swallowed it just to see what would happen. Neither the going in nor the coming out was pleasant. I learned that just because I can get something in my mouth doesn’t mean I ought to swallow it. Not even if a dog would eat it.
My own first dog was Skipper, a big German Shepherd. This breed tends to become very attached to one person in a group, and Skipper attached himself to me.
One day when my mom and I were out in the yard, I did something that she thought deserved punishment. She stepped to a nearby bush, broke off a switch, stripped the leaves off and came after my legs. Skipper stepped in front of me, lowered his head, fixed his stare on Mother and began to growl. She dropped the switch. I was saved!
I learned two things that day. (1) If you love someone, you protect that person. (2) If you’re going to do bad things, keep a big, loyal German Shepherd with you at all times.
Later, we adopted a squatty little black and white dog from a shelter, knowing that he had been abused. His background made him nervous and high strung. He taught me that some dogs and some people have had such tough lives that you have to make allowances for their eccentric behavior and the occasional bite or snarl. You love them anyway.
Today, I have Buddy and Betsy.
Betsy is The Sweetest Dog in Dogdom. So if she does err, like leaving us a “surprise” on the rug, we clean it up and forgive her. She has taught me that sweet folks (and dogs) can get away with anything. Unfortunately, sweetness isn’t in my DNA, so it’s a useless lesson, but I get the concept.
Betsy, too, has become possessive of me and gets very jealous when Buddy comes near me. If he gets into my closet, which she claims as her spot to visit with me, she goes ballistic, barkings, snapping and charging at Buddy. He just fixes his “You are an idiot” stare on her and stays quiet. Finally, he will let out a low growl that means “Watch yourself,” and Betsy backs off.
They’ve taught me that you don’t deal with a wild woman--or a wild dog--with noise and violence. You stay quiet, but if you say something, you’d better mean it.
In kindergarten, Fulghum says he learned to clean up his own messes. I’ve learned the opposite lesson from our dogs. When one of them does leave, say, a wet spot on the floor and we confront the culprit, we get a blank stare as in “Who, Me?” and a nonchalant ambling away from the scene of the crime.
Not that it’s the honest way to deal with a problem, but sometimes I, too, confronted with a mistake, have learned to stare blankly, like “ Who? Me?” and waddle away nonchalantly.
Sorry, Mr. Fulghum. The dogs and I don’t like cleaning up our own messes.
