CATHERINE ZOSEL

Oregon Writing Project

Assignment #1

OSAGE

It all began with an ending, as is so often the case. Beneath the loss, the dark side, that eternal spring nudged us forward. So it was with Osage, our bouncing baby boxer. He was the germ of a plea, "If you can't bring Dad home, could we get a dog? A boxer?" No magician, I knew my scope and power in the former so I promised the latter. Born of that seed, proffered from a battle-scarred six year old, we welcomed our canine.

The breeder had loved this pup from the get go. Of the field of thirty plus dogs, the one that caught my eye was the lean adolescent fawn. He had the presence of an older animal, and the eagerness of his age. He was regal. I knew that the "give away" pup couldn't be this animal. But it was.

I momentarily thanked God for the breeder's broken collar bone, even as I prayed it would heal quickly. Had she not been injured she wouldn't have parted with this prize. If she hadn't been so attached, she wouldn't have insisted he come to a family with several children. She was no nonsense when it came to these "babies". Each puppy was carefully placed, by temperament of the owner and the dog. Osage loved children, was intelligent. The breeder believed our mutual friend who said that our house should be his new home. Mary had claimed him as her own and had loved him enough to surrender him to our care.

Osage had been chosen as a show dog initially. I knew why. He pranced He strode. He danced. He was symmetry and sinew and I loved him instantly. I couldn't load him in the van quickly enough, fearing she would change her mind and send me home without this beauty. Instead her firm voice insisted he "load up." He did. While driving home from Roseburg, a litany played in my mind. He would heal those broken-hearted children. How could they not be transformed with that wiggle, that eagerness to love, to be loved? He wouldn't drink or make inane dinner conversation. Sounded like a deal to me.

Timid and beautiful, Osage entered our world. When timidity gave way to bravery, he galloped around our house until it became home, having tamed it with his vigor. He chewed socks, snarfed down stuffed animals, and licked us incessantly. He loved us into submission. Perhaps we could trust again, open our hearts again. Fierce looking with his tail docked and ears cropped, his voice boomed out an image that I was hard pressed to reconcile with the inner pooch. With heart of mush, he was loyal, true, and effervescent. How I regaled his virtues to those who would listen. He had "single pawed" tamed the torrent that had hit us, spilling down grief and abandonment, shock and shame, in one felt swoop. He had come to bolster spirits, to love us back to life. He did.

A dog is not a dog if he is Osage. He is a counselor, a wonder dog for a purple caped three-year old, one whose presence I rejoice in and am in awe of. He was brought on board to heal the children and somehow snagged me in the bargain.