Luke had been watching me for weeks from his spot in the kitchen. He seemed mesmerized, as though I held up a slice of the moon. That’s when I knew I had to share my watermelon with him. I kneeled by his side and angled the wedge so that he could bite off the sweet melon. He used his tiny front teeth to chisel the fruit from its rind, just as we do. Most of my dogs would have tried to swallow the wedge whole. Luke may as well have mentioned that the watermelon was on sale. “This is so good.” He concentrated on the snack as would a bear cub a jar of honey. Sharing healthy food with Luke offers one example of how he’s learned to act human. There are several others. 

Luke Watches Television 

The first time he noticed dogs on film, he nosed the television screen then backed off, just to be on the safe side. “How did you flatten yourself to fit inside the screen?” The hairs on his back stood high and his shoulders bulged like a lion’s. “How is this possible? You smell like Mom’s cleaner, but you look like me.” 

The dogs were real, yet somehow intangible. However intriguing, the truth surfaced in no time. “Ah. Now I understand. You are there for my entertainment. You are real, but also far away.”  Luke was onto the dogs on film. 

“Look at how carefully the labs walk over the bridge, Luke!” I crooned. I wanted him to identify with the story. He tilted his head to my voice then glanced at me. “I see.”

Before long, Luke became a regular couch potato. “Make sure you put on Luke’s shows.” I made sure the last person left in the house would turn on the Dog Channel, should Luke be left alone. He munched on his popcorn and learned to watch television with the expression of an avid sports fan. He’d smile while watching an actor sail through a field on a horse. He’d lift his ears to an Olympic swimmer. “I would love to swim in a lane!” He’d growl to the deep, philosophical scenes, such as that shown in the classic Ten Commandments, which features Charlton Heston at Mount Sinai. The sight of the burning bush and God’s omnipresent voice seemed to move Luke. He lowered his head and grumbled, as though sensing a universal power. 

Luke Understands Sarcasm

My son, Ben, the youngest of our human family, often messes with his dog bro. “Luke, go this way,” he jests. Allow me to explain the joke’s context. Luke was only a puppy when he experienced a unique trauma. A heavy, iron counter stool bobbled then fell over on the kitchen floor with a thunderous bang. Luke backed off and yelped while the stool lied helpless. “You almost killed me!” The whole incident freaked little Luke out. Worse, it caused an indelible scar. He is now anxious around obstacles, particularly those with the potential to fall on him. Therefore, a simple trip from the deck to his dish (where the kibble rewards lie) causes discomfort, especially in a cluttered kitchen. Quirky? Perhaps. Nonetheless, Luke has a right to his feelings. One never knows when a Swiffer mop may drop. Not to mention the dangling beach bag, also suspect. 

“Slow and steady wins the race.” He noses the floor and takes the safer route. He’s even calculated the best way to pace himself. A hasty sprint around the table has caused him to slide off balance, and away from his bowl. “Food. Food. Food.” He’s learned his lesson. He now takes the corner with a deliberate downshift. I gush while watching him slow down and master the corner. My dog understands physics. He finally arrives at his dish and inhales his reward. “I am such a good boy.” 

Sometimes big brothers get in the way.  

“Go this way, Luke.” Ben teases and gestures for Luke to do the unthinkable. “I-don’t-like-that-way, Ben.” He retracts from Ben’s hold so that his face creases like a Shar Pei’s. I defend Luke vehemently. “You let Luke go the way he wants! He’s not comfortable that way.” Luke breaks free and approaches his bowl with a breach to his typical pace. He cannot stifle the urge to take the corner slowly. Big brother may toss another joke. Speed is key. Nonetheless, the entire incident is forgotten in a matter of two bites. His smile and jovial spirit convey a more fascinating trait. Luke is in on the joke. “My brother is a big tease, but I still love him.” 

Luke Relates to Children

Luke appreciates the smallness of children. He aligns his posture with theirs, often crouching down on the lawn to shrink himself when they come off the bus to say hello. “Lewwwwk!” They chant his name, and he stares longingly until they arrive. Children carry joy, along with all kinds of trinkets, and Luke relates to them in full color. He even thinks he’s one of them. “You are all so fun and happy like me!” He’ll grab a dropped stuffed bear then romp in a circle. “Luke, give that back,” I command, and he lets it go. “I was just trying to fit in, Mom.” Luke adjusts to a toddler’s size even more, settling himself to the gentlest pose he can muster. “Can my daughter pet your dog?” He lifts his head. “Take your time, little cutie.” Toddlers giggle and tap his head. “Soft.” Luke sits patiently while they hug, climb, hang over his neck, and kiss him. 

Luke Communicates Sadness

“You’re leaving?” I’ll never stop feeling guilty when leaving Luke. I haven’t fully let go of the plan to make Luke a Daddy and adopt one of his own pups. After Lincoln passed, we grieved deeply but eventually warmed up to the idea of doubling our joy with two pups. The plan was to start with one, then add another. We trained Luke, brought him on adventures, and bonded with him. Then, somehow, we settled into family life with an ease and routine that countered the thought of doing it all over again. Life had become comfortable. We could sleep late, trust Luke to hang in the house alone, travel with him, and give him the independence he needed in our yard. We were living the dream. But was being an Only lonely?

“I’ll be right back, Luke. Then we’ll play, okay? Promise.” I holler out to him from my car in front of our house. He sits on the step and watches my car roll onto the street, then manage its turn to pull away. My mind wanders. I imagine him sitting beside his own son or daughter. 

“You always say that. But almost every morning you leave me here.” His head rests on his paws. My car is still in view. I notice him lift his head to keep on watching me.

“Daddy’s home, Luke!” I turn my music down and yell out to him.

“He’s boring.”

“Oh, Luke.” I fight the urge to pull back into the driveway and rescue him. But my dance hours pass as they always do and before long, I’m home again. 

“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S YOU AND WE ARE TOGETHER AGAIN!!” Luke’s joy in reuniting with me after two hours reminds me of this. He may know how to act like a human, but his dog-ness will always be his best quality. 

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