Doggy Doors
Pepper Scott
For most of our years together, Terry and I adopted adult dogs. They came to us with life experience already tucked under their collars. They adapted to us.
Well... if I'm being completely fair, we adapted to them, mostly.
It all worked out naturally.
Then along came puppy Jolie.
She was tiny. Adorable. Full of curiosity. Also completely convinced that the outdoors was the most fascinating place on Earth... for about ten minutes at a time.
Every ten minutes.
In. Out.
Out. In.
Repeat until the humans begin questioning all of their life choices.
Since I worked full time, Terry became the official doorman during the week. On weekends, I took my shift.
We were exhausted.
One afternoon, our friend Nono stopped by and got a front row seat to the production. He watched Terry open the door. Close the door. Open the door again. Close it again. Then repeat the whole routine before anyone had even finished a conversation.
Very calmly he asked, "Have you thought about doggy doors?"
We had.
We just didn't think they were worth cutting holes in perfectly good doors for what we assumed was just a puppy phase.
At that point, though, we were tired enough to reconsider.
Besides, if anyone was going to cut into our doors, it was Nono. He's the finest woodworker we've ever known. Before long, beautiful doggy doors appeared, looking as though they'd always belonged there.
Sammie approved immediately.
She marched through those flaps without a second thought, as if she'd been using them her entire life.
Jolie was another story.
I couldn't blame her. Imagine walking through a doorway only to have mysterious flaps smack you right in the face. That had to feel suspicious.
Jolie was a smart little girl.
She simply refused to go first.
Instead, she'd wait for Sammie to head through the doggy door, lower her little head, plant her nose firmly against Sammie's butt, and follow so closely that they practically became one very unusual two-headed dog.
Poor Sammie.
She accepted this arrangement with remarkable patience while Terry and I laughed until we could hardly breathe.
About a week later, something changed.
No ceremony. No encouragement. No hesitation.
Jolie simply walked through the doggy door by herself.
After that, she flew through those flaps like a tiny tornado with places to be and squirrels to supervise.
Last night, all of that came back to me in a dream.
Our house had no regular doors at all. Just giant doggy doors, perfectly sized for people. Terry, Sammie, Jolie, and I wandered in and out together without stopping. No one opened anything. No one waited. We simply moved from our home into a beautiful garden beneath soft clouds drifting across a blue sky. Birds sang. Butterflies floated from flower to flower. Everything felt open, easy, and wonderfully ordinary.
We walked together.
We laughed together.
Then Terry smiled at me and said, "Honey, you'd better get back to your work now."
And just like that, I woke up.
I've been smiling ever since.
Maybe heaven has giant doggy doors after all.
