place before Dyngo launched himself
inside, his relief palpable and pitiable.
The next day, and during the rest of
the first week, I had one objective: to
wear Dyngo out. I chose the most ardu-
ous walking routes, the steepest leaf-
strewn trails. The pace was punishing.
Other challenges presented them-
selves. Dyngo had arrived with scabs
and open sores on his underbelly,
Tests revealed a bacterial infection that
required antibiotics and medicated
shampoo baths. Since I could not lift
Dyngo into the bathtub, I would shut
us both into the small bathroom and
do the best I could with a bucket and
washcloth, leaving water and dog hair
on the floor.
Then there was Dyngo’s nearly
uncontrollable drive for toys—or any-
thing resembling a toy. Instilled in him
by the rewards he’d received during his
training, this urge sent him after every
ball, stuffed animal or abandoned glove
we passed. The distant echo of a bounc-
ing basketball filled me with dread.
My desperation grew when Dyngo
began to twist himself like a pretzel
to clamp down on the fur and flesh
above his hind leg, gripping himself in
rhythmic bites, a compulsion known
as flank sucking.
Struggling for order, I set up a rigid
Groundhog Day–like routine. Each day,
we would wake at the same hour, eat
meals at the same hour, travel the same
walking paths and sit in the same spot
on the floor together after every meal.
I don’t remember when I started to
sing to him, but under the street lamps
on our late-night walks, I began a quiet
serenade of verses from Simon and
Garfunkel or Peter, Paul and Mary. I
have no idea whether anyone else ever
heard me. In my mind, there was only
this dog and my need to calm him.One night that summer, I called my
father and told him things weren’t get-
ting better. “Give it time,” he said. “You’ll
end up loving each other, you’ll see.”
When Dyngo would pull away, strain-
ing against my hold on the leash, I
found that hard to believe.
Sometimes, when Dyngo stared at me
from behind the bars of his borrowed
crate, I wondered whether he was think-
ing back to his days of leaping out of
helicopters. Did he crave the adrena-
line rush of hopping over walls and the
struggle of human limbs between his
teeth? What if, in my attempt to offer
him a life of love and relaxation, I had
stolen his sense of purpose?military dogs get to a point where
they’re living for their jobs, just asON OUR WALKS, I
WONDERED HOW TO
CONVEY TO DYNGO
THAT THERE WERE NO
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