him understand that his nose was now
entirely his own?
Over the next nine months or so,
Dyngo gradually learned to let his guard
down and settle into domesticity, and
I adjusted to life with a retired war dog.
it has now been more than three years
since I brought Dyngo home. He has
learned how to play, maybe for the first
time, without anxiety. The borrowed
crate was dismantled two years ago. His
flank sucking has all but disappeared.
All the rugs lie in place, the couch
cushions and pillows sit idle and
unthreatened. Dyngo and I are rarely
more than a few feet apart—he follows
me around, my lumbering guardian.
He is now truly my dog.
Every once in a while, as I run my
thumb along the velvety inside of his
left ear, I see the faint blue of his ID
tattoo, #L606. He exhales a low grum-
ble, but it’s one of deep contentment.
I can take Dyngo out without worry
now. He is gentle with dogs who are
smaller or frailer than he is. He has
even befriended a feisty black cat.
Dyngo’s dozen years of rough-and-
tumble life are finally catching up with
him. His stand-at-attention ears have
fallen into a crumple. The marmalade
brown of his muzzle is swept with
swirls of white and grey. He is missing
more than a few teeth and walks with
a bit of a limp.early in 2018, Dyngo and I drove up to
my parents’ home in Connecticut. It
was an unusually balmy day in Febru-
ary, and we rode with the windows
down, Dyngo’s head raised into the
slanting sun. He made friends with the
neighbours’ dogs, dragged branches
across the muddy yard and took long
evening walks with my father in the
downy snow.
Back in D.C., when we pulled into
our building’s circular driveway after
two weeks away, I looked on as he
jumped down onto the concrete. His
face changed as he reoriented himself
to the surroundings, finding his foot-
ing along the uneven sidewalks and
making a beeline toward his favourite
tree. As we entered my apartment, he
nosed his way inside, then pranced
back and forth between his bed and
bowls. He danced toward me, his eyes
filled to the brim with an expression
that required no interpretation: We’re
home! We’re home!COPYRIGHT 2019 SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION. REPRINTED WITH PERMISSION FROM SMITHSONIAN
ENTERPRISES. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPRODUCTION IN ANY MEDIUM IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT
PERMISSION FROM SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION.Mortal Motivation
To not think of dying, is to not think of living.
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