"The World Loves You, Will!" (Even A Grouchy, Old Bear, It Seems)

Will’s leading a blessed last chapter.  Better yet, make that: he’s leading several blessed chapters since coming to live with us.

I’ve told Will’s story many times here but I’ll offer up a quick refresher for new readers.  At fifteen he was dropped off at a kill shelter in New Jersey by the only family he ever knew and was saved from certain death by the good people at New Jersey Schnauzer Rescue.  He then came to us arthritic, deaf, mostly-blind, neglected, and aggressive.  Atticus and I simply opened up our place to give him a place to die, but nearly fourteen months later he’s thriving.

Yes, thriving – even though he can’t walk very far because of his hips, nor can he see much more than shapes and shadows, and he’s still deaf.  He has, however, stopped snarling and biting, and he actually smiles.  He likes to play, be held, and he now often falls asleep cradled like a baby in my arms.  He participates with us, follows me from room to room, and is thrilled to be part of our little family.  

Atticus, who will never completely embrace anyone other than me, remains distant but protective of Will.  On a few occasions when Will has been coughing or choking on something Atticus approaches quite casually and nudged him with his nose and the coughing or choking stopped.  When a young bear appeared on the edge of our yard recently, Atticus just as calmly walked toward Will, who was unaware of the bear, and sat between them facing the bear.  When we are out and about and Will is walking in an unfamiliar field or on a beach, Atticus sits and serves as an anchor to the perpetually circling Will, who knows to return to Atti from time to time.  That’s about it: no cuddling, nuzzling, kissing, or playing takes place between the two of them – no matter how much others want to believe that’s the case.  But that’s enough for me.  It’s simply Atticus being Atticus. 

Will with flowers sent to him from Pennsylvania.

Atticus simply doesn’t chum up with other dogs or animals. He’s patient with them, respectful of them, he even seems to be calming to them, but he doesn’t play with them.  

There is something special about the serenity emanating from Atticus that fascinates me.  Children who have always been afraid of other dogs – even to the point where therapy was needed – have approached Atticus, sat next to him, and run their hands over his soft hair.  He’s been approached by chipmunks, squirrels, voles, birds, fox, moose, and bear.  And when Will had daily temper tantrums during those first few months he always went after me and never Atticus.  He’d whirl around in seemingly uncontrolled rage, see Atticus sitting looking at him, and he’d immediately turn back to me with his aggression. 

I’m not smart enough to explain what affect Atticus has on other animals but it appears this charm may have extended to Will.  This morning we were outside, Will circling in the center of the yard while I carried Atticus and his injured paw down the stairs to the edge of the property under the trees where he likes to be – far enough away so that Will won’t bother him.

I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye that was not Will’s light body, but a big, bulky, dark mass right beside Will.  It was Butkus, the old grouch of a bear who visited our yard quite often a few years ago but we’d since lost track of.  He’s returned this summer and we’ve seen him three times over the past two weeks.  I looked up and Butkus was within ten feet of Will and side-by-side, and he seemed to have paused in his lumbering gait to watch Will.  Then, just as I readied to charge at Butkus with arms waving and my voice raised something made me stop and watch.  I’m not sure what it was.  Perhaps it was the way Butkus was looking at Will.  Within a few seconds the old bear simply walked on by and entered the trees and disappeared.  So curious.  So wonderful. 

Yes, I’m well aware that bears are wild, unpredictable, and can be troublesome and that Butkus doesn't want to be friends.  I’m also aware that more often than not our local bears are more afraid of us than we are of them and they’ll avoid dogs at all costs.  I also know they seem to be drawn to Atticus and on more than one occasion a bear has sat looking at Atticus as Atticus sat looking back.  I also know that a mother bear and her two cubs have now been in our yard four times over the last several weeks.  The first time at a distance and in the trees leading down to the Ellis River behind the house.  On two other occasions the mother and her curious cubs have walked to the edge of the yard as I laughed while playing with Will while Atticus observed.  They watched for a bit and then returned the way they came. 

Their last visit wasn’t much different than what we experienced with Butkus this morning.  Atticus and I were sitting in the Adirondack chairs in the back corner of the yard while I played with Will who was laying on his back on my thighs.  From that back corner right behind us the mother and her cubs emerged within a few feet, the mother keeping herself between us and the cubs, they all looked at us, and then made their way across the yard.  Beforeleaving the yard the mother bear stopped and looked back at us for a few seconds, and then she was gone.

These wondrous things are happening at a time when folks from twelve different states and two foreign countries have sent flowers to Will, a dog they’ve never met, because they’ve been captured by his story and have given their hearts to him.  Why send him flowers?  Because I noticed last summer that Will enjoys smelling flowers and I’ve bought them for him every week since.  However, it wasn’t until recently that I shared this on our Facebook page.  Since that post our local florist Carrie Scribner, owner of Dutch Bloemen Winkel, and 1-800-Flowers have been dropping off flowers at our place for Will from friends he’s never met. 

Atticus has always been special, but it’s been a pleasure to watch Will develop over the past year and start to shine in his own way.  He’s recaptured his flagging spirit, polished up that dented soul, and he’s enjoying his life – no matter how much is left of it.  It’s all more than I ever expected or could have hoped for. 

"The world loves you, Will!" ~ Donna Haas

What do I attribute his resurrection to?  There are lots of things the logical mind can grasp: better food, medication, daily care, an improved overall quality of life.  But then there’s the intangibles, those little mysterious miracles that give us reason to sit back and wonder. There’s the presence of soulful Atticus and all those prayers and good wishes coming to Will from thousands of people who follow his happy story on our Facebook page.  

Will’s story stands in stark contrast to the dark, hopeless, and heartbreaking stories the media feeds us each day.  There’s so much darkness out there we’ve become numb to most tragedy.  Every now and again though, we are fortunate to get a glimpse of something sweet and special, even if it is something as small as the magical journey of one little broken dog from tragedy to redemption. 

I believe in happy endings.  I also believe in the power of love (when one is brave enough to leave the past where it belongs and let love in) and I believe in the osmotic power of prayer and friendship, even when it comes from afar.

When flowers come for Will they often come with notes.  The other day Donna Haas sent flowers from Pennsylvania by way of Carrie Scribner’s flower shop.  Her note seems to sum up much of Will’s happy resurrection: “The world loves you, Will! Enjoy the flowers.  Sending you lots of love.”

One of my favorite quotes from Einstein is: “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed.”

Does the compassion and patience of Atticus, the overwhelming support of strangers from around the world . . . and even what appeared to be a bit of kindness from a grumpy old bear contribute to the now-special life of Will?  I can’t say for sure, but I’d like to believe that’s the case.  I chalk it up to Einstein’s description of the mysterious for that gives me hope for this world we live in.

Butkus, after passing by Will this morning and passing into the trees.