Manina

I’ve never been a dog person. I grew up with exclusively cats as pets. I had fish once but that experiment didn’t last long. I consider a lot of the current dog ownership trend in America to be a bit of a fad. Not all of it, of course. I’m a big fan of stray rescue organizations and those who work to the welfare of animals.

I could give my thoughts on people who compare dog ownership to parenting but I fear that would only serve to further dilute my ever-shrinking circle of social influence.

Manina was different. She didn’t slobber everywhere. When she had an accident in the house it was clearly an accident and she gave you a look like, “I’m sorry man, there wasn’t anything anyone could have done.” With a few notable exceptions she wasn’t prone to overturning trash cans. She didn’t chew up shoes or damage property. She was a good dog.

She did shed. Holy shit did she shed. I had her cremated with the idea I could distribute her ashes in a few places. But to be fair, anywhere she visited retains a piece of her in the hair she left there. It was light enough to float on air in perpetuity. If it found a fabric seat, it embedded itself like those plastic tag attachment things on new garments.

I can say with a high degree of confidence that there remains hair of Manina in: the Missouri woods, a hotel at the Indiana/Ohio border, 2 vehicles, Germany (her hair literally floated up out of a suitcase), an old brick house in Shaw in St Louis, a house in Douglassville, PA., my house in RoFo, PA., and on every piece of clothing I own. Her hair was especially fond of attaching to the suits I wear for work.

Anyone who knew her knew her gentle soul. She hated only 2 things in this world, all other dogs in existence (save Junebug Keller) and the central vacuum in my old house. She didn’t mind water, although she didn’t really go jumping in it, either. Sudden sounds made her jumpy in her early years, but later in life, she was deaf and therefore immune. She wasn’t a “barker” although she was known to act tough when the front door was open and she could see out the screen door.

She was a herder. If she needed something she wouldn’t jump around and act a fool, she would instead use her snout to redirect you towards it. While it could be maddening it was also endearing. She knew she needed to protect the kiddos and she did a fine job of it. If there was any perceived threat she would put herself between the kid and the threat. But she didn’t have to bark. She just perked her ears and closed her mouth. That was enough.

She was my first dog. She didn’t alleviate me of the discomfort I feel around other peoples’ dog’s when they jump up on you or come running at you. I grew up in a neighborhood where, until the gentrification set in, a lot of dogs people kept for protection and the dogs were mean as hell. Stray dogs could be rabid. And there was more than one instance I had to deal with one of those mean guard dogs on the loose.

But, she showed me the personality of a dog. She showed me the why; ‘maybe their dog barks at me, but maybe their dog just doesn’t know me.’ Once you see a dog has personality, it becomes a lot easier to, at minimum, tolerate and often like other dogs.*

Whether she was saying her piece to passing cars in the city or lounging in the shade on an impromptu backpacking trip, she was always there. In her last few weeks she preferred the comfort of her memory foam sleeping pad (her hips needed it) to always placing herself among the group. But a lot of the time she was still there. You always had to check where you were stepping when you got off the couch as she liked to nestle right under where feet overhung.

She could be counted on to get in front of you in the kitchen when you were moving around cooking things. A stern “MANINA” and pointed hand directing her out of the kitchen usually resolved this although it was temporary. She was always on automatic vacuum patrol for any potentially dropped food – especially meat. When she was in the kitchen during a cooking session she was holding out for something that could be caught in midair (although this was a rare occurrence for her. Remember, she was a herder -not a fetcher).

Few things in our lives have united us and touched us as much as she did. She came into the picture in 2009. My daughter was one year old, if that. My son was born the next year. So, as memory goes, she is all they have known. They have never known our house without a dog. The stillness is unsettling. She was our “average Pyrenees.” We called her that because she came from Great Pyrenees Rescue. But if there was any Pyrenees in that dog, it was in the hair. Her mutt mixture definitely included some golden, and we assume something that looked like a chow but was into herding. Beyond that, she was just Manina.

I don’t remember why we named her Manina. Maybe my daughter mumbled it? But we later learned the word meant “little hand.” And she was. She really really was. We took her through a lot and she was always there with wagging tail, rancid breath, and a perky disposition to get us through.

I am not alone in this, but I shall miss her very much.

Godspeed, Manina. I hope your hips are better and you are chasing bunnies in the afterlife with little abandon.