God is dog spelled backwards

Written on 7th May, in a spontaneous writing workshop at Charney Manor, Oxfordshire

I miss the fluffy feeling of fur. Every morning and every afternoon we walk through the woods close to home, chatting and marvelling at the clear blue sky, spring’s colourful palette, the golden dandelions, the birds’ shrieks and twitters and the woody perfume of vegetation after rain we encounter along the way. Sauntering through the garden here at Charney, listening to the waves of wind in the trees, enjoying the cawing cacophony of crows and savouring the sun warm on my skin is like nectar to the soul. Yes indeed. But something is missing, and that is the feel of fur.

On leaving the Solar and going outside I made for the car park, stopping only to stroke a crimson peony, sniff the Judas trees and admire its fallen purple-pink blossoms on the spiky green grass. I skirted around the car park hedge and paused at the wooden fence to look back at the parking area. I knew that R. had his dog with him and it was his dog I wanted to catch a glimpse of to assuage my hunger of seeing, if not feeling, fur.

Last night, after the writing retreat’s introductory session, I leafed through some of the books displayed on the table. A sentence struck me – the title of a book written by that particular author in a list of other books she’d written. God Is Dog Spelled Backwards. That phrase was somehow important. So important that it flew round and round in my mind like a bothersome fly. In the silent beginning to our morning session these words – God is dog spelled backwards – again broke into my thoughts and were forced into expression during the ensuing six minutes of spontaneous writing.

I remembered the fear I had experienced as a three-year-old when waiting, as was my habit, for Dad to get off the bus on his dinner hour. We lived in a quiet cul-de-sac and Mum allowed me to walk, all by myself, to the corner to wait for and greet Dad. I did that every working day. On that particular dinner time, however, a huge Alsatian dog decided to sniff at and inspect the little waiting girl at close quarters. Not content with that, it reared up on its hind legs and put its front paws on the wall behind me. I was pinned to the wall. I was terrified. Mercifully, Dad arrived in time to rescue his quivering daughter from harm. But damage had been done. Inside and unseen.

From then on dogs of all shapes and sizes paralysed me with fear, no matter where, no matter when, no matter which.

On moving to my present home in September 2000, in the glorious midst of the Swedish countryside where my soul and self are free, I discovered that our closest neighbours had dogs. Standard poodles. When going to collect the post from the little row of boxes the dogs would rush, barking, across the path and jump up at me. The first time it happened I froze, hoping they would vanish. Or something. My neighbour raced outside, frantically calling the dogs back to her and shoved them back in the house. I confessed me fear, in broken Swedish, and after that my Ulla was very careful to keep her dogs under control when I passed.

Another person in the village had a big black dog, which I also used to avoid. She asked me one day whether I was afraid of dogs. I confessed. Come here and I’ll help you to make a new friend, she said, quietly and caringly. She showed me what to do and guided my hand in the patting of her dogs head. Dog looked up at me with eyes as deep as pools, and I felt something soften within.

Now, due to events not really relevant to this tale, I help my neighbour, Ulla, to take her four standard and one miniature poodles for a walk twice a day. These walks have become a highlight. I always turn up on time. The dogs zoom in as soon as they hear my feet crackle the shingle on the drive and thrust their heads between my legs in a welcoming doggy hug. I run my fingers through their fur. It feels warm and thick and fluffy and soft – especially so when they’ve just had a bath.

Zottie gave birth to seven pups in February and I watched as the membraned packets plopped onto the towelled floor of the birthing bed and were frantically licked clean and clear by mum. She gazed lovingly at me as I ran my hands down her sides to ease the tension. These are moments I will find hard to forget.

God is Dog spelled backwards. Dog is God spelt backwards. What that amounts to for me is unconditional love.
©Sue Glover Frykman