Nonfiction by Christopher L. Morrow
The gentle exhalation of air from the husky near my feet catches my attention. One might be tempted to call it a sigh, but the soft sound contains none of the associated adolescent angst or the adult aggravation. This sound is one of contentment, of relaxing fully into one’s repose, of shedding the world rather than being trapped within it. As I shift my weight to look at her, the vinyl creak of my office chair triggers an instinctual and learned vigilance for Opal.
Without moving, she opens her eyes, and the dark pupils search my face expectantly. Her rest disturbed, she tries to anticipate my attention, silently asking what I want from her. I remain still, staring back, and focusing on the tiny white lashes around her eyes – lashes which are almost invisible against the downy white fur of her face.
Scientists believe that huskies’ distinctive blue eyes come from a duplication of canine chromosome 18. According to popular folklore, the Chukchi people of north-east Asia who are credited with developing the husky have a different explanation. For them, some dogs stared out into the limitless, cold, and frozen ocean. Their eyes — reflecting ice and sea-water — take on that color, and they become protectors. They stand facing out into the wild and maintain a vigilant watch for their family. Other huskies peered into the fire at the center of the hearth. Flames representing warmth, safety, and comfort lent their eyes a soft brown color. Those dogs focus on caring for and nurturing their pack.
Opal’s soft brown eyes project the comfort and warmth of this legend but also hold a latent wariness. Not receiving an answer from my gaze, her tail, lying flat against the tile floor, drifts back and forth. The long black and white fur makes an almost imperceptible shooshing sound against the ceramic. She is escalating our silent conversation – trying to goad me into a response.
Our first such conversations were quite different. She came to us with no hearth and constantly beset by the coldness around her. Her eyes revealed a belief that the world had no comfort left. She had been found nearly hairless, ravaged by two types of mange. Her skin — normally protected by the thick double coat of canine fur worn by northern breeds – was exposed to the elements. Its once healthy pink hue reddened and chafed by the wind.
We didn’t talk directly at first. She would lay across the room — as far as architecturally possible. She kept her attention trained on me and tried intently to read my face. Then, I was not a fire of comfort for her; I was the frozen ocean. Though her stare remained direct, I had to address her with eyes askance — anything more assumed as aggression. Coiled into a canine cirque, she peered over the tail which covered her muzzle as a last line of defense.
For weeks, Opal maintained her icy blue vigilance. We talked during her vigils. Well, I talked. I praised her for her strength and told her she was safe. But, no matter how soothing and calm my words sounded, they only spelled danger. She watched and listened but remained alert for perceived threats – ready to flinch away or scurry into another room.
Over the weeks, her fur returned and her outer coat, with its aptly named guard hairs, kept growing longer, fuller, and softer. She also started lying closer and closer to me and, in the depths of a good nap, her body would unfold from its tight protective spiral. Her tail, initially flattened protectively against the backs of her legs, slowly released its grip and returned to its proud position arching up and curving toward her head until it’s tip lightly brushed against her back. The long guard hairs at the apex of the curve, unable to support their own weight, water fell down. Eventually, she began taking treats directly from my hand and allowing me to scratch behind her ears. Though time and patience thawed her eyes, she has never told me what her time on the tundra cost her. I think she prefers it that way.
Today, my lack of an answer prompts her to get up and pad silently across the cold tile to me. The long white hairs which now emerge from her ears curve back like handlebar ribbons. She lays her head on my knee and looks up into my eyes. After a brief pause, she twitches her head to the left, pushing her cold black and pink nose into the edge of my palm. She no longer wonders what I want; she has chosen nurture — for both of us.
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Christopher L. Morrow is a professor of English and dean of Arts and Humanities at the University of Texas Permian Basin. His creative works have been previously published by Under the Gum Tree and Texas Ballot Poetry. He lives in West Texas, where folks take solace in it being a “dry” heat.