How easily we slip into patterned lives. We naturally find comfort in the predictable, in the way we believe things should be. Fortunately, we have those who will awaken us to the prospect of the good in differences, the benefit of avoiding sameness.
She snored. It wasn't one of those muffled, catch-your-breath snores. It was full-throated, like a boat motor. Amazing that little body could do that. Inhale, boat motor. Exhale, train whistle. Inhale, boat motor. Exhale, train whistle. She was petite, round-faced, and not very smart. Of course she snored. Of course she used her physical appeal to dull the unattractive quality of her dim wits and deafening sleep habits.
I've had dogs my entire life and have become very attached to most of them. I don't talk to them like they're children. I do take them running whenever I can. I don't let them in my bed. I do pay attention to their needs.
But Mabel. Mabel was a bug-eyed, snoring Chinese Pug. Her huge eyes made her look perpetually scared. She had a strange smell. Not bad, just ... strange. She was just plain weird.
When we married, my wife had a Chinese Pug named Booner, a dog blessed with a sense of humor. Once, my wife was pulling a roast from the oven and dropped the pan. Meat and vegetables splashed everywhere. Booner charged into the kitchen, snatched a whole potato and ran in circles looking like a snake trying to swallow an egg. He had missed the two-pound slab of meat.
Booner finally reached a ripe old age and passed away quietly. Man, we missed that dog. We had other great ones, though. There was Charlie, the Golden Retriever who would run in the early mornings with me. If no one was around, I'd take him off his leash and he'd end up running double the mileage I put in. Charlie was a great friend and my kids adored him.
We now have Moki, the marbled-eyed Australian Shepherd, who is the smartest dog we've had by far. He shows emotions clearly. My son taught him to play dead after hearing "bang, bang." Moki slinks into rooms, slithering like a predator, crawling under blankets to get close to our family. In his younger days, he'd corral us, nipping at our heels to get us into a tight circle. Now, he's just glad to be in the room.
We also have Zed, a mutt. My wife worked in an oncology clinic and overheard a patient saying she rescued a dog but needed a home for him. My wife said to herself over and over, "Don't turn around, don't turn around." The patient sighed loudly. My wife turned around. We now have Zed. Not to be confused with our son, whose name is Jed. Not confusing at all.
Back to Mabel. Our great experience with Booner made us want a new Pug. My wife's uncle in northwest Arkansas is a veterinarian and told us he had a dog that was "not quite right." My wife heard "she's perfect" and convinced me we should give her to our oldest daughter for Christmas. My daughter was having trouble staying in her bed at night and sleeping with Mabel would help.
Of course, Mabel's snoring had the opposite effect of my daughter staying in bed, driving her out earlier and more often than usual.
Once, I let Mabel into the backyard. I watched her sniff around, stomping along every corner of the lawn hunting crickets and dragonflies. I went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee and turned back around. Mabel was at my feet, blinking like she was trying to tell me something in Morse code. I looked closer. She favored one eye. I leaned in. Great.
Mabel had been chasing crickets, or sniffing flowers, or just not taken care of her enormous bug eyes and she had a thorn protruding from one of her eyeballs. I thought about pulling the thorn myself then decided to take her to the vet.
The vet tech took Mabel from my arms and into a back room. I figured they needed a good set of tweezers and some gauze that must be stored in there. After 30 minutes, the vet tech came out and told me Mabel was in surgery. They were trying to save her vision.
I sat perplexed. "She's in surgery?"
"Yes."
"To save her vision?"
"Yes."
"How will I know if you've saved her vision?"
Silence. Arms crossed. Hard stare.
"You'll be notified when she's in post-op and ready to be transported home."
Mabel was even weirder after the surgery. The repaired eye remained glossy and seemed to move independently of the other. She could point her head forward and clearly see opposite ends of a room. That is, if she really had vision in that eye.
After a while, we found that Mabel's weirdness was what we liked about her. It set her apart, gave her a distinct personality. She was quirky and unpredictable. In the sameness that life often breeds, Mabel stood as a sentinel to change, a bundle of unpredictability.
She sat with us on movie nights at home. She stole food from our hands. Mabel liked to stand between our feet, tripping us if we weren't aware. She was easily pleased in her life and she gave affection freely and without discernment or judgment. Mabel underscored the great value in quirkiness, the great pleasure in recognizing differences as strengths.
She taught us that being not quite right is indeed perfect.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org. Find him on Twitter @steve_straessle.