Unable to Sleep? I Go to the Dogs

Our major achievements might be behind us at age 71, but discovering little things that make life better can be a big win. Here’s one that works for me.

When I have trouble sleeping, when visions of Orange Dictators dance in my head, I go to the dogs.

I don’t mean figuratively. I don’t toss and turn for hours, berating myself for the afternoon stop at Starbucks, or for the dark chocolate square I ate after dinner.

No … I mean “going to the dogs” in the literal sense.

I remember the two sweet canines Ted and I once had: Max and Blue. The nearly 20 years they spent with us, beginning in the late 1980s, make a scrapbook of happy memories that send me off to Dreamland without fail when I call them forward. Like memories of the hike we took on December 1, 2001, featured in the photo above of Blue and me.

They’re comfort animals in my heart. And I can visit them whenever I want.

Loosely, it’s a four-step process.

Step One: I remember how adorable the dogs were as puppies.

This is Max, the white Spitz/Shepherd mix someone abandoned over Easter weekend 1989 at the church by the first house we owned in Nashville.

This is Blue, the Bluetick Coonhound rescued by a lesbian couple we met at Atlanta Pride in the late 1990s. We adopted her on the spot.

How could we resist?

Step Two: I remember what fun we had.

Max was a clown. I’d chase her around the house, her paws skidding on the hardwood floors like a runaway cartoon character’s feet. Finally, she’d leap on the sofa in surrender, all four paws in the air. Growling, I’d pretend I was gnawing on her neck and ears. It was a thoroughly ridiculous display. We loved it.

She and Blue were most at home at the place we bought in the north Georgia mountains, where we had some great weekend getaways, and where the dogs were free to roam unleashed.

The mountains especially brought out Blue’s adventurous spirit.

With arthritis setting in during her later years, she loved dipping her paws in the cold stream a few miles from our place.

Step Three: I remember how absolutely beautiful they were.

Max was sleek and fast. Smart as a whip. Here she is in 2001 with a neighbor dog on the deck at our mountain cabin.

Blue was more of a lumbering creature. Calm while Max was hyper. Sweet while Max was sassy. They were a perfect complement to each other.

Sunshine or snow, both were wonderful hiking companions during our time in the mountains.

Step Four: I remember the family connections they enlivened for us.

My mother loved our babies.

So did Dad. Blue accompanied us often on our outings to the local sights while Dad lived in our mountain area.

What became of our furry friends? Max was the first to leave us. Then Blue died a few years after my dad’s death in 2010. We scattered the ashes of both on the beach at South Carolina’s Edisto Island, where so many of our loved ones rest. I picture them roaming on the sand together in the evenings. That image helps me sleep, too.

Since the pandemic, Ted and I have considered getting another dog.

But we just can’t bring ourselves to do it.

We tell friends that we like our freedom and independence. We explain that our 1,000-square-foot condo in the city (we’ve sold the mountain place) isn’t the best environment for a dog.

But deep down, I think each of us knows that nothing can compare to the joy we found with Max and Blue. Sure, we love our neighbor dog Whiskey, the adoptee of the lovely young couple, Gabby and Ryan, who live next door. When we see them on our daily walks around the Chamblee ‘hood, reaching out to pet Whiskey is like reaching back in time. The soulful eyes, the funky, sour/sweet smell of Whiskey’s coat, the sandpaper lick of his tongue bring it all back.

Max and Blue were our best buddies.

When I think of their gentle breathing as they slept on the floor pillows at the foot of our bed each night, I remember that sound as the essence of peace and contentment.

Of pride, too.

Pride that these creatures placed their unconditional trust in us.

Pride in the good home Ted and I have made together all these years.

OK, I hadn’t intended for this to be a blog about Gay Pride Month.

But since I brought up the subject … Happy Pride 2024, y’all!

Sweet dreams and sandpaper kisses, too.

One of our weekends at the mountain house with friends Francois Du Plessis, Alan Lewis, our nephew Beau Brothers and our Montreal friend, Jean-Francois Gilbert.

And oh yes … Max and Blue not exactly posing for the camera.

Author’s Note: Read more stories of Max and Blue in my memoir, The Way from Me to Us, available on Amazon and at your favorite bookstore.