The biggest Pansies you ever did meet were two of my favorite characters to look after.
Two big breed hounds, Blanche and Rocco, Bernese Mountain Dog and a Leonberger respectively, were outside dogs. Their fur, like thundering-cold-weather-hairy-village men, kept them overheated throughout the spring, summer, and fall months.
It was a push/pull for me to care for dogs that didn’t act like dogs; they weren’t demonstrative to my highly enthusiastic greeting, didn’t wag their tails, or put their burly heads up to be touched. They wanted dry kibble, treats, a romp, and otherwise I was ignored. Occasionally they acted a bit joyous when I plugged my pockets with treats and untangled the leashes from the side of the lean-to.
Once I attempted to brush their tangled coats. Blanche clamped onto the handle and the brush went flying into the tangle of wild raspberries on the other side of the fence, never to be seen again. She then loped off like a wild pony to find shelter underneath the deck. Now I understand why Dave suggested the brushes and combs are merely "decorative."
Rocco, and Blanche were unaccustomed to affection of any kind. I just wasn’t sure how to be around them. They were more like cattle than companion dogs. They weren’t walked as much as escorted like cows tromping home to be milked. They inhaled their dry food like vacuum cleaners, I wasn’t sure, more often than not, if I’d fed them enough. Seems as though they were constantly drawn towards the food dishes that resembled troughs.
Rocco was a milk chocolate brown, deep dark eyes that soaked up your warmth. He was playful with Blanche but ignored me like a tree stump. Blanche, brown, white and black, gloriously stubborn, crowded the gate and always pushed me aside to get to the food container. She made me realize I could be clobbered, without a doubt, if I got between her and the side of the house where the kibble was kept. If the lid didn't have a significant latch, there wouldn't be a kernel left.
The pen never seemed large enough for the three of us as I unchained the gate and stepped into the dirt yard. Nothing cozy about the grounds; large holes, freshly dug, made me consider grave excavations. Must be digging to lie in the dark mud to cool down. No cushions could tolerate the salad-plate sized paws. If I attempted to unfurl the sleeping mats to make them more cozy, they tugged the fabric out of my hands and lunged at me as though I might be playing. Fat chance. I'd end up trampled like a victim in Running of the Bulls.
Dave and Clare, the owners, were a bit odd. Dave's voice always boomed several hundred yards ahead of the two miniature horses, as they came careening down the street "They're friendly!!!" As he caught up, he'd give the visitors a treat (if you were a dog) and chat with the humans in the bunch. Very outgoing and yet, something was "off" like the lines around the drawings were dribbled upon. Clare, his wife traveled a great deal for work, and left Dave to his own devices more often than not. Their place was a tornado of papers and undetermined debris among a collection of furniture. The front door was blocked by crap so you had to visit around back, at the fence.
When the occasion arose, my job was to stop by to feed and "wander" with them through the wooded trails in our neighborhood. I wasn't particularly fearful they'd tear the leashes out of my hands nor pull me down. Maybe I shoulda been since they clearly outweighed me. I felt like I was leading a team of plow ponies. I was confident they were watching over me, versus my "taking care of" them. I never worried about them attacking another dog nor biting a person. Never crossed my mind, though many people avoided us, turning down the next street to give us wide berth.
My hundred pound dog, Tyrus, looked like a yearling calf next to these powerhouse bulls. Ty didn't pay them any attention. Our walks were quite the parade, one not acknowledging the other.
I felt sorry for them. It didn't seem to occur to Rocco and Blanche that they could actually be cuddled and pampered.
I felt embarrassed to be caring for dogs that seemed neglected somehow, not coming into the house, even in the pouring rain. My own dog, settled himself under the covers with me, safe, warm, dry, and coddled. I felt angry at this couple, that they didn't treat their dogs like family members, like most everyone else I know. And consequently those dogs were uncomfortable coming inside the house. Didn't seem right. Didn't seem fair. Or just. Or did they even care? Or know any differently?
The two large dogs might still be around. I hadn't heard. Didn't keep track of Dave and Clare after I moved away. Thought I would, had intentions to, just didn't.