The Other Shih Tzu
“Maisy! Maisy! Come here, buddy!”
I am in my living room. The dog is standing in front of the bedroom about 20-feet away. She has turned her head to look at me as I implore her with happy good cheer. She observes me as one might a Petrie dish of bacteria in Siberia.
“Come on, buddy! Come here!”
She takes what seems to be a long, languorous breath. And then she turns back to my bedroom, meanders in, and jumps up on the bed. By the time I get to the bedroom door, she’s in a position of extraordinary comfort. By the time I get to my desk on the other side of the bed, she has closed her eyes. I rub her ear and she looks up at me with closed, tired eyes.
Her expression legibly states: “Don’t look now, but you came to me, Dad.”
“Huh. So I did.”
The Shih Tzu originated in Tibet, where they were associated with Tibetan Buddhism. Not known for their drive or agency, the Buddhists, the Shih Tzu followed suit and soon found itself lounging around the imperial palaces of China. There they no doubt were fed grapes by emperors, who were wondering how exactly their silk-pillow-laden tables had been turned on them. Their principal responsibilities were to look cute, provide companionship, and enjoy the comforts of palace life. Or, as it were, flat life.
Shih Tzu means ‘lion dog’, as lions in Buddhist symbolism represent strength, courage, and spiritual authority. My dog shows these qualities, but only when she’s hungry. And this royal and Buddhist bearing means that the Shih Tzu didn’t develop skills like other dogs. She can’t herd sheep or jump through a ring. She fetches socks to use as pillows. They were bred to be affectionate, sociable companions. And they have developed a reputation for independence and stubbornness. Thus, my one-sided conversation with an empty doorway where my Shih Tzu was standing.
Burke has owned Shih Tzus throughout her life and has confirmed this prevailing attitude of our little lion dog. “They have little recall,” she has said. “They do what they want.”
In my frustrated moments, she shows me videos online of Shih Tzus ignoring owners. I laugh, I cry. The dog leaps up onto the couch and cozies up to a pillow, heaves a deep breath, and drifts off into sleep.
I have come to terms with this. “It’s fine,” I say. “Totally fine.”
And it is. Or it would be, were it not for the Other Shih Tzu.
We see the Other Shih Tzu in the park all the time. The Other Shih Tzu is a boy. His owner has allowed his hair to grow out and so it flows low. He also has his hair tied in a topknot. In all, he sort of resembles Liam Neeson as Star Wars’ Qui-Gon Jinn, if Liam Neeson was a very short-legged dog.
The Other Shih Tzu walks as a serene companion behind its owner. The reason this Other Shih Tzu bothers me is that he requires no leash. He just meanders along, keeps up with his owner, and looks both ways at the streets. This dog is a Buddhist. My dog is the Buddhist who gets banished by the Buddhists for not being Buddhist enough.
We see the Other Shih Tzu the next day. He is walking along being present. He is having short legs. He is smelling a flower. We approach and I tighten my grip on the little lion dog I am walking. She wants to talk to the Other Shih Tzu. I smile at the owner, who regards me with a calm expression. I move Maisy quickly along, but she pulls relentlessly towards the Other Shih Tzu. He is busy being one with a trashcan.
We get to the pond of reflection and Maisy finds a stick. She chews on it for a while and then lies in the grass on her back. She rolls in joy. Meanwhile, I am worried about all the things I have to do that day. I have classes to prepare for, I have papers to grade, I have tests to write and texts to edit. When I come out of my future-task-based revelry of misery, the dog is lying on a bench. Her eyes are closed against the sun. She is resting. I sit with her for a bit, but eventually, I pick her up and head home.
