Basil leaves

Basil leaves. When I put it on my calendar, it looked like a grocery reminder, except that I lean toward seasonally fresh herbs. This time of year, I’m using sage, rosemary, and copious quantities of the cilantro that overwintered in my garden and is now doing a bang-up impression of a small shrubbery.

Basil leaves. It wasn’t about cooking. It was a marker for when Basil (pronounced like dazzle, with a b), our temporary pup, would start his long journey back to his rightful owners in Australia. I couldn’t fault them for wishing him home. After 90 days of standing in as his stateside caregivers, my wing-man and I came to appreciate this dog’s winsome qualities. And, by appreciate I mean we lapped up the canine Kool-Aid. We were all in, smitten, to the point of imagining the relationship lasting longer than three months.  But even as they materialized, those thoughts felt shameful. Coveting someone else’s furry pal had to come loaded with bad karma.

Well-meaning folks offered hopeful recommendations. “Just keep him!” some said, goading us with accolades about how good we looked together. “Get a dog of your own!” said others, not understanding that our attachment was Basil-specific.

His first day here, we received a download of special instructions from which we cherry-picked, as any indulgent grandparent might. Contrary to guidance, he ate his meals in the same zone as our two felines, his bowl occupying the space vacated by the kitty who, eight months ago, came to the end of her ninth life. It was good to fill that point in the triangle again, at least for a little while.

On weekends, if we chose to lounge later than usual, we’d invite him into our bed for a full-on snuggle fest. Nights, however, were spent in his own fleece bed, on the floor next to us. We gave him extra blankets to assuage our guilt. Shadowing us, one after the other, he settled down only after verifying that his herd of two was also going bed.

The tag teaming reconvened the next morning. Twice in short succession, he’d back himself into the space between the wall and the toilet like an 18-wheeler at a loading dock, making it easier for us to offload rump rubs and ear tousles.

After sharing a quiet half-day working from home with me, his afternoons were spent out and about.  As man’s best friend (though dog’s best man is equally fitting), he visited the furniture shop, the coffee shop, the boat shop. He was an instant celebrity, so handsome, so friendly. He made friends easily and everywhere.

Basil is a Shetland Sheepdog, also known as a Sheltie and not to be confused with a Collie.

Playtime kicked off as soon as the boys returned home, with off-leash walks following, and outranking, rollicking sessions of ball chasing. Tail waving, Farrah Fawcett hair flowing, Basil looked like a standard-bearer leading his troops on parade. Making spirited zigzags across the road, he covered at least twice the distance of his comrades, doubling back to snuffle scents or lock eyes on squirrels, but never once lifting a leg or leaving any other calling cards. All that business was conducted strictly on home turf.

Basil never pulled on his leash, tormented the cats, begged for food, jumped up, tore down, shoved his nose into personal spaces or humped anything, ever. He seldom whined or barked, except when an incoming storm triggered an internal tempest, causing him to go a bit bonkers. He was self-contained, a gentleman and a dependable companion. Basil’s routines integrated almost seamlessly into our own. But, the truth is, unless his visit had turned out to be catastrophic, we would have made it our mission to accommodate him.

I wonder about such willingness to open our hearts to new relationships like this, meeting needs, accepting what they have to offer, not expecting a lot in return. So many of us fare better with pets than we do with people. For animals, we lead with benefit of the doubt. For humans, we assume the worst. A cat that looks over its shoulder, makes eye contact, and walks away isn’t in the mood for conversation. A person exhibiting the same behavior is rude. Dogs that beg for food are spoiled. Human beggars are pathetic.

We could argue that humans should know better, but most of us, at least intellectually, relate to how a bad day can preempt patience, how a deficient existence can lead to destitution. What is it that causes us to require so much more from each other than we do from our critters? Can we make a little space, show a little grace, take things less personally?

Basil left. He was flown to Los Angeles, spending three days there before being loaded into the belly of a second plane for a 16-hour flight to Melbourne. Upon arrival, he was taken to a government facility where he must fulfill a 10-day quarantine before he can go home to Sydney. One final plane ride.

The internet pictures look nice enough, I guess. The company responsible for his transport was top-notch, sharing reassuring updates with his owner, who graciously passed them on to us. The woman who collected him from our house that morning, eleven days ago, was warm and genuine. I wished she could stay with him for the whole journey. I hope the other humans he is meeting along the way are good to him. And, I hope, when they go on about their lives, they’re good to each other.

Basil left. Most of his gear is still here: his toys, his remaining food, his extra blankets. The cats are taking turns sleeping in his fleece bed. We haven’t made time yet to find another home for his belongings.

A few days ago, I watched a Carolina wren flit-skip across the mat just outside our sliding glass door. She poked at bits of this and that before lifting her head. In her beak, backlit and shining, was a strand of Basil’s fur. She left, presumably flying back to her nest with ideas for how to weave just a bit more softness into her world.

~Elizabeth