A Homecoming Constant

An Ode To A Corgi Named Brynn - Part II

Part I, Part III, Part III.5, & Part IV

Allison lived on an extensive horse ranch outside the city of Redmond, about an hour drive from my folks place. We agreed to meet later in the week, and my anticipation could barely be contained. With jokes of the Queen’s royal ‘legion’ in abundance amongst my friends, it felt like little Corgi was already family before she had even stepped through the door.

The November morning of our meet-cute carried a brisk chill, an indicator of the glum transition from autumn into winter. While my zip-up fleece wouldn’t stop the slight shivers, my nerves were fired up enough for me to feign notice. Stepping out of the car, I surveyed the surrounding area, as overcast skies made the thick mud and wooden fences seemingly extend to either ends of the earth. Allison’s tiny ranch home felt like a blip amongst the backdrop.

Knocking on her front door created a cascade of what sounded like cataclysmic events. A cacophony of howls, yaps, and barks echoed from behind the red door, followed up by loud hushes, “Quiet!”, and “No bark!”. My brows frowned in curiosity, inquisitive about the variety of noises coming from beyond. Someone I assumed was Allison attempted to pry the door open with herculean effort whilst keeping the dogs inside - a talent only few can attest to. Through the small slit in the door appeared a partial face amongst several wet noses. Using her foot as a barricade, Allison strained to ask if she could open the door and let the dogs out. My nod was barely complete before the flood gates were flung open, and a big mass of pure fur exploded out towards me  - The question seemed rhetorical in nature.

Thinking at first my eyes must have been deceiving me, as I was bombarded by dogs of all breeds and sizes in the front yard, tales wagging in anxious excitement to greet me. From an Australian shepherd & cattle dog, to even a Great Dane & chihuahua, the small ranch house soon became the equivalent of a doggie clown car. Unfortunately, I lacked enough limbs to keep up with the barrage of invitations for pets & ear scratches. Allison must have seen the look of pure shock & terror stroll across my face, as she preemptively answered the question forming in my head, while letting out a slight chuckle - “Yes, they’re all mine!”. Counting back now, Allison must have had up to 14 dogs living with her.

As my mind adjusted to the chaos of dogs encircling me on all sides, out amongst the crowd I spotted the corgi puppy. My first memory of her will always be the distinctive way she expressed excitement - her stubby tail would vibrate with such intensity, lowering her head as if to counterbalance herself from flying away, as a goofy opened mouth smile appeared across her face. Once all three were in alignment, she would gallop towards you with such warmth, you couldn’t help but think even the coldest heart wouldn’t be healed from experiencing her.

Allison introduced herself, and quickly motioned to come inside her ranch home. Even now I struggle to put a finger on Allison’s demeanor. A bit reserved, maybe guarded, with a dash of aloofness. I could only assume that despite her lively companions, living out this far in seclusion would result in loneliness. At the time, I didn’t realize how similar we were, even though this may have all been my own projection.

All of us, dogs included, gathered inside her tiny house. After making a quick joke about how crazy it must be to live with so many dogs, she gestured to her bedroom, and said “if you think that’s nuts, try sleeping with all of them”, as my eyes wandered to a king size bed, the comforter with myriad of imprints from where the dogs lay. How she ever received a full night's sleep is beyond me.

“So you’ve met Brynn!” Allison announced as everyone settled down, and I was crouched over, rubbing the belly of the runt corgi below me. Allison soon went into the intricacies of how she brought Brynn into the family to help with the herding of her horses, as corgi are actually a decent herding breed, but Brynn became too spooked by them. Allison decided it would be best to rehome her, even though she said the decision was difficult. Despite her obvious love for the animals, she seemed to view the dogs, or at least Brynn, as a utility, rather than how a majority of us view them as a furry companion.

Allison didn’t have to ask if I wanted her; she could sense my decision was already made up by the excitement in my body language, and how I hadn’t stopped petting the damn dog. She was absolutely correct. After asking various questions about my lifestyle and future plans (trying to recall now feels completely unknown), and I’m assuming satisfied with my answers, Allison soon launched into the transactional items like Brynn’s diet, vet records, and the continued training she might need. Even at 6 months old, Brynn was still very much a puppy, something I would later on learn the hard way.

That wind chill filled November afternoon, I went home with a corgi puppy named Brynn. 

What happened between saying our goodbyes, and walking back out through Allison’s front door, I don’t remember well. I’m grasping to try and recall Allison’s reaction to Brynn leaving. There wasn’t sadness like Stout’s father, nor a sigh of relief. In retrospect, the whole scene felt relatively quick; the arrangement felt transactional, though I could sense Allison felt happy she had found a home for Brynn.

For myself, everything felt good, everything finally felt like it would be OK. This dog felt like the momentum necessary to crest the hill of my heartbreak, and who would fill the vast void of my loneliness. What a weight to put on such a small creature. My stubborn loneliness kept me from seeing how having a dog wasn’t the best move in the first place.

I opened the backdoor to my car, and plopped Brynn onto the backseat, her body bouncing slightly from the trampoline nature of the older Mercedes diesel as she settled in. Before ducking into the driver’s seat, I took one last look across the surrounding dreary countryside around me. A low fog was rolling in, and I was thankful my chosen isolation hadn’t resembled a literal purgatory. As we took off, I looked at Brynn through the rear-view mirror. Her nose was smashed up against the glass, smudges turning the window opaque. Her stubby legs struggled to balance on the door frame against the desolate washboard road, her eyes surveying the transitioning winter landscape of Central Oregon. Soon we would retreat into my home; the purgatory created solely for, and by, myself.