Our black Akita, Nago, was an affectionate dog, except he hated to be hugged. He rolled around in the grass with my young daughters, Audrey Lynn, Alaina and Elizabeth, and watched over them as if they were his own, waiting till they were tucked into bed before going to sleep himself. He liked to be petted and to play with an old Reebok. But whenever I put my arms around his neck, he'd get panicky and struggle out of my grip. The girls knew hugging Nago was out of the question. "He must have his reasons," I told them.
When Audrey Lynn, the oldest, started kindergarten, Nago whined and moped around the kitchen. He missed her! Then he realized that she always came back in the afternoon, and he returned to his jolly self, happily playing fetch with Alaina and Elizabeth in the backyard.
One March morning I headed off for the bus stop with the girls in tow. Nago trotted beside us. I could see the mist of my breath in the crisp air. We huddled at the intersection to wait. Alaina wandered to the edge of the median alongside the road. She squatted on the ground, pulling on dewy stalks of grass. Nago sat next to her.
Clean up, fix lunch...I ticked off the chores I needed to do, and turned to the top of the steep hill, straining my eyes for the bus. Suddenly Nago jumped. I looked back. He leaped in front of Alaina, knocking her away from the road. "Nago!" I shouted, not sure what had made him do such a thing. Just then a pickup truck hauling a piece of farm machinery crested the hill and, losing control, skidded to a halt in front of us. Alaina was crying the grass, her arms clasped tightly around Nago's neck. Her little fingers clutched his coarse charcoal fur. A piece of machinery had jackknifed and skidded sideways to the very spot where she had been playing.
I scooped my daughter up and held her close. Then I rubbed Nago's big furry head. "You are an angel," I told him, which must be why he didn't allow hugs. They crushed his wings.
