Posts Tagged ‘dogs’

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Dog Days

June 20, 2017

For those who are inexperienced in such matters, life with a dog is significantly different from life without one. I am particularly aware of this because I happen to have a foot in both worlds.

I do not own a dog myself, so the majority of my time is spent dogless. However, since both my brother-in-law and niece are dog owners who go away fairly often, I thus become de facto caretaker of an intensely loyal Schnauzer named Rocky and a cute but rambunctious Morkie named Max.

Rocky and Max

I love animals in general, but dogs have a special place in my heart. The unconditional love they share with the humans in their lives is unmatched (very often by humans themselves), and there is no price that can be put on the joy they bring us.

But, as with everything in life, there are pitfalls as well, ones about which the dogless are oblivious.

Dogs, for instance, do not know how to use a toilet. Such an incongruous idea never occurs to those who are not in the position of walking a dog in pouring rainstorms, freezing cold, or sweltering heat (one becomes hyper-sensitive to weather forecasts in such situations) or at inconvenient hours (such as 5:00 in the morning or after you have already gotten ready for bed). At least cats, for all their faults, know how to use a litter box. But I digress.

Dogs (many of them I hear, and certainly the two in my life) like to sleep with their humans. Now I am not so fussy as to object to a pup snuggled at the foot of my bed, but when he insists on cuddling up right next to me on my pillow, that’s where I draw the line. Dogs, unfortunately, don’t understand the lines that one draws.

Dogs like to bark, some more than others. Chloe, the pit bull that lives down the street, never barks. In stark contrast, Rocky and Max make a living barking. At the mailman. At the children passing on the way to or from school. At birds that fly by, at squirrels that prance teasingly on the branches outside the window knowing they are immune, at chipmunks that scurry by the front door, and at cats. Especially cats.

This is particularly problematic for us since we maintain a small group of feral cats who have lived in and about our yard for years (now all neutered). They are friendly and entertaining and keep down the rodent population in the garden. It is not difficult, in my opinion anyway, to live at peace with them.

Rocky and Max, on the other hand, have quite a different perspective. It is their mission to relentlessly pursue them (a near impossible task if you are at all familiar with cats) and, failing that, to bark their fool heads off whenever they see them (like when lounging in their favorite spot on our deck). I have taken to keeping large cardboard sections handy to strategically place in lines of sight by doors and windows to control the racket.

My brother-in-law employs shock collars to deal with this problem at his house, but I don’t have the heart to do that. I’ll just stick to the cardboard.

Dogs like to eat. They like to eat just about anything, above all whatever you happen to be eating. At the table during breakfast, lunch, or dinner. On the couch snacking during TV time. In the car after a stop at the drive-in or ice cream shop. Dogs also don’t quite get the impropriety of begging.

During this current period of dog days, it is only Max that is staying here. He is watching me right now as I write this from his customary perch on the back of the couch (he has a Snoopy complex in that regard). I had considered letting him look this over before posting it, but his editing skills don’t quite match his barking ability. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind my minor criticisms, for he knows well my tender feelings toward him as does Rocky.

Though at times I look forward to being free of the inconveniences of their presence, each time they go, I end up missing them. And I think perhaps that is the most essential measure of the quality of life with a dog.

Whaddaya mean the cats are your friends???

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Two Dogs, One Book, and a Long Lost Friend

August 21, 2016

“In essence, everything in the entire universe is intimately linked with each other as moments in time, continuous and separate.” — Dogen Zenji, ancient Zen master

This is a story about a confluence of events that I could not have envisioned beforehand, the unpredictable kind that sometimes occur in life. It concerns two pit bulls, a book about dying, and a friend lost for forty-two years.

The story really begins back in June of 1970, before I met the two dogs, before I read the book, and before the friend was lost. The place was Saxtons River, Vermont, the training site of Peace Corps Group 39, scheduled to depart for the Philippines that September. It was there I met several people who were to become my friends — Greg, Steve, Max, Judy, and Linda — our relationship born of the communal spirit of the intense training as well as shared interests and that indefinable element that makes connections occur between certain people and not others.

Once arriving in the Philippines, we headed off to our assignments scattered amongst the far-flung archipelago. Greg, Max, and I took up residence in different towns in the same province in southern Luzon and ended up working together for part of our two-year tour. After some initial scrambling, Judy and Linda wound up in Davao City on the southern coast of Mindanao, about as far as one could be from where the rest of us were located. Steve found himself in an isolated area and in a job that never quite defined itself. An artist, he became unhappy with this situation and stayed only a brief time. He returned home, reportedly joined the Coast Guard, never to be heard from again.

We were all involved in teacher-training programs which often resulted in a high degree of frustration. Linda became especially disenchanted, and in the spring of 1971 returned to the states to pursue a degree in nursing. All of us continued communicating through the writing of letters (this was the 70’s, after all). Greg and I even managed to get together every so often after our homecoming.

However, in February of 1974, I received the last letter from Linda. It became the last letter because of my failure to write back, thus letting go of the remaining thread of connection to a friend, something I unfortunately have done several other times in the past.

Then in April of 1982, one of those strange late season snow storms struck. I took the opportunity to undertake one of my many (and mostly unsuccessful) attempts to clean out — or at least organize — my incredibly cluttered basement. In sorting through the piles of stuff, I came across that 1974 letter. Despite the passage of time, I decided to write a return letter. It came back stamped Address Unknown. I assumed that was it.

However, in 2003, after seeing a documentary about a guy who wanted to find buddies from his old neighborhood by searching on the internet, it struck me that I could do the same. Having only recently been introduced to the online world, a sincere but clumsy search ensued. I found what I thought to be a likely address and sent my last attempt at reconnection. No answer. I thought I had hit a dead end.

Fast forward to May 2016, a typical late spring day with nothing special on the agenda. My wife sorted through the mail that afternoon and said, “Here. This is for you.” When I saw the return address, I was stunned. Could this possibly be?

I opened the envelope, and indeed it was a letter from Linda. In it she said she had been cleaning her desk and came across my letter of 2003. She didn’t remember if she had ever answered it but figured she would respond now, saying that compared to my lapse of twenty-nine years between her last letter to mine that she was being quite prompt at only thirteen. We agreed to write a bit more regularly than that, modernizing to the more timely email mode.

The book, Where River Turns to Sky, arrived unexpectedly in the mail a few weeks later, a novel about aging and loneliness and the struggle with the end years and ultimate death. When described that way, most people say “Why on earth would you want to read that?!” Well, two reasons. One, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about these subjects for a while now. Two, because whenever Linda, a true bibliophile, had recommended a book in the past, she was always on the money. So read it I did.

In the story, two old men, George and Ralph, had been left alone after the deaths of their wives. But they had each other, at least until a stroke devastated Ralph. Relatives put him in a nursing home where he lay unresponsive, and his good friend George was the only one to come to visit him. He did so religiously, sitting by the bedside and talking to his friend, feeling that Ralph was still inside there somewhere listening. George made a promise to Ralph that he would not let him die alone.

One day George went on a short fishing trip, one he took many times with Ralph, though not quite the same now. When he returned to visit Ralph, he found his room empty. He had died. Alone.

George exploded in grief and anger at himself for breaking his promise to his friend. He swore he would never let anyone else die alone in the bleak, uncaring environment of the nursing home. He proceeded to buy a big red house in the middle of town and by hook or by crook get as many residents out of the Home and into a real home where a community of support and actual caring could be theirs in what time they had remaining in this life.

Amongst the residents was Rose, a spiritual being who spoke of death being something not to be feared but rather as a natural part of the circle of life. And inevitably, death came to some residents including both Rose and George, but not before they lived together sharing joyful moments and exasperating ones — the stuff of real life. It brought tears to my eyes, something no book had done in quite a while.

During the time I was reading Where River Turns to Sky, I met Chloe. As I turned the corner at the end of my block on the way home from my morning walk one day, I heard a voice calling me.

“Yoo hoo! Excuse me! Can you help me?”

The voice came from a woman to whom I waved hello in passing from time to time. She stood outside her open garage door, a dog lying near her in the entrance.

“I’ve locked myself out of my house! Do you know how to pick a lock?”

I informed her that skill was unknown to me as I approached to assess the situation further. The dog, a light brown pit bull, slowly rose and limped over to greet me with a nuzzle of my leg.

“This is Chloe,” said the woman. “Say hello to the nice man, Chloe.”

I extended my hand since Chloe was clearly both docile and friendly. I scratched behind her ears and she nuzzled me again, asking for more. I noticed Chloe’s haunch had been shaved and bore a large scar.

The woman introduced herself and indicated that she didn’t know what to do because she had to go to work soon. I suggested that she walk with me to my house down the block where she could call a locksmith.

As we walked, Chloe limping beside us, she told me about herself. Rose happened to be from the Philippines, something I had already surmised from her accent, and she was a nurse at a local hospital. She had taken Chloe in from a Newark shelter to foster during her convalescence. Poor Chloe had been abused and abandoned and then hit by a car, hence the scar. In spite of her terrible previous life, she was the sweetest dog. Rose thought she would most likely adopt Chloe.

After I got my phone and a locksmith’s number, Rose paused then excitedly exclaimed, “Wait! I just remembered something! My niece has a key, and she works nearby.”

I offered to drive her there to pick up the key, so Chloe clambered into the back seat, and we all drove together to retrieve the key. I dropped Rose and Chloe off, and she thanked me profusely.

“Be sure to come back and visit us any time!” she called as I pulled away.

The next day we heard a knock on the door. There stood Rose, a thank you cake in one hand and Chloe’s leash in the other. We invited them in, and Chloe greeted us warmly and then explored the entire house, plopping herself down by the front door when finished. From that day forward, each time Rose walks her, Chloe pulls Rose up our front walk looking for another visit. Whenever we see her on the block, she greets all with great warmth, including a new neighbor with a little boy in a stroller whom Chloe proceeded to “kiss” much to the little guy’s delight. I have yet to hear Chloe bark or growl.

Chloe

Chloe

A few days after finishing Where River Turns to Sky, a phone call came from my niece. Emma is a sensitive young woman with a tender spot in her heart for animals, especially dogs. There have been a succession of beloved dogs in her house, the current ones being Rocky the Schnauzer and Max the Morkie. She volunteers at an animal shelter, and this was the topic of her tearful call.

She had just encountered the sweetest dog she had ever met there, a pit bull named Bruno. Of course the image of my new friend Chloe came to mind. She told us that Bruno had a heart condition and had only two months to live. He had spent years in shelters and deserved to know a loving home in the short time he had left in this world. She wanted to take him, but her living situation precluded that. She thought we could provide that final home for him.

I had my doubts. Bruno was a large pit bull. We had Pop, a rather frail 95-year-old, living with us in our small house. But I too share her feelings about animals, and having just read the book Linda had sent left me particularly vulnerable. Could I let this poor creature die alone? I agreed to go meet Bruno myself.

I brought Pop and my wife along for they too must be in on the decision. When we arrived at the shelter, though, I figured I’d see Bruno first to make some kind of initial assessment before bringing Bernadette and Pop in. While they waited in the reception area, I headed off to the “meet and greet” room.

The handler came in to ask me a few questions and then picked up all the doggie toys from the floor and placed them on a high shelf, which struck me as a bit odd. I had bought some treats for Bruno, so I followed his lead and placed the bag with the toys. A few minutes later, the handler returned with Bruno, who was straining at his leash and pulling the handler, a rather burly gent, behind him. My first thought was that he was aptly named. Bruno came in and sniffed around the room, pretty much ignoring me. I had imagined a greeting like Chloe’s, but Bruno had a much different presence.

I asked the handler if I could give Bruno a treat, hoping that would break the ice. With a raised eyebrow, he said, “You’d better let me do it.” He took one from the bag and held it out. Bruno lunged for his hand, the handler tossing the snack into Bruno’s mouth as he quickly withdrew.

“He has an issue with food possessiveness. That and toys. You need to be careful with both.”

Not exactly the kind of information I was looking for. He continued, telling me that Bruno also had pulling issues (an image flashing in my mind of my diminutive wife trying to walk him and then another of Bruno bowling over Pop on his way to the food bowl). I asked how he was with other animals.

“Well, he hates cats.”

I envisioned our friendly ferals who come up on our deck to visit and Bruno smashing through the glass door to get at them.

“He also is not so good with certain dogs. Or young children.”

I pictured my walks through the neighborhood when I care for Rocky with all the local kids who run up to pet him and all the other small dogs we run across who sniff their greetings to each other. I shuddered at the idea of doing so with Bruno.

Finally I asked about his medical condition and what could be expected as his time drew near.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” the handler said with a quizzical look.

I repeated what Emma had told me about his two months left to live.

“No, not at all. He does have a 5th degree heart murmur, but there is no immediate danger. As a matter of fact, he’s pretty healthy. He could live another ten years.”

I thanked him for his time and told him that I didn’t think Bruno was right for our situation. On my way out, I wondered about the huge miscommunication that obviously had occurred with Emma. I relayed what I had learned to Bernadette and Pop on the drive home. I heard a decidedly loud sigh of relief coming from the back seat of the car.

Bruno

Bruno

How does the story end? Well, it doesn’t, not really.

It looks like Chloe will enjoy a life together with Rose and more than occasional visits to my house for good measure. Bruno awaits someone who can provide the kind of home that suits them both. In the meanwhile he’ll be cared for at the shelter with Emma, I’m sure, giving him an extra dose of TLC whenever she can.

I’ve started another book sent to me by Linda, A Tale for the Time Being, one which contemplates life and death, the nature of being, and the fate of inextricably bound people. I believe there will be many more welcome recommendations to come.

And my long-lost friend is now lost no more.

Two old letters found, two old letters answered years apart. Two dogs abandoned to shelters; one finds a loving home, one does not, my path crossing with both. Just the right book arrives at just the right time for just the right reader.

To what can this be attributed? Serendipity? Fate? I do not know. But I do know how to be thankful for good fortune, and I remain mindful of these simple events and their strange connectivity so often present in the world.

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My So-Called Dogless Life

August 26, 2015
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this connection we have — yes, you can call it love

I didn’t have a dog during my childhood years. I don’t remember any of my friends having one either. My Uncle Emerson had a dog, but my recollections of it are sketchy since we didn’t visit them very often. Nonetheless, dogs have always been a presence in my life in one way or another even though I’ve never actually “owned” one.

Most of the encounters I had with the canine world in the beginning were negative. First, there was Trooltz. Trooltz lived next door and belonged to our Norwegian neighbors Astrid and Teddy. I’m not sure of his breed, but he seemed to be on the frenetic side and needed to be put in a closed room on the occasions we went over there. Most of my memories of him involved a lot of barking and an incident when he bit my sister.

Next were a series of pooches who took up an adversarial relationship with me merely because I tried to deliver the newspaper to their masters. Chief amongst these was Prince, a large and very fierce Doberman Pinscher who lived in the middle of my route. His owner, a rather burly German man, maintained pretty good control of Prince whenever I came around. When the man gruffly commanded Prince to sit or leave, he obeyed, though I always thought I caught some backward glances that said “I’ll get you for this.”

One day he almost did. I rang the bell as usual on a Friday to collect the payment owed (a mighty thirty-three cents for the week), but the grandmother got to the door first. She opened it, and behind her in the vestibule I could see Prince’s eyes open wide at his sudden unexpected opportunity. He lunged past the old woman, snarling and fangs bared. Lucky for me it had recently turned cool and I had on a hooded sweatshirt with one of those thick hand warmer pockets in the front. That’s what Prince’s jaws clamped onto. Hearing the commotion, the man sprinted to the door and grabbed Prince by the collar, dragged him back inside, and gave him a swat and what I had the distinct impression was a cursing out in German. I must have looked rather shaken (and indeed I was), for he apologized profusely and as I remember gave me a larger than normal tip.

Other dogs had better luck over the next several years both on that paper route as well as when I worked a summer job as a meter reader for Public Service. I was nipped on the legs more than a few times and once rather roughly on the butt. These were mostly the small yappy kind that didn’t strike the same kind of fear that Prince had, but getting bit is getting bit, and the resultant pain and aggravation didn’t exactly endear the species to me.

It’s a wonder given such a shaky start that I like dogs so much now.

I think the tide started to turn after my wife’s parents decided to get a dog. Why they did this, I’m not sure, but Renoir, a small white poodle, took up residence at their home. Renoir’s sweet disposition offset the inherent high-strung nature of the breed, and we got along just fine. His death brought the sadness which permeates households that bear such losses, and my father-in-law voiced his reluctance to have another pup.

But there were to be more dogs, a succession of Schnauzers procured by my brother-in-law, first Hugo, then Teddy, and currently Rocky, each in turn to whom I felt a greater attachment.

My brother-in-law got Hugo for himself shortly after Renoir’s passing, but because he lived in a small apartment in New York and Hugo had a habit of chewing my sister-in-law’s favorite shoes, Hugo became Renoir’s forced successor. However, Hugo won Pop and Mary over, and he became a beloved fixture at their house. When Hugo became old and very ill, Pop tearfully took him to be put down. It hit him very hard, and he swore that there would be no more dogs.

And there weren’t. At least not at their house.

By this time, my niece Emma had arrived, and as a little girl she had no desire greater than to have a puppy. To at least partially fulfill her wish, her grandma Mary bought her a mechanical stuffed toy dog that walked. Emma lovingly named it Puppy, and for years they were inseparable. Even after the mechanical innards had come out and the fur had become worn and tattered, Puppy remained a constant companion until the day it mysteriously disappeared. However, the arrival of Teddy cured any sorrow Emma may have had.

Emma adored Teddy, and he lived a full and happy life with the family. When he aged and his health started to fail, my brother-in-law brought home Rocky. Rocky was a frisky little guy from the start and wanted to strike up a relationship with Teddy. Age and infirmity sometimes made Teddy impatient with the new puppy, but he made his peace with Rocky and they shared some happy days together. With great sadness Teddy’s time came, and the mantle passed to Rocky.

Emma's Rocky, the pet I always wished I had

Rocky

Though I still don’t have a dog of my own, Rocky is the next best thing. I see him all the time, and we have become best buddies.  We take long walks together enjoying the simple pleasure of being out and about unhurried in the world, he sniffing and me viewing the subtle pulse of the neighborhood. When his family goes on vacation, he stays with us. Nothing pleases him more than sitting together with his humans on the couch as we watch TV, head nestled on one of our laps. At night, he settles in at the foot of the bed (though he would just as soon be under the covers along with us). We are convinced he tries to talk to us. Even though that form of communication is inexact, looking into his soulful eyes is not. To argue that there is no love to be found there would be futile as far as I am concerned.

Max

Max

There is also a new kid on the block. Emma, now all grown up, has a new baby, a cute prima donna named Max. He is a Morkie, as ready to bark his head off at you as he is to lick you lovingly. Max and Rocky have a relationship common to human siblings, episodes of jealousy and scuffling interspersed with camaraderie and togetherness. He chews everything up, has difficulty mastering the art of being house trained, and can be quite demanding, yet he has worked his way into our hearts.

I know that for those who have never experienced the day-to-day presence of Man’s Best Friend (a title not taken lightly by either party), it may be difficult to understand the important place these creatures can have in one’s life. This relationship that exists between man and dog has developed over thousands of years and is unique among all animals in its intimacy and common understanding.

Yes, they need to be walked even in inclement weather. Yes, inconvenience in travel and expense for vet trips may be incurred. Yes, there may be hair on the rug and toys on the floor. But the companionship given, the devotion displayed, and the unqualified love offered are all far greater hallmarks of life with dogs. Whether it is a service dog aiding the disabled or a rescue mutt adopted by an average family, these creatures have the capacity to open up an unshakable emotional connection with us.  All you need to do is observe the pure joy in the greeting someone receives from his or her dog, and it should be clear that, as grandma Mary so simply and precisely put it, nobody loves you like your dog.

"Nobody loves you like your dog." -- Mary

“Nobody loves you like your dog.” — grandma Mary