A Dog's Life...

Not mine, mind you.  But theirs.

It is no great secret that, while growing up, I really really wanted a dog.  I wanted a friend, someone who was there, in my corner, for me, and had my back.  Unfortunately, dogs aren't quite that discriminating.  Don't get me wrong - I expect that had I been lucky enough to have a pet, it would have had my back, and those of all of my sisters.  Sad thing was most often, I needed the dog to protect me from the sisters.

I am indeed fortunate that none of my siblings ever chose to go into politics, because, well, the stories I could tell.  And the true stories, not the crap they'd trot out.  Such as the time I got neck deep in trouble because one of my sisters kept screwing around while I was trying to close the back window on the family station wagon.

For those of you who did not have or never will have the privilege, back in the 1970s or so, there were these pre-minivan vehicles known as Station Wagons.  Take your average sedan of any make, remove the rear trunk, replace it with another seating section that converts, and then introduce a door.  Our family owned three Ford Station Wagons - an early 70s model of some unknown sort, a 1976 variant, and a 1981 Crown Vic Wagon.  All were five-door vehicles with that amazing rear door.  

If you had or knew someone who had one, you probably knew the miracles.  If you didn't, well, there was some genuine engineering.  The standard Ford rear area for the station wagon offered two basic sorts of layouts.  The first I became familiar with was a pair of seats which faced one another.  You opened the back door, reached in, pressed a button which was in a small recess in the rear of one side panel, aluminum, most likely, with a small pattern of squares in it.  Once button was pressed hard enough, there would be a pop and one of the flaps that split the rear of the wagon would pop up a little.  You could then lift that up and reveal a seat which ran sideways, compared to the other seats, so that if you and a sibling (for it held two) were sitting in it, you had your back to one side of the car, while your "forward view" was out the other side through the large side window - unless you were unfortunate enough to have another sibling or two plonked on the other side, where there was another seat.

Mind you, over the age of six, your knees knocked together, or worse, you had to sort out whose feet went where, and so fort.  There was some room under the opposing seat, which worked, but some of the best deals were if you were the only sibling turfed out of "standard seating" you might be able to negotiate riding in the rear alone, and you could flop down the other side so you had your very own table before you, you could draw, write, do whatever on your very own table while moving.

But that rear door, that was something.  In the three vehicles we had, the rear window did not have a frame, it was just a sheet of glass which pressed up against a gasket around that rear window.  It could be opened in part or all the way down to completely disappear inside the rear door frame.  If it was not retracted like that, you could use the rear handle, typically directly behind the driver on the outside of the door, to open the door, where it would swing wide on the hinge mounted on the passenger side of the vehicle.  My theory was that it had been designed like that because while most cars parked with the passenger side against the curb, it was designed to release the unsupervised rear seat riding wee pollywog of the family so they might dart right into traffic, thus reducing the surplus children in the vehicle.  

If, however, you used the switch in the driver's section, or the key, in the back door of the vehicle, you could use the vehicle's power to roll the window down.  Now, some of you kids will snort as you read this, but back in the dark ages, most car windows came with this strange thing called a crank.  Well, it wasn't medicinal in any way, nor was it an illegal drug of any sort - though it could, if you were not careful, end with some mind-altering moment, if you started using the crank to lower the window and someone decided to stop rather quickly.  If you were among the shorter members of the family and had to lean forward to reach the crank and get it to turn, you could end up ramming your head into the dash pretty solidly if you were the front-seat passenger who wasn't watching the traffic.

So being able to use that powered window was pretty cool.  Mind you, if you're the pollywog riding dork in the back seat, well, you have no control over your airflow, you just get what gets passed back - that includes any open windows, farts, or anything else including smoke.  Unless that rear window was open at least a crack, you were the cesspit when it came to freshly used air.  

But if you lowered that window all the way down, you reached over the back lip of the door, grabbed the handle, and usually had to pull up.  Once you did that, after a sound thunk, the rear door would fold downward, so that you had a little bit more space, or a seat, or ... well, it was there for you.  

Which is where I got into trouble.  After helping haul in the remaining groceries from the monthly trip to Warehouse Market, I had gone out to get the last bag.  Two sisters followed me, because the only place I could count on to be alone would be some times the bathroom or fairly far up a tree or out into the woods.  In the driveway?  Nope.  Someone had to see what the hell I was doing or get in the way so I couldn't.  I'd been given my mother's car keys (why she had them, I do not know, because at the time, she did not drive) to close the door, and put up the rear window.  

As I did it, the youngest of the two knuckleheads kept trying to stick her hand in the window to see if she could beat me.  I kept stopping, because, well, I was a fool.  I kept telling her to stop it, her older sister also repeated my warning/direction/advice/recommendation/suggestion, as it seemed to drop in urgency for her, until I said "I need to close this so I can go inside and pee!"  The last being a partial attempt at manipulation on my part, because I did not have to pee, really, but at worst case, I could get the window closed and by the time I'd gotten into the house, at least one of them would have run in and gone into the "Kid's bathroom" while the other would plead her need to relieve herself and the other bathroom was occupied, so could she please pretty please use mom and dad's?  Thus I'd get some peace and quiet with those two locking themselves in bathrooms, where I did not in fact need to be.  

"Okay, close it" she said and made to turn away.  I said "I'm gonna, don't put your hand in there" and turned back to the rear of the car and pretended to turn the key.  She did not fake towards the window.  So I looked at both of them and turned the key.  

Then she screamed, because she put her hand in the small gap, which disappeared when I closed the window.  Then quickly reversed it.  And both of them went screaming into the house, because I'd done horrid things to them.  And of course, I was utterly at fault because only a wretched scrap of a human would seal his sister's delicate little finger, squashing it between a thick sheet of glass and a chunk of rubbery gasket that was at least twice as thick as her finger.

But we all know I'm the wretched, horrid, brutal human.  And got the what-for from both parents for abusing that beautiful, delicate child, because we of course know that when there are three children involved in anything, there's going to be at least four different versions of the truth, no one will agree 100% on it, let alone two of them agree on major facts of the crime.

I mean, the simple fact that both girls confirmed that it was a tan station wagon that was the weapon of choice confirmed, for my parents, that they were telling the truth, whereas when I surveyed the garage and driveway regularly for about five years, the only vehicle owned by the residents of that house which could be found in the driveway or garage was a tan station wagon.  It's a little bit like asking the tree George Washington allegedly fell if it was a Cherry Tree it's entire life, or was it certain that it hadn't changed from an Apple, Pear, Banana, or Palm tree at an earlier age?

So yeah, kids.  But to get back to Dogs, for very many years I would see, with deep regret, announcements that people had misplaced pets or that the pet had, in the end, passed away, with assistance or otherwise.  

Now that I have owned or been owned by pets, cats and dogs, for the last 30 years, I know the pain.  I know that pain when a constant companion who gives that semi-conditional unconditional love, who can't tell you they hurt, or are in agony, suddenly is discovered to be dying from some long, drawn-out illness.  Unlike the old Soviet Premiers of the past century, who were always in exceedingly excellent health conditions until the moment they succumbed to a terribly long-drawn out battle with some nasty disease, most of the pets I've been fortunate to have been associated with have given us some warning before the end drew nigh.

Not that it made it any easier.  And even today, I can read about the loss of a pet I've never met or known, and mourn for the family members who will miss that soft, furry companion with the wet, or dry nose, the strange squawk or high-pitched yelp, and the stand-offish or very cuddly behavior - because it was a known friend to someone.  My first pet, Tish, was a good cat who cuddled my kids, my wife and I, and stayed with us every day right up until his last.  He passed away in our home, on the couch, one of his favorite places.  He hopped up into a warm spot one of the kids had probably left, deciding he'd rather stay in the quiet, watch the pretty lights of a Fiber Optic Christmas Tree we also used as something of a night light, and those were, I expect, his final sights before he breathed his last.  

This was preferable, in my mind, I guess, to how our first pet died.  Gilligan, the little fat cat whom we adopted purely by accident as my wife ran into his then owner as the fellow was about to release this little kitten, half the size he should have been at six months, into the wild outside our apartment building.  The little guy might have made it five minutes before a crow landed on him, but he was lucky.  My wife was coming home as this kid was heading down the stairs to the exit.  

He already had seven cats, didn't know why he'd gotten an eighth - well, no, actually, he wanted a cat for each of the dinosaurs in  the land before time movies.  Ducky, who later became known to us as Gillie, was the tail end charlie who the boss cat did not allow to eat or sleep or, well, live.  For some reason this six-month-old kitten was a real threat to the brute.

Gillie died after kidney failure, probably due to his overweight after eating a lot because he was worried the food might go away.  We had little buddy for about twelve years before he passed.  Tish made it a hair short of twenty years.

Daisy, our first dog, was poisoned by someone passing our fence who tossed some food in.  Dogs being dogs, she ate it.  She was one of the very best dogs I ever met.  Beautiful, sweet, and a genuine sense of humor, she was the protector of my baby boy who was all of about four when she came into our lives.  Within the first few hours we had her, their relationship was defined and rock solid.  

He, as four year olds do, was running around on our deck.  She was trying to chase him thought it was a game.  He could see over her back, barely, but as for size comparison, she was pretty much a horse to him.  And as she was trying to get around behind him to follow, she passed him, and one of his arms flopped into her open mouth.  Now, if you've seen a German Shepherd smiling and panting, you have some idea of what Daisy's jaw looked like.  She was a Belgian Tervuren, a distant relative of those German Shepherd dogs, having longer hair, and because the breed is rarer, a lot smarter.  You think I say that because I'm biased.  Nope, you will find a lot of police dogs, where the German Shepherd used to hold the lion's share, are now Malinois, Tervuren, or Groenendael - similar dogs, their coloring and coat length varies.  The Tervs have the longer coat.  Think Irish Setter, much softer.  

But there's my four year old who just realized his arm was sliding on the teeth of this giant dog we invited into his home.  He started to freak.  I, thank God, was watching the exact instant that Daisy realized what was in her mouth, and, in less than 24 hours with us, realized that it wasn't food, turned her head to avoid the arm, and kept chasing him.  When he started freaking out, she just stopped, next to him, and stared at me.  Before he could get into full freakout mode I stopped him.  "Did you see what she just did?  Her boy tried to punch her in the mouth, and she turned her head away.  You're not even worth eating - she's going to protect you!"  

Boy was I right.  A few nights later we heard the telltale snuffling from his room.  We had learned to identify the warning sounds that let us know the kid was about to have another night terror - a terrifying waking dream that would leave him screaming as if he had witnessed a murder and the killer was after him, nothing would shake him out of it until you squeezed him close and his wide-open eyes finally let the brain know he was home, safe, it was mom or dad.

On this particular occasion, the dog headed straight into his room, and up onto his bed.  I walked back down the hall and looked, and there she lay, right next to him, his hands tangled in her fur.  And he was sleeping silently.

She was wonderful with both kids, and both cats.  And when we decided to compound the chaos and add a brand new puppy to the family, we brought her to the store to meet Lily before we committed to the adoption.  Lily was almost six and a half weeks old, and was utterly intimidated.  I don't know if it was because she was a rescue for folks who had previously rescued only cats, but the fellow had a bag of puppies he was either going to give them or throw in a lake, and the bag was already sealed with a brick in it.  I don't blame them for changing their mind.

Had I known then what I learned later, the small puppy who was often ignored or left alone by the other siblings in the kennel was not lonely.  She wasn't isolated, ostracized, or not part of the family.  She was the queen bitch who no one wanted to mess with because they were goign to get their heads handed to them - in pieces.

But boy, was Lily smart.  As the first of our hopefully never-ending run of Australian Heelers, she talked sass, she was a fun little puppy, and she looked up to Daisy as the mom who had abandoned her three weeks earlier.  She loved her big sister/substitute mom, and would often nap on her.  Because it was comfortable.

And when Daisy had to be put down due to the poison taking it's toll, Lily didn't like being an only puppy.  She liked it even less when we bothered to get a dog smaller than she was, who got bigger than she was, who didn't always immediately defer to her royal status.  So when she contracted cancer, probably due to the chemicals sprayed on the grass where we had to live, well, her time was over far, far, far too early.  Eight years is far too soon to say goodbye to a puppy who came into your life at the age of six weeks.  Daisy came into our lives as a full-grown pet, a gentle, sweet giant whose previous owner was forced to get rid of her because his new wife feared large dogs, thought they might not be good with small children.  

She said this about a dog who protected her boy of only a few hours the best she could, but did so much better a few years later when I watched a sticky-faced, sticky-fingered toddler use her fur to climb from seated to standing.  The look on her face as she let this small person whom she had just met moments before use her to bring himself upright, all the while leaving a sticky trail through her glorious fur coat, well, it was priceless, and I'm sure I never fully repaid her - though I do think steak, daily, for her entire life probably wasn't enough payment for what a wonderful family member she was.

And so, of course, we come to little Charlie, another cat whom we had for a short period, because Ella, our calico cat, needed a friend who wouldn't chase her around the house, Lily learned not to, so when my son charmed Charlie out of his hiding spot when no one else had been able to - and Charlie only met Jack a few minutes prior to his emergence - well, Charlie had a rough life.  He preferred his alone time, he wanted peace and quiet.  And we really didn't provide it for him, because only about two years after he became part of our family, we had to re-home him because we had lost our home.  

Charlie managed to live five more weeks.  He'd already been a sickly old fellow with special dietary needs, but we'd been feeding the same sort of feed he needed to our dear old Tish for about 16 of his years, so we knew what we were getting into, but we didn't know we'd lose the house.  So when we re-homed him to a friend with a couple of cats, he was fed up.  And stopped eating.  And so one of the most terrible of those days when you have to visit the vet was guilt upon guilt upon guilt upon sadness, as I had failed that little guy, and the rest of the family, in several directions.  

I don't know that he would forgive me for trying and failing, but I do find myself hoping that, some day, I can see him again, and make it up to him.  Some how.  Even if it's only a deep, heart-felt apology.  

Which also brings us to the current residents of the nuthouse, Leo, who is now thirteen years old, and is starting to send us those terrible signals you don't want to see even though you see them, as he no longer hops up on the bed at night, and slowly takes the stairs, as slowly as he gets up from a lay-down, you can see the age is getting to him.  Cheyanne, our little rescue heeler, only nine years old, give or take a bit, is still a sassy little piece of work who doesn't fight with her big protective brother like Lily did - Cheyanne knows a good thing when she sees it.  And Leo's just a little too laid back to get worked up if she tries to sneak in the door before he finally gets the rear end over the threshold.  The food's still in his bowl first, morning and night.  He knows he's the senior dog. 

And so I can hope to do the best I can for my friends with the fur coats, as they obviously do an awful lot around here for me.  They get me up in the morning, outside, walking, moving, and keep me motivated.  And smiling.  Even through the dark days.