A friend recently lent me an anthology of essays written by well-known authors about dogs. I discovered that all the dogs I’ve ever loved were already chronicled. There was Doc who didn’t move from my bedside during the months of recuperation from botched spinal surgery. There was Winter, the one who was terrified by human touch who, finally and after much thought on her part, leaned into me one day to let me know we could begin the long road to trust. There was the man who was never a dog person, became one quite through the insistence of his family, and ended up noticing that dog people always talk to other dog people when walking. That, of course, is me. I stop to say hello to every dog I meet and then, as if out of obligation, say something to the owner like “Beautiful dog”. “Handsome boy”. “Happy dog”.
I love books that describe my life so clearly. It makes it almost unnecessary to write this blog since my canine existence has been so well defined elsewhere. Nevertheless, this little book led me to think about the ways in which I ended up with various dogs beginning with The Little Arthur and ending up with Monkey.
I have found dogs to bring home without much effort. They pretty much fall into my hands, or jump into my car, or just walk through the front door. The Little Arthur was discovered when I was in high school, or maybe college, I don’t remember. My friend, Pottsie, and I went to Arby’s Roast Beef for lunch (the thought horrifies me today) when we discovered a small, white, matted dog. No collar. Boom. Ours. The Little Arthur stayed with my parents for seven years until her untimely death from pancreatitis. My mother blamed Arthur’s death on the people across the street who would feed her when she visited. I pointed out to my mother that there was a leash law and that The Little Arthur ought to obey it. My mother wasn’t interested in the details. The Little A was a free spirit and needed to roam a bit. So, the neighbors fed her, according to my mother, pork, which killed her. It killed her because my mother, Jewish but not Kosher, believed pork, except for bacon, sausages, and a picnic ham, were clearly poisonous to everyone, especially Arthur. Certain pork was deemed edible by my mother but the pork the neighbors fed Arthur, not.
Cecil was a Great Dane mix who belonged to a CU football player. Most young women were anxious to meet the guy. He was, as I recall, the quarterback and it was the year when CU went to the Orange Bowl. I was only interested in the dog. I brought him home for Christmas vacation, much to the absolute horror of my parents who pointed out that Cecil, weighing in at about 180 pounds, was “too big” and would crush The Little Arthur. The following spring, the QB dumped Cecil at my doorstep, and I brought him home for the summer. Cecil had a hair growing out of his eye and ate rocks. He also had a habit of knocking down the fence. My parents found him another home. I never forgave them.
I met Cruiser R Roozer a few days before I graduated from CU. I was walking up the hill towards a campus protest when I spotted a young man carrying a puppy. I immediately crossed the street and asked the kid what he was doing with the adorable little puppy. He said he was “going to the Humane Society”. I took the dog. Sixteen years later, I lay on the floor with him as he was dying. My soul dog. My beautiful husky/wolf mix was never three steps from the wild, yet always at my side. He was my protector, my best friend. He would wait for me at the bottom of a ski slope; outside the door of a classroom; on the front lawn of my house. He swam with me in the warm lakes of Manhattan, Kansas; he hitchhiked with me across the country. It was impossible to keep him fenced. He broke out, wandered and always returned, if he could. He spent endless hours in dog pound lockup wherever we lived: in Boulder, Phoenix, Manhattan, Denver. But he was always returned to me.
As my work schedule became more hectic, GB and I located a friend for Roozer in hopes that Roozer would be more willing to stay in a backyard. It worked. Barney was from a shelter. He was a Great Pyrenees mix who weighed about 110 pounds. He and Roozer bonded and became wonderful friends. Roozer was happy to have a companion, especially one as compliant as Barney. Roozer’s protective instincts extended to Barney. One day, Barney tried climbing over our fence. He caught his collar on the metal tines and was left dangling. Roozer began howling and barking until neighbors heard him. They took Barney down and put his nearly limp body onto the ground, covering him with cool cloths. Barney survived thanks to Roozer and, of course, wonderful neighbors.
A few months before Roozer and Barney died, I was driving down Colorado Boulevard when I saw 300 black bears in a hotel parking lot. It was the National Newfoundland Specialty. I parked the car and went in. I had never seen a more beautiful animal. I had never witnessed such calm and gentle behavior. These dogs were 150 pounds of power. But it was a power that was restrained, not by humans, but by temperament. I drove home and told GB I had fallen in love, and this was the breed we would want to spend our lives with. Barney died a few months after I discovered the Newfies and Roozer crossed the bridge two months after that.
For the first time in my adult life, I was dogless. As it happened, Sigrid from the local Newfoundland club called that night. They had a dog for me. I said I wasn’t ready but three days later, I realized that life without canine companionship simply wasn’t for me. Max arrived. He had been abandoned and poorly treated. As a result, he was out of control, behaved violently, bit, attacked. Our vet convinced us to utilize a behaviorist to bring Max into his true Newfie self. It worked and Max ultimately became a gentle soul capable of visiting children in a dialysis wing of University Hospital. A year after Max came into our lives, we purchased Winnie. She was GB’s 40th birthday present and he was going to show her. After months of training and failed shows, Winnie was spay and spent her life as a happy companion to Max and our cats. Elon followed. At six years old, she had cancer. She lived with us for just six months. And then Winter, our sad, terrified brood bitch who came to life once we added a puppy, Doc, to the mix. Her despair made sense to us the minute we brought him home. She had been mourning her puppies. After Winter died, Doc went into mourning. He seemed lost without her to guide him. Things happen in strange ways with dogs. They come into our lives at the oddest times. In the case of Nisha, her entrance into our family was to rescue Doc. And after Doc passed so suddenly, Nisha needed a friend. And that friend was Boomer, the beautiful Landseer who would be our last Newfoundland.
It wouldn’t be enough to bring seven Newfies into our home over the years. There would be the cats, the chickens and the foster turkey. There would be other rescues. There was Shiney, a terrified Lab whose fears would bring her to damage herself and anything made of wood. Her existence made it impossible for us to leave the house during the summertime whenever fireworks or weather would create her horrors.
And Genghis. Oh my God. Genghis was a Shih Tzu I wrangled away from a woman who had been ignoring him. He was with us for 15 years and went everywhere with me. I took him to work (he slept in a basket); I took him to dinner parties; I took him to meetings. He was, without question, the best-behaved creature I ever met. Always appropriate. Always calm. Always obedient. Until we’d get home. Then, the zoomies took over his little body, and he’d race around the house, issuing growly barks, smiling, tail wagging, attacking the Newfies or chasing the cats. Each night, he’d snuggle into my arms and we’d fall asleep. Just happy to be with each other. My little shadow.
Finally, the Grifters. The two miscreants we met while hiking in Evergreen with two Newfies. I walked over to look at the one who reminded me of Genghis. “Go on over,” GB said. I did. The Genghis shih-tzu like one ran up to me, wagged her tail and said, “I love you!”. Then, the other, small brown, scraggly one walked up next to her, looked at me and said, “Fuck off”. I was informed they were a bonded pair. We took them both. Mimi, the sweet and Monkey, the horrible. The bad dog. Always running off. Never obedient. Rarely cuddly except to my mother with whom she had some sort of positive relationship. Monkey is our only dog right now. She’s 18 years old and cranky. She also smells weird. Her breath is horrible and she had her teeth cleaned a few months back but, frankly, I’m too nervous to put her under anesthetic for another round. Her back legs barely hold her up because she had a herniated disc several years ago. The surgery repaired the problem but left her rear end a bit compromised. In short, Monkey is not the best-looking dog, nor is she the best behaved, nor the sweetest, nor the cuddliest. But we have come to some sort of agreement on living with one another that apparently suits all of us.
And after Monkey dies, we’ll look for a bonded pair of older, smaller dogs. Older because I live with the horror of having us die before our dogs thereby leaving them to the vagaries of life as orphaned dogs.
As I’ve read this little book my friend lent me, I’ve cried at each chapter. But I’m also happy that I’m a member of a group of humans who are inexplicably attached to dogs. We need them for comfort, companionship, laughter, loyalty, bravery. They are at times our only connection to nature. They are so different than we are. We live in the past or anticipate the future. They know only the present. And for the most part, the present is exactly where they are completely contended to be. Years ago, my friend Marleen had a Golden Retriever named Hally. One day Hally was hit by a car. After surgeries and weeks of dealing with gangrene, Hally’s leg was amputated. Marleen and I drove to the vet to pick Hally up. We went back to the kennel and Hally stood up, looked back at where her leg should have been. And that was it. Without another look backwards, Hally ran towards us, tail wagging.
There is so much to learn from these critters. They know everything about us; when we plan on taking them for a walk; when we plan on feeding them; when we plan on throwing a ball; when we need a cuddle. They know us. We barely know them. But apparently what limited knowledge we have of them is enough for us. We know their lives are limited and their leaving will shred our souls. We mourn their passing; they break our hearts and yet, we do it again.
And again.
Air. 
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