Note to readers: this blog is in large part a record for my granddaughter and so this is a long and somewhat tedious catalogue of life-with-dogs as a record for her. Feel free to quit reading after four paragraphs.
My YD and some of her friends did a three week plus tour down the Nahanni River in the NWT earlier this month. One of the good friend is the owner of a large and loving dog named Bear that the friend and her husband rescued from a miserable situation in which the dog had been peppered with shot. The YD and her friends come to our bush to hike, so I have met this dog from time to time and know that he has recovered from his trauma and is sleek and well-cared for.
While paddling madly through the white water YD and friend both boarded their dogs. Her father and I got Shammy, her beautiful and placid white Doodle (plus her cat who can even unplacid Shammy) and Bear was boarded with friends also. This morning the friend posted on Facebook the reunion with Bear and I am not ashamed to say that I still have tears in my eyes when I think about how joyous that greeting was. Toward the end of her book Rilla of Ingleside, L M Montgomery writes of the reunion of a returning soldier with his dog that the dog was ‘mad with joy’. After watching Bear greet his mistress, I now know exactly what ‘mad with joy’ looks like and I am very glad to have seen it. With Sigrid's permission, here is the video.
The YD’s laid back dog was not quite that excited when her mistress turned up but there was much wagging, ball bringing, dancing and foot licking that carried on for quite some time. I think it was Kipling that wrote of the cost of ‘giving your heart to a dog to tear’ (yep, link ) but it sure can be rewarding. Not that Shammy had a sad time while the YD was away. She was walked, brushed, trimmed, washed (and hosed down if she had found a delightful puddle of poop to roll around in), given numerous cookies and had splendid treats like bacon added to her dog dish. And Callie Cat reduced the local chipmunk population to nervous breakdown status, at which deed I rejoiced. The wretched little beasts have 295 acres to inhabit but insist on making holes in the lawn and flower beds of the other half acre. They deserve a cat who sits over one of the holes in the lawn for an hour at a time ……………… waiting.
JG and I got a dog when the ED was just over two years old. She had exhibited fear of dogs and we wanted her to overcome it. Since I also had a 13 month old baby, getting a large and happy hound was, perhaps, not the smartest move we could have made (three rambunctious young animals, two hands) but the ED quickly took to Rusty (named for his coat colour) and I was agile enough to cope, mostly. I still recall drawing a cartoon of my father, though, the ED’s hand grasped in one of his, the strap of the YD’s harness and the dog’s leash in the other hand, and the dog and leash wound tightly round his legs.
Rusty’s life was a short one. He began to have seizures (the vet believed he had eaten something poisonous one day when he escaped his leash) and they were worsened by the stress he felt when we moved to a house bounded on one side by the school yard fence through which the students often teased him. The house was on the curve of a crescent and had a huge fenced yard, a wonderful spot for a dog, but Rusty became defensive of anyone approaching the fences, especially on the school yard side, and ended by trapping the arm of a friend of the daughters who had arrived beside the school fence and then, invited to join them, had entered by the side gate. The dog was confused because people coming in the gate were okay but people at the fence were not and so he grabbed this kid’s arm and held it. No skin break but there were bruised and so the kid’s parents reported the incident.
A policeman arrived to investigate and I took him to the kitchen to see Rusty who, shameless beggar that he was, lay down on his back and waved four paws at the cop, inviting a belly rub. End of incident.
However, the seizures and irrational temper spells got even worse, it became unsafe for small girls to walk him, he became incontinent and totally lethargic and miserable, seizing several times a day. We decided, for his own sake, to have him put down. Sadly the day I took him to be euthanized was the first good day he had had for a month and he bounded into the car, trotted into the Humane Society building with tail wagging and turning him over to them was maybe the most difficult thing I had ever had to do. I sat in the car outside and wept. Heart torn indeed. He was no more than five years old.
JG and the girls longed for another dog. This time we got a small one, a miniature beagle from a pet store. We quickly named him Bugle (for how he sounded on a rabbit trail) and I attempted, without success, to train him. Bugle was much more like a cat than a dog, living with us but reserving his enthusiasm for chasing rabbits and deer on our weekend rural property, stealing mittens from unsuspecting small hands, playing ball with the peppers and tomatoes from my vegetable garden and soaking up heat by lying directly under the wood stove in the cabin. Even at his small size I had to put a choke chain on him to take him anywhere.
One spring night we arrived at our rural property and he wrenched himself from my hands before I could get the chain collar over his head and bugled off in pursuit of a deer. He did not return that night, not unusual, but as the time stretched out the kids and my BIL and I searched the whole property, calling and listening, terrified that he had been caught by the damn chain. We never found him. What we did find were his and the deer’s tracks leading to a beaver pond half covered with rotting ice. And I have always believed that the deer managed to cross the ice and icy water but that the dog didn’t make it. Or at least I hope the end was that quick. We advertised and searched for weeks with no luck. And we left his bowl with food for longer than that.
As soon as they stopped mourning, JG and the girls wanted another dog. THIS time we went to the pound and came home with a small female terrier mix. A sweet and timid biscuit coloured (we named her Biscuit) fuzzy bundle who lay on my slippers as a puppy and had to have one of them to sleep with for long after she grew up. She stayed close to the cabin on weekends but loved to run in the bush if we were with her. She ignored rabbits and deer and even seemed somewhat dubious about squirrels. She sneaked (or was encouraged to sneak) onto the kids’ beds at night. She loved the fenced yard of the city house and it was quite big enough to satisfy her need for exercise. She tidily did her business behind the hedges unless she was really cross with me for brushing her out and then I would get a protest movement on the stoop of the kitchen door.
Biscuit lived with us for seventeen years and the only time she ever terrorized anyone was my visiting aunt when she sat on the kitchen floor and held her unwavering gaze on my aunt’s cereal bowl. ‘Why is she staring at me?’ said my childless, petless and elderly aunt. When I told her that this was the dog’s habit with the daughters, who gave her the tail end of their cereal and milk in the morning, my aunt was not much comforted. ‘How much should I leave her?” she asked, a small quaver in her voice. The dog was supposed to stay in the kitchen and after I went to work full time I did not twig to the fact that she did not stay there unsupervised until JG brought home a guest in grey flannels and a navy blazer who sat down on an occasional chair in the living room and got up covered in dog hair. She had appropriated the chair as her daytime nap spot and I had not noticed beige dog hair on beige chair.
We buried her in the old orchard when she finally had to leave us. And I thought I was free to live a dogless and carefree life until the YD, who had longed for a dog for years in spite of my fervent declarations that I would not baby sit, came home with Shammy a few years ago. You may know that since that time this blog has been littered with posts about caring for a blonde and beautiful doodle with no damn sense about either porcupines or skunks.
Dog memories. The YD, as a toddler, used to throw herself onto Rusty when I reprimanded her, cry into his coat and, I swear, wipe her eyes on his ears as he lay patiently under her. The beagle used to scorch his coat lying under the wood stove and come out quite crispy down the back. Scorched dog smells very strange. Biscuit grew a heavy underlayer of fur in the winter and had to be taken outside and brushed and brushed, with any luck in a strong wind, each spring to get the fine hairs out of her coat before every hot air vent in the house was choked with the stuff and it lay in drifts on the floors.
The YD’s friends, owners of Bear, come to our bush to hike with The YD and Shammy. It is a pleasure to watch the dogs play together in the snow and afterwards lie side by side resting up for yet more play. And it sure is quiet after they have all gone home.
Today I am free of dogs, cat, grandkid and friend and even husband since he has gone shopping for the afternoon. It sure is quiet and serene. Very quiet.