by Amy Newmark
Reprinted by permission of Bruce Robinson
Our Guardian Angel
Fun fact: Put a rescue alert sticker near your front door to alert firefighters that pets are in the home.
I drove the two-thousand-plus miles across country from Detroit to Los Angeles with my two young children in the back seat and all my important worldly possessions stuffed into my old Chevrolet. In other words, I packed sheet music, albums and stacks of writing tablets. As a lyricist/composer, I was arriving in Southern California to join the newly opened Motown Records as a contract songwriter. The first thing I did was rent a small, three-bedroom house in Hollywood, close to the Sunset Boulevard offices of my employer. I rented furniture and an upright piano. After all, I was a songwriter and had to have my writing tools on the premises.
The day after we arrived in California, I ran into an old friend from Detroit who wanted to move closer to town. She suggested we become roommates. I agreed, thinking of it as a blessing because the cost of living in Los Angeles was four times higher than Detroit. Splitting the rent with my friend sounded good to me. Marthea moved in the next day. Between her stuff and my stuff, there were boxes everywhere. We were slowly getting around to unpacking, but between the kids, working and getting adjusted to a new environment, I felt overwhelmed. Marthea hadn’t been there a week when one of her brothers came to visit. Bernard arrived with a bright smile, a bandana tied around his head, a free spirit and a German Shepherd on a long leash. The dog was friendly and liked people. My six- and seven-year-old children were thrilled to have an animal visit because we had always had a cat or dog at home in Detroit.
The brown-and-white German Shepherd’s name was Mordecai, and he made himself at home, the same way his master did. My friend’s brother had dinner with us and then fell asleep on the couch. To my surprise, he was still there the next morning. Another week went by, and Marthea tried to explain why her visiting brother was still sleeping on my couch and why his dog was still begging for table scraps. She promised that he would be gone by the end of that week. Bernard, she explained, was just waiting for an apartment to be painted, and then he was moving into his own spot. Meanwhile, the children had bonded with the delightfully friendly dog. Mordecai loved chasing the children and being chased. Although the large canine was always underfoot, I had also grown to love the animal. He was house-trained and wasn’t a noisy, barking dog. I appreciated that.
One hot, summer Saturday, we decided to take my kids to the ocean. We were all pretty amazed at the expansive Santa Monica beach, and the endless blue-green water was inviting. We spent all day racing in and out of the salty sea. As we drove back to Hollywood, we were pretty exhausted. The kids fell asleep five minutes into the forty-minute drive, and my roommate could hardly keep her eyes open. A thick fog rolled in as we drove, and the air suddenly turned cold. After bathing the children and washing the sea out of my hair, I collapsed in my bed. We were all knocked out.
Suddenly, Mordecai’s cold nose was nudging my arm. Then he whined and pressed his damp nose against my cheek, resting huge paws on the side of my mattress and standing on his back legs. That got my attention. He’d never done that before. I sat up, disoriented at first, and glanced at my alarm clock. It was 3:00 a.m. “What is it? What do you want at three in the morning? You want to be let out?”
That’s when I smelled the smoke. I leaped out of bed and ran to the living room. As usual, Marthea’s brother was fast asleep on my couch, snoring loudly, and just five feet away from him sat a stack of still-unpacked cardboard boxes. One of them was sitting on top of the iron grate that covered the heating duct in the floor. The heat had come on automatically and the cardboard had caught on fire.
I raced to the kitchen with Mordecai close behind, watching my every move and whining. I filled the first pot I saw with water and raced back, dousing the fire with the pot of water and pulling the box off the dangerous duct. I started calling out loudly, “Fire! Fire!” to awaken the rest of the family. Mordecai joined in, suddenly barking loudly. Everyone woke up and we opened all the doors and windows to let the smoke escape. We sat huddled together on the couch, shaking from the experience. I felt thankful and blessed. After all, if it hadn’t been for Mordecai, we could have burned down the entire house and been killed in the fire.
I will always be grateful for that friendly dog that saved our lives that night. Bernard moved into his new apartment a few days later, and I didn’t miss him that much, but I did miss his dog, our guardian angel.
~Dee Dee McNeil
Showing the Way
Fun fact: Dogs’ hair may turn white as they age, especially around the eyes and muzzle.
Heidi came into our lives as an abused, frightened Miniature Dachshund who had been born, raised, and used as a “breeder” in a puppy mill. Five years and ten litters later, she and thirty-five other puppy-mill dogs were rescued by the Tri-County Humane Society in Boca Raton, Florida.
From the moment I saw her huddled in the back corner of her cage, I knew I would take her home and give her a new life. But it would be our dog Sheba who showed Heidi how to live.
Heidi had never been potty-trained, and the shelter warned it might never happen. Her life had been spent in a wire cage inside a warehouse. She had never done all the things that puppies and dogs do. While Sheba never had a litter, she seemed to instinctively understand that she needed to train Heidi as if she were a new puppy. Whether she was walking on a leash, doing her “business,” riding in the car, or playing outside, she would always turn around to Heidi as if to say, “This is how I do it — you can do it, too!”
Heidi watched and emulated everything Sheba did, and slowly she began to live a normal life — including using the outdoors for elimination. She learned to walk on a leash and even off-leash. She began to play, run after lizards, chase squirrels and even play with toys. There was less timidity and more energy; there was less fear and a lot of love expressed by a sweet, sweet dog. Heidi and Sheba became inseparable. Today, where Sheba goes, Heidi follows as her sidekick.
Seven years have passed since Heidi came into our home. Both dogs are showing signs of age; Sheba, being two years older, has more discernible issues. She is partially deaf, and her vision is going. It is now Heidi that is helping Sheba. While Sheba does not hear us enter a room or come home after being away, Heidi does. She will get up and go over to Sheba and wake her up, as if to say, “Hey, they’re home. Let’s go say, ‘Hello.’ ” When Sheba’s vision prevents her from seeing, Heidi shows her the way.
While people say they are just dogs, I say that Sheba and Heidi have shown us great intelligence, patience and love. As is part of the cycle of life, children often become parents to their parents. This is true for Sheba and Heidi. As my husband and I are sporting a few signs of aging ourselves, seeing Sheba and Heidi care for each other reminds us of what love is all about.
~Loretta Schoen
Suzi Saves the Day
Fun fact: Dogs’ exceptional hearing may make them more sensitive to loud noises, like fireworks exploding.
Just four blocks from my house, the Fourth of July parade starts to line up. My dog and I sit down on the grass to watch.
Political candidates straddle the back seat of convertibles. Marching bands step in place aided by the rat-tat-tatting of drums.
Full-grown men decked out in exotic costumes, including tall hats with tassels, push little bumper cars into place and squeeze inside. Engines roar, making loud popping noises. POP. BANG.
At the first BANG, Suzi, my Boxer–Golden Retriever mix, jumps up, eyes dilated, the fur on her back standing straight up. She does an about-face, tugs the leash, drags me up off the grass and starts heading in the opposite direction.
I say “NO,” but at sixty-one pounds of determined dog, she out-muscles me.
Every dog obedience command I ever learned comes tumbling out, one after another: “SIT! STAY! DOWN! LEAVE IT! BAD DOG!”
But she has selective deafness. Suzi then does somethi
ng I’ve never seen her do before or since. She squares her shoulders, expands her chest, puts her head down and takes one deliberate step away from the parade, then another step.
My dog is an ox dragging a plow behind her. I, the plow, follow, whining, trying to turn back, to no avail.
One block. Two blocks. Three blocks. Then finally home. Suzi places a front paw on the back door and looks at me. The message: “OPEN THE DOOR NOW!”
I open the door. She collapses on the kitchen floor, panting, mission accomplished. My four-legged protector has brought her human out of danger and into the only safe place she knows — home.
Suzi first came into my life quite by chance. Her mom, a purebred Boxer, was destined to mate another Boxer, but along came a Golden Retriever at the right time.
Two friends got three girls from the unwanted litter. I got a dinner invitation. They knew I was looking for a dog but needed help getting there. I’d lived with cats for years. Change is hard. After all, you don’t have to walk cats.
All the pups were lively, but Suzi was the one that crawled up into my lap, sighed and went to sleep.
I was a goner.
The day I took her home, she whimpered in the car. I sang lullabies to her, the same ones I sang to my three sons when they were little years ago. She fell asleep.
We bonded big time — playing with toys, exploring the neighborhood. Walking with a dog is so different from walking alone. Dogs I never knew existed came to their fence lines to greet Suzi. I met new people and their dogs. She expands my world, and I am grateful.
After she was grown, about two years old, we started doing 5K races together, and she even became part of newspaper stories I wrote on getting a new dog park in town. A chapter in my gardening book, Florida Gardens Gone Wild, tells about the day she danced with a butterfly in the back yard.
Her only phobia is anything that sounds like gunshots — say, fireworks and those little car engines.
While Suzi panted on the kitchen floor after rescuing me on the Fourth of July, I had an “a-ha moment.”
All this time, I thought it was my job to take care of her, to keep her safe and happy 24/7. It was all about me being in charge, being the alpha dog. Never once did it occur to me that she has a job, too, and her job is, well, me.
Suzi’s 24/7 job — stay close while walking, share snacks in the evening, let me dress her up sometimes, sleep back-to-back, remind me to get going so we have time for her morning walk.
Every day when I come home from work, she turns herself into a pretzel at the front door, twisting in two, so glad to see me. Let the laughter begin.
She takes her job so seriously that she dragged me from danger to safety that Fourth of July. I feel humbled, protected and loved.
Two-legged humans come and go in our lives, but Suzi always has my back. So when people ask me, “Do you live alone?” I answer, “No, there is Suzi. She takes care of me.”
~Lucy Beebe Tobias
Falling for You
Fun fact: The first guide dog organization in the United States, The Seeing Eye, was opened in 1929.
My family had been getting fluffy puppies every year — boundless energy in the form of a German Shepherd, a Golden Retriever, or a Lab — to train them as Seeing Eye dogs. Seven weeks old and curious, each puppy liked to snuffle into the crook of my arm and fall asleep as I watched TV and did my homework. Little did they know they would be evaluated later for a very grown-up responsibility.
We started doing this while I was in middle school, and by the time I was in college, we were on our sixth puppy. “His name is Kramer,” Dad said, holding the Golden Retriever up to the camera so I could see him via Skype from my study abroad in London.
All semester, I would Skype my parents and siblings, and Kramer would be lifted to the camera, licking it with a long pink tongue. Later, he’d jump on a desk or an iPad. I’d say hello, and he’d bark. “He’s sweet,” I’d say, never having touched the dog.
“He’ll never pass,” my brother said.
The Seeing Eye is an exceptional organization, the oldest guide agency in the United States. We had each puppy for about a year — a foster situation. We were in charge of teaching it basic commands: sit, rest and come. The Seeing Eye did the hard stuff — and the hard stuff included deciding which dogs would continue in the program. We’d only had two out of five dogs pass up to that point, which was about average.
“Why won’t he pass?” I asked.
My brother smiled fondly at Kramer, tilting the camera so I could see him resting his head, with his big droopy jowls, on my brother’s lap. “He’s a lover,” my brother said. “Not a fighter.”
When I came home for Christmas, I met the famous Kramer. He was sweet, loving to cuddle on the floor to warm us up after being out in the snow. I kissed him goodbye more than I kissed my family. After all, I’d be seeing my siblings and parents again, but I had another nine months abroad and Kramer would go back to The Seeing Eye before I got home.
Or so I thought.
In August, my brother picked me up at the airport, and it was sweltering. “I have a surprise,” he’d written in an e-mail just before I boarded the plane out of London. “Don’t worry; it’s a good one.”
I’d spent the flight trying to think of what my brother could possibly tell me. Had he proposed to his girlfriend, the one he’d been dating for a year? But they were only eighteen, and going to different colleges. Did he get us tickets to a New York Giants game? Sign up for the New York Marathon? Cure cancer?
Kramer greeted me in the car, draped across the back seat where my brother shoved my luggage. I squealed at the sight of him. “He failed?”
“I drove all the way up to The Seeing Eye to get him.” My brother rubbed Kramer’s ears and pressed his forehead against the dog’s big, blocky face. They both heaved big sighs of contentment. “Now he’s all mine. He’s my mascot. Just a warning, though,” he pointed at me, emphasizing his point in the airport parking lot, “he’s a lover, not a fighter.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
“You’ll see what I mean.”
We drove to our house, a solid two-story in the New Jersey Pine Barrens, where another surprise awaited: a party in full swing. My uncle got up to pat me on the back, and Kramer brushed up beside me as my uncle squeezed and squeezed.
Then I got lifted off the ground. “Uncle John!” I yelled. “Put me down!” I screamed, and everyone laughed even as my uncle dragged me to the pool.
No one moved to help me except for Kramer.
Kramer jumped up and knocked Uncle John away from me. My uncle nearly fell in the pool, and I just stood there, panting, as Kramer licked my hand.
“Good boy,” I murmured. Everyone at the party was laughing — everyone except me, my uncle, and Kramer.
That was just the beginning of Kramer showing his “lover” instincts. He would stand over toddlers if they fell down while trying to walk, protecting them until they could get back up again. He’d go from room to room, making sure everyone was safe and accounted for. He’d nudge the new Seeing Eye puppy toward the food bowl first, making sure he had enough to eat before he would eat himself. And he abhorred violence in all forms. Play-fighting, tickling, even raised voices, would make him jump in between whoever was quarreling as if he could bodily stop the madness.
This all culminated in an event that happened right before I left for my sophomore year of college. I’d taken Kramer with me to meet my friends for a picnic.
I was really meeting Lucy, but she’d insisted on bringing her boyfriend, a piece of work I’d never approved of whom we will call Rodney. Rodney was the type of person who tried to control who Lucy talked to and what she wore. He’d told her she shouldn’t apply to any college except the one he was going to, and he threatened to kill himself until she complied. He’s the type of guy who kicks dogs, and that’s all you need to know about him.
We’d set up the picnic on a bank next to a river. Every once in a while, som
eone would float past in a tube and we’d wave, but mostly it was the four of us: me, Lucy, Rodney, and Kramer. We talked about schoolwork and movies. I didn’t say anything about the deep bruises under Lucy’s eyes. I’d said it so many times, I was afraid she would stop seeing me for good.
But this was a nice day. Good weather, and Lucy was being funny, and Rodney was being civil. That’s when I realized I’d forgotten the tray of brownies in the back of my car.
“Go get them,” Lucy said, waving me away. “I’ll watch Kramer.”
“It’ll be tough,” Rodney quipped. Kramer hadn’t moved for an hour.
The car was only a three-minute walk back through some trees, and those brownies were so good, warm and moist. “I’ll be right back,” I promised.
Lucy says the fight started because Rodney told her she shouldn’t eat brownies because she was getting too fat. Rodney said it started when Lucy pushed against him, and his foot fell in the water. The bottom line is that a fight did start, and it was a loud one.
I was walking through the trees when I heard it — Lucy pleading and screaming. I dropped the brownies and ran, heart pounding.
When I got back to them, Kramer was standing on Rodney’s shoulders and hips, teeth bared, while Lucy sobbed. There was a red spot on her cheek that would later turn into a bruise.
“Get this dog off of me!” Rodney yelled. Kramer growled again.
I went over to Lucy and folded her into a hug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rodney,” I said, patting my thigh in a gesture that Kramer knew meant “come.” He did, trotting over and plopping down at my feet, keeping his eyes on Rodney. “Everyone knows Kramer’s a lover, not a fighter.”
~Katie Avagliano
A Good Nanny
Fun fact: “Nanny dogs,” also called “nursemaid dogs,” are especially fond of children.
After our dog, named Bear-doggy, died, I had to admit I enjoyed the peace and quiet. There was no more letting him in and out, no feeding and watering, no cleaning up after him. Of course, I missed him terribly, but I did notice the reduction in my workload.
