by Amy Newmark
She won’t stay off the furniture, but she will lie on her blanket so she’s not shedding directly onto the cushions. Even so, she prefers to be on a lap, which is fine — we all prefer it, too. She knows what “sit,” “stay,” and “lie down” all mean, though she does occasionally give us that “are-you-talking-to-me?” glare before complying with our request.
Now that she has finally trained us all, it’s hard to remember the whirling dervish we adopted eight years ago.
She cannot walk as far as she used to, and I sometimes carry her up the stairs to work now, but she is still the happiest and most enthusiastic dog I have ever known. The whole family has learned about perseverance thanks to her indefatigable spirit. Especially me.
My work has been published, and I write full-time now because it’s what I love to do. The reason I never gave up on it? Molly wouldn’t let me.
It’s a good thing my son needed her so badly!
~Tracy Falenwolfe
A Familiar Face
Not-so-fun fact: Theobromine an ingredient in chocolate, can be toxic to dogs, causing liver failure or death. It’s best not to give your dog chocolate, especially if it’s small.
When my husband Ron brought home the gregarious, six-week-old yellow Lab pup, I was dismayed. Although I’m as avid a dog fancier as he is, I had two children, ages one and two, and was expecting a third. The idea of a big, full-of-vim-and-vigor puppy thrown into the mix, with Ron frequently away from home taking university courses, was overwhelming. I wanted to tell my spouse to take that toasty-warm, sweet-smelling bundle of buff-colored fur right back to the breeder. I couldn’t manage any more responsibilities. Then I saw the look on his face, and the thought melted like ice in a microwave.
This was his dream dog, the one he’d longed for all his life. Okay, I sighed inwardly. I’d give it a try.
“What are you going to name him?” I asked resignedly as the puppy snuggled into my arms and heart.
He shrugged. Then he glanced past me at the television screen where the children were watching cartoons. A forestry commercial had just flashed on featuring Smokey, the big, amiable fire-prevention bear.
“Smokey,” he said. “I’m going to call him Smokey.”
So Smokey joined the family that cold April afternoon. He loved the big hayfield that was the back yard of our rural home. He housebroke easily and was amazingly gentle with the children. Small hands in his fur or on his ears or tail didn’t deter him, although I tried to keep such unfair treatment to a minimum. In fact, he reveled in being with the two little ones, Joan and Carol. Carol learned to walk by pulling herself upright on Smokey’s hindquarters.
And that first autumn, as a green pup, Smokey further distinguished himself by proving to be an excellent retriever in the marsh that was only a couple of miles from our back door. Ron was delighted.
But Ron was frequently away from home, and I didn’t have the time or stamina to train a pup and work him into a well-socialized companion. As a result, he sometimes left our property and used the neighbor’s lawn as a bathroom. This, of course, brought immediate complaints.
In November, our third child, Steven, was born. Three babies and a big, largely untrained puppy were more than I could handle. At Christmas, in a fit of good-natured exuberance, Smokey knocked over the tree and ate an entire box of candy.
When spring arrived, I was rapidly becoming exhausted by the care of three babies and one large, high-spirited yellow Lab. Something had to give.
And it did. Fate stepped in and gave us a shove into the decision we were so reluctant to take.
In May, shortly after Smokey had celebrated his first birthday, Ron’s friend Dan and his wife Mary came to visit. They immediately fell in love with the gregarious yellow Lab. A young, childless couple who lived on a farm about fifty miles away, they’d been looking for a dog, a Labrador Retriever, in fact. When they saw our situation, they cautiously suggested that they’d be willing to take Smokey to live with them.
At first, neither Ron nor I was willing to consider the idea. In spite of our problems with children and a young dog, we loved the Lab with the good-natured grin and constantly wagging tail. We’d adopted him as surely as if we’d adopted a child. He was family.
The following week, our minds were changed when Smokey wandered out of the yard and was nearly struck by a car. Lacking supervision and attention, he’d begun to roam.
His brush with death startled us into facing reality. Smokey needed more time and care than we could give him. If we truly loved him, we’d let him go to a place where he’d get just that.
For most people who give up a dog for adoption, the story ends there. But Smokey was to prove to be an exceptional dog when fate once again stepped in.
The rural school where Ron was principal was suddenly slated for permanent closure in June. We’d have to move. Ron looked over the available teaching jobs for which he was qualified. Finally, he decided to accept a position as a chemistry teacher in a city ten miles from the farm that was now Smokey’s home. We didn’t foresee this proximity as being a problem. We’d never let the Lab know where we were.
September saw us ensconced in our new urban home, a basement apartment in a residential subdivision. After living in the wide-open spaces with an entire house and several acres of farm land at our disposal, it took a good deal of adjusting physically as well as mentally to become accustomed to the restrictions of a small flat and a postage-stamp-sized back yard. Left each day with three preschoolers in a totally foreign environment, I was more than a bit lonely. I knew no one in the community. Sometimes, after the children were asleep and I was alone, tears came. I longed for a familiar face.
Early one October evening, I got my wish. I was watching television alone in our sunken living room (Ron was at a school meeting, the children safely tucked into bed) when I glanced up to see a pair of glowing eyes peering in at me.
My first instinct was to swish the drapes shut and rush to check the locks on the door. Then I recognized the lolling tongue and good-natured canine grin.
“Smokey!” I couldn’t believe it.
Hearing his name, sent Smokey’s tail into a wild whirl. A welcoming “woof” erupted from his throat.
By the time I got to the door, he was already there and burst in, all his typical joie de vivre fully intact.
“Smokey!” I knelt to take him into my arms, tears of happiness blinding me. Here, at last, was a familiar face — a happy, lovingly reassuring face. I buried my face in his soft, strong neck and cried.
Later, I took him into the kitchen and, even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do, gave him a slice of roast beef from the refrigerator. Then I sat down at the table and tried to decide what to do.
Call Dan and Mary, of course. They must be frantic with worry. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone.
“Smokey!” Three-year-old Carol toddled into the kitchen. She’d been dragging her favorite teddy bear, but the minute she saw her old friend, she dropped it and rushed to hug him. Smokey set to lavishing wet-tongue kisses over her little face as she laughed and pressed herself against him. “Smokey, I lub you!”
I found a Kleenex, blew my nose, and told myself not to let my emotions overcome common sense. I remembered Dan and Mary telling us in telephone conversations that Smokey never left their fenced farmyard even though they knew he could easily have cleared the rail fence if he’d made a decent effort. They’d taken his lack of interest in running away to mean he was completely content.
What, then, had aroused him to action that beautiful October night? Had he somehow sensed our relative nearness? And how had he managed to find us? We’d conscientiously avoided visiting him, and Dan and Mary hadn’t been to our apartment since we’d moved.
While I was waiting for Smokey’s new family to arrive, Ron came home. I’ll never forget the look of utter joy on his face when he saw his hunting buddy.
He must have been feeling the same happiness I felt when I’d first seen Smokey’s irr
esistible, lop-sided grin peering in at me from the window. I knew then and there that we had to find a way to have the Lab back in our lives once more.
“We have to talk to Dan and Mary,” I said.
“I know.” Ron was down on one knee, ruffling Smokey’s neck.
“But how did he ever find us?” I sat down on a chair at the table again. “I can’t imagine…”
“I went to see him yesterday.” Ron’s confession caught me totally off-guard.
“You what? But I thought we agreed…”
“I know, I know.” He avoided my eyes and concentrated on straightening Smokey’s collar. “But I wanted to see him, just for a few minutes. I never thought he’d try to find me… us.”
He looked up at me, and his expression told me what we had to do.
Dan and Mary arrived a few minutes later. And we talked… into the wee hours of the morning, with Smokey lying between his two families, sleeping at times, watching our faces furtively as if he knew it was his future we were discussing.
We knew we couldn’t take him back from Dan and Mary. They loved him; he was their baby. We also knew our landlord had a strict no-pets rule. Final conclusion: We’d have visiting rights, and Smokey would be kept under closer supervision at the farm.
When he died, no one mourned his passing more than I did. The dog that had come unwanted into my life had become an integral part of it. I will most certainly never forget that October night when, with a crooked grin and flapping tail, he drove away the loneliness in my heart simply by being a loving, familiar face.
~Gail MacMillan
The Dog Who Mourned
Not-so-fun fact: Dogs show their grief not by crying, but by moping, lying around or not eating well.
It took us several weeks to adjust to living together. The little white dog had been in my house with her original owner, but had never stayed overnight, never stayed alone with me. We liked one another. I walked her when she lived in her original home, and she played with me there. Now things were different: Suddenly, Gretchen had become my dog.
Actually, it was not suddenly. The little curly-haired Cockapoo must have guessed her owner, my friend Hilda, suffered a serious illness. It was clear to me when I walked Gretchen that summer that it was Hilda’s last one with us. The dog knew the terrible truth because she wasn’t as eager to walk or be away from Hilda.
I always let Gretchen decide where we would walk. Sometimes, she chose a route a few blocks long. Other times, she wanted to travel only around her own block. But as summer wore on and Hilda’s cancer sapped her strength, Gretchen wanted to walk only to the nearby corner and then run home. It made Hilda laugh to see me running behind the dog, holding onto the leash and trying to keep up.
Gretchen no longer played with me as she once had done. Instead, she hovered around Hilda, staying as close to her as possible. She ignored her many toys, but not the treats Hilda gave her.
Near the end of the summer, Hilda said she worried about what would become of her little dog.
“I’ll take her, Hilda,” I said without hesitation.
“You will?” Hilda asked.
“Absolutely,” I answered and hugged my dying friend. “This way, I’ll always have a part of you with me.” We both cried as we held one another.
Two days before her eighty-third birthday, Hilda entered hospice. I was about to leave for a long-planned family reunion. Another friend took in Gretchen until I returned a week later. Gretchen had stayed with other people known to Hilda when she took trips, so I had the feeling her little dog thought the stay with me was only temporary until she could return to Hilda’s house. So each time we walked, I referred to my house as Gretchen’s when we headed home.
About two and a half weeks after Hilda entered hospice, I took Gretchen to see her. Hilda’s daughters wheeled their mother outside on a sun-splashed October day. They cried for joy when they saw each other.
The little dog tried to climb up the wheelchair and couldn’t. Obviously, she wanted to get as close to Hilda as she could. I picked her up so she was at the height of my friend’s lap. She licked Hilda’s face as the dying woman kissed her between sobs.
We stayed for more than a half-hour as Hilda petted Gretchen and talked to her. The dog nearly danced for joy; she couldn’t stay still. Finally, we had to leave so Hilda could go in for lunch. Reluctantly, Gretchen allowed me to lead her away. As we walked to the car, she looked back several times.
When we reached my car, I put down her water bowl so she could drink after all that excitement. She ignored the water bowl at first and tried looking under the cars parked near us so she could glimpse Hilda again.
Once we were both in the car, I backed out and pulled near the spot where Hilda still sat in her wheelchair. Gretchen normally lies down on the back seat when we go out in the car. Upon hearing Hilda’s voice, the dog stood up at the window as if to say her final “goodbye” to her beloved Hilda.
After that day, Gretchen seemed to settle in with me, but she still didn’t want to play and ignored the toys that I had brought from Hilda’s house. We established a routine of three walks a day and trips to the local park once a week. Still it seemed as if Gretchen yearned to “go home” to the house where she had been raised and lived for twelve years.
Near the end of October, Hilda lapsed into a coma. I had spent a few hours with her that day, but came home to let Gretchen out. That evening, a friend and I sipped tea at my dining room table. I wrestled with the idea of returning to Hilda’s bedside.
Suddenly, Gretchen became very restless. She wandered around and around, unlike her usual calm behavior. I petted her and told her to lie down, but she couldn’t relax and seemed uncomfortable.
Then she let out a sound I have never heard from a dog. It was a mixture of a cry and a moan with a little scream in there, too. I rushed to her, wondering if she had somehow injured herself. Obviously, she was hurting. It was as if she sensed Hilda was on her deathbed.
In a few minutes, she settled. I remained puzzled by what I had just seen and heard until my telephone rang. Hilda’s daughter called to tell me her mother had died at about the same time Gretchen acted so distressed.
I believe Hilda came to say “goodbye” to her beloved little dog, and Gretchen heard her. I also know that Gretchen mourned.
~Sandy McPherson Carrubba Geary
Friends for Life
Fun fact: The Hebrew word for dog is kalev from the words ka (like) and lev (heart) meaning like a heart.
My mom, Maryanne, had at least one dog in her home from the time she was born. They were like an extension of her. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, she could no longer care for herself, let alone a pet, so her dog ownership days were over.
I had to find a home where my mom could be cared for professionally. I visited numerous board-and-cares to interview the staff and make sure they would give my mom the attention she needed. One of those facilities was All for Seniors, a five-bedroom, private home in the Mira Mesa community of San Diego, California. When I knocked on the door, and we were greeted by Sammy and Bella, I knew my mom was home.
Bella is a beautiful, posh Maltese with long, fluffy-white hair. She runs around the house in frilly dresses, getting lots of attention, and is affectionate with anyone and everyone. Sammy is a white Poodle with brown ears and a large snout. She’s a bit standoffish and awkward, and lives in Bella’s shadow. My mom loved them both but Sammy was her favorite.
When my mom declined suddenly and became bedridden, Sammy didn’t leave her side. Sammy lay at the foot of her bed, resting her face on her front paws, and watched over my mom while she slept the days away. If anyone tried to remove Sammy, she growled. When the caregivers had to make Sammy leave my mom’s room, she stayed outside the door like a guard until she could go back in. When the doorbell rang, Sammy didn’t budge. When it was mealtime, Sammy stayed with my mom, missing out on all the scraps dropping on the kitchen floor.
Hospice determined that my mom was dyi
ng and put her on the imminent list. I wanted to stay and be there when my mother passed, so I had to be sure about the timing.
“How do you know she won’t pull through again?” I asked her nurse.
“She’s not eating,” the nurse said. “She’s depressed. She’s lost her energy. Just look at her.”
She was pointing at Sammy. Hospice based my mom’s prognosis on some medical factors, but what really stood out was the sudden change in Sammy. Hospice was right. Sammy knew and was there until the very end. So was I. When the mortuary came, Sammy remained to see my mom off. Then she climbed into my arms and comforted me.
~Adrienne A. Aguirre
At Your Service
Fun fact: When formal guide dog training began in Switzerland in the 1920s, all of the dogs trained were female German Shepherds.
Recently, I went to the movies with my husband and two daughters. It was the first time we were able to go on this kind of seemingly commonplace family outing, and it was made possible in large part by a sable-colored German Shepherd named Teddy.
Teddy came into our lives about a year ago at eight weeks old, ready to be trained as an autism service dog for my nine-year-old daughter. Training began the first day we brought Teddy home. There were the basics, of course, with housebreaking, crate training, the good-boy list, and the no-no list. And then there was the bonding list. Bonding would involve my daughter interacting with Teddy by feeding, grooming, or snuggling with him, among other things.
When she allowed Teddy to snuggle contentedly on her lap for an unheard-of twenty minutes during his first week in our home, we were amazed and hopeful. Maybe this wouldn’t be as hard as we’d thought.
No such luck.
My daughter often struggles with doing anything new. If we had so much as a different-looking workbook page in homeschool, she would have a meltdown, and it could take as long as three days to get her to do it calmly.
