by Colleen Sell
“I once had a dog named Butkus. Well, he wasn't really my dog; I just pretended he was. I dog-sat for him when I was a kid. He meant the world to me.”
“Nick?” I asked in astonishment.
His head snapped up, and our eyes met in recognition. He tossed my pizza on the hood of his car and threw his arms around me in a bear hug. He stepped back and looked at Syco and then back at me, a sad question etched on his face.
“He's old, but he's inside,” I assured him, smiling.
“Ah, man, you're kidding me! Do you know how many times as a kid I dreamed of seeing Butkus again? This is unreal! Do you think he'll remember me?”
“It's been a long time, and you're all grown up now — and handsome, I might add! Butkus hasn't changed, though; he'll love you whether or not he remembers you,” I said. “If he does remember you, he'll sing. That's what he does with my sister; he sees her only once every few years, and he loves her like crazy. We call it his ‘crazy love song.' ”
I opened the front door. The instant Butkus spotted Nick, he began his serenade — a combination of a high-pitched howl and a bark that he holds like a bad opera singer. Snout in the air, Butkus sang and sang. Nick dropped to the floor and threw his arms around Butkus, muffling “my buddy” into his neck repeatedly.
When Nick came up for air, there were tears in his eyes. He said that coming home to care for Butkus had been the only thing in his life then that had meant anything. If he hadn't had that, he really didn't think he would be here today. Every day, he recalled, he'd practice telling what was going on at home by confiding in Butkus, his best friend. One day he looked into Butkus's eyes and swore he felt Butkus tell him something back — that it was time to tell for real. So he promised Butkus that he would. Whenever Chuck brought Butkus back for those weekend visits, Nick would feel guilty that he hadn't told yet. So he finally did.
“Social Services took me away from that whole mess. And yeah, it sucked at first. But my aunt and uncle stepped up, and they've been great. I work for my uncle now, and I'm paying my way through college.”
Nick looked at me with those brown eyes of his, now filled with sincerity rather than sadness, and said, “Thank you, Beth.” Then he petted Butkus, smiled, and said, “And thank you, Butkus. You certainly were on guard.”After Nick left — with a big tip and an invitation to visit anytime — I shared my pizza with Butkus. Although the pizza was cold, my heart was warm.
˜ Beth Rothstein Ambler
A Heeling Heart
There was little discussion of who would keep Tag, my brother's young, black Labrador retriever, after John's death. Tag was a living connection to John, and though a grief greater than my own was unfathomable, I knew my mother needed Tag most. She had lost her broad-shouldered, broad-grinned son. She needed Tag, if only to curl up with, when death's demons haunted.
Tag and my mother mourned together. During their first year, a solid rap on the door would enervate Tag into a full-body wagging enthusiasm he had reserved for his master's return. In the seconds before rationality reigned, Mom, too, would hope my brother was about to bound into the house. She had hung John's Carhartt jacket and ratty baseball cap on a hook above his cowboy boots in her mud-room. It deluded her that he would be coming back from Colorado for Christmas vacation, with another semester of veterinary school under his belt, on the days when denial was her only method of survival.
John and I had often booked the same flight from Denver to Chicago to descend on Mom in unison for the holidays. On this winter morning I sat alone, squeezed between strangers. I dreaded Christmas without John. Uncovering the ornament he had made in first grade or his knit stocking, stretched out from our tradition of flooding each other with gag gifts, reignited anguish that felt new and raw all over again. At least I had Tag to look forward to. I couldn't wait to see that dog.
I was approaching our prearranged meeting place outside O'Hare airport when I saw them — the unmistakable combination of my stylish mother behind the wheel and a slobbering, yet regal, Tag, straining out the back seat window. My mom and I greeted each other cautiously, not out of animosity, but restraint. We innately knew that if we held each other's gaze, the sorrow of another holiday without John would overwhelm our weak levy.
“I'll sit in back with Tag,” I said in a desperate attempt to throw sandbags between our grief. “How's my boy?” I asked into his eyes while ruffling his ears and scratching him under the collar, where he liked it best. As we pulled away from the airport, Tag straddled my lap to resume his position at the window. Breathing his freshly shampooed scent, I rested my head on his side and hid my burning eyes from Mom's glances in the rear-view mirror.
Despite the lapses between visits to my mother's house, Tag and I were inseparable when we were under the same roof. He slept at the foot of my bed, trotted down the stairs after my slippered feet, waited as I fixed my coffee, and even joined me in the bathroom as I showered and blew my hair dry. What made this unusual was that Tag was generally aloof. While my mom adored her dog, she complained that he wasn't cuddly, that he'd always give her his rump to scratch instead of his muzzle. I couldn't help remembering that John was the same way. As the only male in our household for many years, John would often put the brakes on touchy-feely stuff. He told my mom he would give her backrubs — he on the couch, she sitting in front of him on the floor — only if she refrained from pleasurable noises. An “ooh, that feels good,” and his hands were in the air. “I'm outta here,” he would say and be off the couch, heading to the kitchen to pour himself a Coke.
My practical self attributed Tag's uncharacteristic affection to my resemblance to John. We're both fair-skinned with honey-colored hair, possibly even sharing a common smell or pheromone. But my spiritual self believed it was more than that — that part of John's soul was with Tag and when Tag and I were together, John and I were too in some way.
In fact, until this trip home for the holidays, I had sometimes wondered if I should have inherited Tag. Tag's adjustment would have been less jarring if he had stayed with me in Colorado and had an owner who was closer to John's age and lifestyle. Yet, I knew my motivations were primarily selfish, and now I was witnessing how beautifully Mom and Tag were piecing their lives together.
Mom had resumed her work as a photographer, and Tag now chased water birds along the shores of Lake Michigan rather than the chickens John kept on his property near the Rocky Mountains. Tag now heeled alongside Mom, though to her right side, the way my left-handed brother had purposely trained him, so that he'd be away from the rifle on their occasional hunting trips. Tag's stellar behavior evoked a pride in Mom, not only of Tag but also of her son's fine ability with animals. Mom glimpsed John through Tag the way one sees a deceased loved one in a child who bears their likeness.
As Mom and I sipped coffee in front of the Christmas tree on my first morning home, she invited me to witness a pet-assisted therapy program that she and Tag had become involved with over the last year. In phone conversations, Mom had mentioned the program in passing, but it wasn't until now that I'd had a chance to really talk with her about it.
She told me it had started when a stranger remarked how well trained Tag was.
“Yes, he is wonderful, but that credit really goes to my son,” Mom had explained.
During the brief conversation that followed, the stranger said he volunteered with a group that helped others through the use of dogs. Then and there, Mom had resolved to sign up.
The next day, however, she'd questioned whether she had the emotional strength to work with people who had disabilities. We were grateful John's departure from this world had been quick and peaceful. His girlfriend had smiled between sobs as she recounted that she and my brother had been goofing off on the mountain just moments before John, an expert skier, had inexplicably collided with a tree, rupturing his aorta. John had at least not suffered debilitating injuries — unlike many of the people whom my mother would train Tag to assist.
Despite her hesitations,
Mom summoned the courage to contact the organization. “My name is Mary Ann Alexander, and I have my son's dog. Well, he is my dog now,” she began.
The compassionate voice interrupted. “I know about your son, Mary Ann. My husband works with John's father. I was at the funeral. My name is Carole Hunt.” This was an almost eerie coincidence in a city the size of Chicago. My mother's resolve to train Tag in pet-assisted therapy was restored. Tag was hers for a reason. Maybe this was it.
When Mom received the pet therapy brochure in the mail a few days later, she settled on the rug beside Tag to read it. The literature emphasized that, more than providing companionship, these therapy dogs helped with the rehabilitation of patients. The dogs needed to be not only well trained, but also gentle enough to work with children and vibrant enough to engage a person whose spirits or energy may be low. Therapy dogs must also be patient and unbothered by wheelchairs, walkers, back braces, or helmets, as well as the awkward movements and vocalizations of some patients. Few dogs pass the rigorous obedience screening on the first try. The test date was only two weeks away.
“You'll do it, Tag,” Mom said, as she slid onto her side to lock eyes with her best friend. In a rare but increasingly frequent show of affection, Tag covered her face with kisses.
When the time came, Tag obeyed every instruction with an attentiveness that would have made John proud. Tag and my mother were invited into the program.
Now, sitting in Mom's kitchen a year later, I saw no trace of the initial butterflies she'd had as she saddled Tag with his official work vest in preparation for tonight's session. I, however, was nervous, even in my limited role as an observer. Then I remembered Mom commenting that Tag's omniscient look had allayed her fears. When I saw the purpose in Tag's eyes, I knew I'd be all right. In that moment, my internal compass needle, haywire for over a year, regained its bearings.
Tag looked handsome, even cocky, as he leaped into the back seat to be driven to the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago (RIC). From the front seat I turned to tell him, “You know John wants you to do this, don't you, smart boy?”
Mom's eyes smiled — the sandbags between us long gone — as we pulled onto Lakeshore Drive. The elevator door opened to a large recreation room milling with patients, therapy dogs, and the dogs' owners. Mom's preeminence in the program showed as she was swallowed by the group to answer last-minute questions before the therapy began. Eventually, all dogs and volunteers, paired with their patients, were spread throughout the room. In one corner a young man negotiated trading his walker for a leash, while a teenage girl pressed her dormant vocal cords to command a dog to sit.
For Mom and Tag, this was the last night of a six-week partnership with a seven-year-old girl named Samantha. In an automobile accident on Christmas Eve, Samantha had lost her little sister, and she had become partially paralyzed on her right side. She was in a wheelchair and had lost much of her speech. An older sister and both parents, who had survived the wreck with minor injuries, were there to cheer Sam on.
Sam had fallen in love with Tag the first night they worked together. Initially, Sam would pet Tag only with her left hand, until my mother, remembering her training, urged Sam to pet him with her right hand. As Sam fought to communicate with her right side, Tag nudged her hand with his wet nose. It was the magic touch. Sam giggled, evoking a gasp from her mother, who hadn't heard her laugh since before the accident. Slowly, Sam's hand obeyed her brain's signal. She extended her clenched fist enough to knock on Tag's shoulder. It was a tremendous achievement.
Every Tuesday night for six weeks, Tag helped Sam overcome her paralysis. Sam learned to uncurl her fist to accept a tennis ball and then to throw it to Tag, who retrieved it and begged for more. Their favorite game was to balance a dog biscuit on Tag's nose while he waited for the command to nod his head and catch the biscuit. Now Sam's actions with Tag were almost fluid, and she said his name clearly.
Sam's mother, Julie, told us that every time they got into the car, the little girl would ask, “Tag?” — hoping they were on their way to the RIC. I listened as my mother shared with Julie her story of losing her son. My mother hadn't wanted to burden Julie with our loss. Tonight, though, as Julie presented my mother with a bouquet of flowers for all she had done, it seemed appropriate. Upon hearing about John, Julie commented, “Your son was going to be a veterinarian so he could heal animals, but now his animal heals people.”
With Christmas behind me, I boarded my flight back to Denver. As I buckled my seat belt, I noticed Tag's straight, black hairs covering my beige corduroys and smiled. Brushing the hair from my lap, I thought about how Tag was with me in more ways than just his shedding coat. Tag had taught me, my mother, and even Sam's mom, Julie, that there is hope after tragedy.
In the days after John's death I had fearfully asked Mom, “Will we ever be okay again?” She responded that she didn't know how we ever could be. Yet, we are okay — due in large part to a huge-hearted black Lab with a wise old soul.
˜ Emily Alexander Strong
Green Roof, Red Car, Dog on Roof
All dogs are individuals. Most have an endearing trait or two. Some have one unique habit that the whole neighborhood knows — and talks — about.
As a puppy, Ina, a standard schnauzer, was like most other puppies: active, cheerful, and curious. She loved to watch things that happened around her.
Two days after our family brought our new puppy home, my neighbor knocked on my door. He asked, “Do you know your dog is on the roof?”
We have a two-story house with the front door on the ground level and the main living quarters on the second level. A bay window in the living room overlooks a small overhanging roof that extends half the width of the house and then joins with the garage roof.
Of course, I didn't know my dog was on the roof.
I ran outside, looked up, and sure enough, there on the roof was my seven-week-old puppy.
I ran back inside, up the stairs, into the living room, and to the open bay window. I leaned out to look at my puppy — who, alternately, looked up at me inside the house and down to my neighbor who was standing on the ground watching both of us.
I called and cajoled and coaxed Ina to come back inside, all the while contemplating whether I was going to have to climb out onto the roof to get her. Ina moved very slowly and hesitantly toward me, an inch at a time — not out of fear, but because she didn't want to come back inside. When she was finally within arm's reach, I stretched as far as possible without falling out the window myself, grabbed her by the scruff, and pulled her safely inside. (My next purchase would be a collar.) Satisfied that my dog was safe, my neighbor went home.
A few days later, another knock sounded at my front door. My neighbor was back.
He pointed upward. “Do you know your dog is on the roof again?”
This time I didn't step outside to look. I ran straight upstairs and again tried to coax the dog to come where I could reach her. However, this time she wasn't as willing to be dragged inside. It took a little more time, but I did get my puppy back into the house safely.
The next day, as I walked from the kitchen into the living room, I just happened to look in the direction of the bay window, just in time to see the little tail and bottom of a naughty white schnauzer disappear out the window.
I stood in shock and called her name.
Ina hopped back inside, wagged her stubby tail, sat, and looked at me, pleased with herself for obeying.
I closed the window anyway.
But we don't have air conditioning, and it's hot in August. The next day, the window was again opened, and again the dog jumped outside. This time, however, she jumped back inside on her own. She played in the house for a few hours, but it wasn't long before she jumped back outside. She paced back and forth on the roof, and then sat at the eave for the rest of the day, quietly watching the cars and people go by. Though she appeared to have no intention of jumping, I still didn't think it was a great idea for her to be on the roof. Thoug
h it wasn't steep, it was angled.
The next day, I ordered screens.
The day after that, the screen for the bay window had a schnauzer-sized hole in it, and the dog had upped the stakes. She was no longer content with the ordinary roof. This time she scaled the garage roof and was sitting on the peak.
I gave up.
So instead of watching my dog on the roof, I watched people watching my dog on the roof.
I live in a quiet, suburban, uneventful residential neighborhood. Or at least it was uneventful, before Ina came to live with us. Now people walking by stopped and pointed. Some gasped, while others laughed.
Cars stopped in the middle of the street, and people strained, some leaning out their car windows, to watch the dog, now positioned like a gargoyle at the peak of the garage, her paws hanging over the edge, head on her paws, her prominent schnauzer nose protruding past the edge for everyone to see. Sometimes, people even got out of the cars to stare. Fortunately, we don't get a lot of traffic on our street.
Many times, I heard people talking as they walked, staring in wonder, asking each other whether the gargoyle on our roof was real. Then Ina would move, answering their question. When the gargoyle moved, most people jumped. One elderly lady screamed.
It didn't take long before strangers began to knock on my door to ask the same question as my neighbor: “Do you know your dog is on your roof?” I assured them I did know, thanked them politely, and sent them on their way. But after the first two or three curious visitors, Ina decided she didn't want people touching her house.
Being on the roof gives one a distinct height advantage. When a new person approached the house, Ina ran to where the person had to walk beneath the roof to get to the front door. She leaned down on her haunches and told them, loudly and in no uncertain terms, what she thought of a stranger coming too close to her house.