A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  When I got back to the house, I scolded the kids for letting her out of the gate and made them stay in the house.

  “Will Dakota come back?” Ben asked.

  “I don't know,” I answered honestly. “Probably. But she's old, and she likes to run. You just never know.”

  About half an hour later, I heard a familiar jingle. Dakota was padding down the street, stopping every few feet to smell something. I grabbed a half cup of dog food and went out to lure her in. It still took several minutes of coaxing to get her back, but once I did, she ran in the house and straight downstairs to the chorus of three voices shouting, “Dakota!” She reveled in the adoration and then asked to go back out in the backyard. I'm sure she had an adventure to tell Kelly.

  Later in the day I noticed her sleeping soundly in one of the deck chairs, probably done in by her adventure. There was a look of smug satisfaction on her face, though. I think Dakota has become one of those red hat ladies you hear about, the ones who wear red and purple and don't care what other people think. Dakota doesn't care what I think about her wanderings. She doesn't care if it's inconvenient to me. She just wants to have an adventure.

  As for me, I'm glad the old girl is back. Even though she's sometimes inconvenient, she's family.

  ˜Amy Rose Davis

  Sandy Dreams

  Sandy is a fourteen-year-old, twenty-two-pound canine angel of dubious pedigree. With the tail of a beagle, the body of a stunted greyhound, and ears like Yoda, “beautiful” is a term never used to describe her. As further proof, please watch the movie Ice Age and take a good look at Skrat, a character some have said looks suspiciously like Sandy's litter mate.

  Although I acknowledge Sandy's interesting features, I don't see her mismatched body parts and cartoon expressions. I see her soft, pale fur and soulful, amber eyes surrounded by lovely, thick, white lashes. Those tender eyes have, over the course of many years, regarded me with surprise, excitement, sympathy, devotion, and always, love — deep, true, unconditional love.

  I recently learned that Sandy is in the early stages of kidney failure. This is not a surprising diagnosis for a dog of her advanced years. The veterinarian spoke with me at length about the efforts we can make to keep her comfortable and reasonably content in the short time she has left. Eventually, our family will have to decide whether Sandy should be euthanized. This is a decision I have never had to make for a pet, and I am not looking forward to it now.

  Earlier today, I was feeling sorry for us both, and Sandy did something she never fails to do when I'm down. She cheered me up. It was quite unintentional on her part, as she was sound asleep at the time, yet it was symbolic of the joy and comfort she has always provided.

  I was sitting in my office when I heard Sandy yip. She rarely barks anymore, her hearing having been stolen by age, so it was an unexpected sound. I glanced at her and smiled. Of course, she was dreaming. Her legs were aquiver, and her small feet scratched at the carpet. Yip! She made the sound again, eyes closed, body parts vibrating as if she were trying to run. Yip! Yip! How could I not smile?

  I spent the better part of ten minutes imagining what she might be dreaming. Not chasing squirrels. Though she used to bark “hello” to them, she was too gentle in nature to run them off. Perhaps she was chasing a tennis ball. Or maybe she was dreaming of her dearest canine buddy, Riley, our beloved golden retriever, possessed with boatloads of charm and very little brain. Older than Sandy, Riley died several years ago. Sandy's decline began shortly thereafter. The interaction between the two dogs was indicative of Sandy's innate kindness and gentle spirit.

  Riley was a good old boy, a tad overweight, and just beginning to suffer from arthritis. Still, he was a retriever, and true to his breed, retrieving was one of the things Riley loved best. Sandy was quite a bit younger than Riley and certainly faster and more agile than he had ever been, even in his puppy years. She, too, loved to chase and retrieve tennis balls, an activity she could easily have pursued all day. Riley had to work hard to beat her to the ball, but it was a race they both enjoyed.

  One day we were in the backyard playing fetch. I'd throw the ball to the very edge of the yard, and before poor old, arthritic Riley was even halfway there, Sandy would scoop up the ball and be on her way back to me. After two or three rounds of this, though, something incredible happened. Sandy stopped bringing me the ball. Oh, she couldn't stop herself from taking chase as soon as I let the fuzzy green thing fly. She sped past Riley to the fence, captured the ball, and trotted halfway up the yard to her old golden friend. Then she dropped the ball in front of him and ran off, allowing him the honor of picking up the prize and delivering it back to me.

  Never once after that day did she bring me the ball. Until the day Riley died, Sandy delivered the ball to her aging buddy so he could enjoy the game too.

  While on vacation several years ago, we boarded our pets with the veterinarian. We always kenneled the dogs together, because they were such good friends and because Sandy, who could be a bit high strung at times, was always happier and calmer when rooming with her pal. During our absence, Riley became seriously ill. The vet told us later that Sandy curled up next to Riley and never left his side. She had been his companion for fun and games, and she offered what comfort she could in his death.

  Yip! Yip! Yip!

  I smiled again, watching Sandy, still dreaming, as my ruminations continued….

  Sandy jumping into our car — uninvited — on the day we met her, so certain we were the right family for her. Smart dog.

  Sandy, our escape artist, digging holes under the fence and then, much to our dismay, actually climbing up and over the fence with the agility of a chimpanzee.

  Sandy, our fierce protector, barking often and loudly at anything she perceived as a threat, whether it be a person, a stray dog, or a piece of newspaper blown into the yard.

  Yip! Yip! Yip!

  I glanced at the clock, realized I was losing the afternoon. Still, it was time well spent. My sadness had dissipated, and my heart and mind were left with the realization that Sandy would always be with us, just as Riley was. Thoughts of Sandy had brought Riley back to me today, another of Sandy's unwitting gifts.

  Despite the ravages of age or the sorrow that will eventually come, the important thing is that the old girl is still with us. There are a few months of love yet to share with Sandy. When the time comes for her to leave us, I know she will be in good paws with her best pal, Riley. He is undoubtedly sitting at the edge of some heavenly meadow, tongue lolling, green tennis ball at his feet, watching and waiting for the arrival of his dearest friend. I wouldn't be surprised if he brings her the ball next time.

  ˜Lisa Ricard Claro

  Hope in a Dumpster

  I was thirty years old when I met Dumpster, a sixty-pound, black-and-tan mutt, wandering through the alley in back of my 1930s apartment building in the Capitol Hill area of central Denver. I had seen him around the trash bins for about a week and figured he must have been dumped there. He was a little scary-looking — unkempt, with intense and vigilant eyes — and I wasn't used to being around dogs. But I wasn't afraid.

  I called him over and was immediately overtaken by long-dormant maternal instincts. He approached me tentatively, tucking his tail between his legs, his head bowed down, unable or unwilling to meet my eyes. Oh, he was brave, but also gentle and regal and so like the dog of my childhood dreams, the one I'd longed for and never had.

  My one and only girlhood desire was not the standard owning-a-horse wish; I wanted a dog — more then anything on God's earth. I spent hours poring over books about the various breeds and how to raise and train a puppy. I practiced with my stuffed animals and made lists of suitable dog names. It was a modest dream for a middle-class girl in the 1970s. But my mother, an extreme germ-o-phobic, declared animals dirty and disease-ridden and would not have such a beast in her house.

  From the time I was eight or nine until I hit thirteen, I left hundreds of notes proclaiming my desperation
in my mom's underwear drawers: “I want a dog.” “My life is not complete without a dog.” “Please get me a dog.” It was all for naught. Although my dad was not at all opposed to the idea, Mom was the boss and she refused to budge.

  With adolescence, my attention turned to more essential endeavors, leaving no room to dream about dogs. Instead, I spent my time worrying about how my hair looked, whether the guy in math class noticed my new high-fashion multi-colored toe socks, and if I would ever get to see the movie Saturday Night Fever.

  After high school and college and graduate school, I settled into the life of a working single woman, coming home to an empty apartment, where I'd fix a frozen dinner and dream of meeting Mr. Right. By the time I reached thirty, I had all but forgotten about my dream of having my own dog. I had long ago accepted that life was unfair, that things didn't always turn out the way I wanted them to, and that dreams were necessary only to create some kind of hope. Without hope, life could be unbearably tedious. Now, I dreamed of owning a house, where I wouldn't have to put up with the idiosyncrasies of too-close neighbors. But like the dog dream, I knew it would never happen. I was a social worker in a city of accountants and engineers; I could not afford the luxury of my own home. So I satisfied myself with what I had, and it was a good life, as far as it went….

  Until I met him.

  For a few days, I left out food for Dumpster, bought him bones to chew, and laid a blanket under the lone tree in the urban alley where he slept. I hoped that someone else would rescue him, take him to a real home, and treat him like the king he so obviously was. I could not keep him in my apartment — no pets allowed.

  I realized this was no life for a dog, alone and wandering without a pack in the concrete jungle. After calling several shelters, I found one that promised me he would not be put to sleep, even if they could find no home for him. When the new caretakers informed me that he was a she, Dumpster's regal bearing transformed into sophisticated beauty before my very eyes. She would be safe now; I had done a good thing. With some tears, I let her go.

  The foster home parents assigned by the animal shelter named her Eve, which didn't quite fit. But I had no say in the matter; she was no longer “my” dog. I visited her at her new temporary home, brought her toys and treats, and took her on long walks. Slowly, it dawned on me. This wasmy dog. I may have given up on my dream, but it had not given up on me.

  I set about finding a home for Eve-Dumpster and me. Eve-Dumpster. E D. That was it! I renamed her Edie.

  Over the next two months, I must have called fifty apartments — none of which would accept dogs — and another twenty rental homes, trying to find a place for us. Then I looked for a home to buy, spending all my free time traipsing through less-than-adequate dwellings. It seemed that in my price range, “house” meant either “ugly, cramped, yard-less condominium” or “dilapidated hut in a scary neighborhood.”

  I was losing hope. Maybe dreams were meant to be just dreams and nothing more. But I wanted this dog so badly. After all, I was the one who had rescued her from a life on the streets or possibly worse. It didn't seem right that someone else could adopt and keep her for all time. But the foster home let me know that would soon happen; my time was running out.

  I made one last phone call. When the man on the other end of the line told me he had just rented out his house to someone else, I broke down in tears and told him my story. I needed a house now, or I would lose the chance to adopt my dog.

  Not only was this man a dog-lover, but he also had a friend who was readying a small home to put on the market. I called the friend and went to look at the house. It was perfect: just the right size, with a large fenced yard and an extra bedroom for the dog accessories. It was only two miles from my apartment. Miraculously, he named a price within my reach.

  And so Edie became my dog, and that perfect, tiny house became our home. I used to joke that I had bought her the biggest dog house the world had ever known. That is probably true. But it's also true that she brought me home to that place inside where hopes and dreams aren't just distractions from everyday life.

  Edie was my dream, and she also made my dreams come true. She gave me hope. After all, if that demure lady could survive being dumped in an alley alone, face each day with hope and courage, and not run away when approached by a stranger, surely I could find a way to give her, to give us, a home. Even on my meager salary, in a city of accountants and engineers.

  Over the years, I've told this story to many people and received numerous accolades for adopting a castaway mutt rather than a purebred with papers. What they don't quite understand is that I didn't rescue Edie. She rescued me.

  ˜Sue Dallman-Carrizales

  Doggie Do-Si-Do

  She started drinking, you know, after all the kids left for college,” a friend whispered to me about a woman whose husband had just left her. “It happens more often than you think.” She looked knowingly at me. Was she looking at me that way because she knew I would never do that or because she feared I would?

  I have to admit, I was a tad worried about how I would fill my life after the last chick left the nest. There was my writing, of course, but I'd been doing that all along. How would I fill those hours that had previously been spent volunteering at school and driving carpools? And how would I fill that ache in my heart? I love being with my children and their friends. Having a house full of kids watching TV and eating everything in my pantry was my idea of a fun evening.

  Visions of liquor bottles strewn around the house drove me to sign up for volunteer work as my youngest child prepared to depart for college. Working with children eased the pain as he drove off that fall, but I knew it wasn't enough. I wrote more and busied myself with redecorating the house, but I still missed my kids and their friends.

  “You have got to do something about this dog,” my husband scolded one evening, as Duchess raced around the living room, toppling furniture and terrorizing the cat. We'd adopted Duchess, an Australian cattle dog, from animal control when she was an eight-month-old, skinny, scared pup who cowered any time someone spoke in a raised voice. Food and love had cured those problems, only to be replaced by new ones. Cattle dogs are bred to chase cows in the Australian outback for hours at a time. They can outrun the Energizer Bunny and hardly be out of breath.

  Duchess's obedience instructor had suggested she do agility training, where dogs climb, jump, and maneuver obstacles as fast as they can on a course. I'd dismissed the idea when I still had one child at home because I didn't have time, but my newly empty nest suddenly provided me with plenty of free hours. So one evening I loaded Duchess in the car, along with a water bowl (she refused to drink from the one provided in class) and a bag full of treats for her first try at agility training.

  Within a few months, she was jumping, tearing through tunnels, racing over the A-frame, and winding her way through the weave poles. Even my husband began coming to class and cheering her on, which made her try all the harder. He became our coach, discussing strategies for running the course and suggesting ways I could improve my handling.

  Then at dinner one night, we enlightened a group of friends about the intricacies and challenges of agility training, proudly pointing to our now well-behaved and quiet dog. Duchess would look up whenever anyone mentioned her name, but didn't beg for food or bother any of our guests. I was just beginning to explain how to train a dog to maneuver the weave poles, when our friend Marci cleared her throat and pushed back her chair.

  “You know,” she said, “I'm going to come over here one day and that dog's going to be in a soccer uniform.”

  I laughed along with the rest of the group, but knew in my heart that none of them “got it.”

  Duchess won her first ribbon, a third place, at a meet just before Thanksgiving. With family and friends gathered around the table, I passed photos of her clearing a jump with plenty of room to spare and made everyone look at the huge, yellow ribbon.

  “You seriously need some grandkids,” one cousin su
ggested as she passed the ribbon along.

  “I don't need grandkids,” I responded. “I have Duchess.” I saw her roll her eyes, but pretended not to notice.

  At Christmas, my husband got a cap with a cattle dog embroidered on it, so he could look official as he coached us. I got a bag to carry our equipment to the meets and an apron with a cattle dog on it. They were our favorite presents.

  Disaster struck one evening in class when Duchess refused to jump or climb. I took her immediately to the vet the next morning, and X-rays revealed that an old injury was acting up.

  “She's only four,” the vet mumbled as he studied the calcium deposits along her spine. “I think she was injured before you adopted her; she might have been kicked or hit there.” Rest and medication would heal her for now, but he warned us that agility work would probably be too tough for her in another year or two.

  The three of us moped around the house for several weeks as the inflammation in her back slowly disappeared. Every Thursday evening, she would stand expectantly by the door, waiting for me to take her to class. My husband's new cap hung uselessly in the closet.

  Just when life had begun to feel like a drag for all three of us, a woman we knew from agility class called. “I know Duchess is on hiatus from agility,” she said. “We're starting a doggie square dance group, and we'd like to invite you and Duchess to join us.”I immediately called my husband at work and gave him the good news.

  “You aren't seriously considering this?” he questioned. “Doggie square dancing?”

  I scolded him for his lack of enthusiasm, reminding him that we'd been invited to join this elite group. I explained that it was simply obedience moves set to music and that it would provide good exercise for Duchess without putting strain on her injury. Then I informed him that we would be performing in six weeks in the home show at the convention center, demonstrating basic obedience skills in dance movements with a real square dance caller. We would represent the training center. Plus, we were going to be on local television.