The journey you are about to begin follows the follies of one family into the forays of too many pooches....It all began with a BIG dog named Xerya (Zera) and a burglary attempt. Add a hormonal teenage girl and this is what happens:
Chapter
1: The First Dog
Snoopy
The one constant
in my life, growing up, was my dog, Snoopy. He was the unfortunate cross
between a dachshund and some kind of a bull terrier, and his low slung body and
powerful shoulders and neck, along with his powerful jaws proved a force with
which be reckoned for any stray dog or cat wandering across our property.
Snoopy
was a parting gift from my father; he left us to find a new family; a pretty
good trade in the eyes of a 5 year old who had little to do with a father who
wanted a male heir and everything to do with a dog whose unconditional love
immersed her in baptismal joy.
Snoopy,
in spite of his ferocious demeanor and behavior away from me, was my best
friend. He pulled a wagon, rode in the
oversized basket of my bike, wore baby clothes and became my surrogate sister,
dragged the cats about by their necks, all of the time, wagging his powerful
tail and grinning.
This
dog filled in the holes in my life and was independent of rules set forth by
anyone but me. This independence ended
when he was 11 years old, and I 16 years old.
I was becoming to busy for him, but one afternoon, I went to the
backyard seeking his company. No Snoopy. I called and called, scoured the
neighborhood and began to feel a panic rise in my chest. Prompted by courage I
did not know I had, I entered a neighbor’s garage and saw my beloved dog lying
in a puddle of his own blood. The man standing in the garage was Stan, a man
who was ill-favored in by all the neighbors.
He had a shovel in his hand, Snoopy was bleeding from his nose and ears.
The man looked to be in the act of striking my dog again when I rushed forward
and let forth a stream of language I did not know I knew how to use. I placed
myself between Stan and my dog, scooped him up and carried him back to our
house, sobbing.
It
was several days before Snoopy could return home; the vet said he was blind in
one eye and had lost most of his balance because of his brain injuries. I do
not know how much the vet bill was; I suspect far too much for the money my
mother made working at a clothing shop, but Snoopy did return home to us.
Snoopy came home, deaf and semi-blind, but still full of his same unconditional
love.
One
particular memory I have of Snoopy involved a Rottweiler. This Rott lived two houses up the street in
our ever changing neighborhood and the renters had little or no control of the
dog. While the neighborhood set on a
busy street, it was also a place where families lived and small children ran
about. Snoopy was fond of children, however, he had no such feelings for other
dogs. One afternoon the Rott was out
roaming the neighborhood and since the leash law in Twin Falls, Idaho, was
enforced little, so was Snoopy. In fact, his skipping presence was such a
familiar sight, many of the people in our neighborhood knew when he made his
rounds and offered him treats. But that
day, Snoopy and the Rott just happened to be outside at the same time, Snoopy
with me and the Rott without his owners.
Snoopy,
being a dachshund bully breed cross had the tenacity of both breeds and did not
know how to back down from a fight. He
was also about 40 pounds and the Rott was closer to 90 pounds. Snoopy was
clearly out-classed in both weight and ability, but this did not deter his
frontal attack. He tore out of the yard
and after the larger dog; the Rott simply picked him up by the front leg and
threw Snoopy away, simple as that. There was a huge gash and teeth marks under
Snoopy’s right front leg, he was bleeding, but he returned for more. All the time, Mrs. Rogers, our plucky
tight-curled neighbor was shouting, “Candi!
Get your dog! Candi! Call Alma!” Snoopy returned to the Rott, his right
leg dragging; he tried to scoot under the larger dog and bite at its neck. The Rott picked Snoopy up by the head and
punctured the top of his head and the bottom of his jaw on the left side. Snoopy was in bad shape. He did survive and he did go onto live and wreck havoc on the neighborhood for 12 more years.
Chapter
2: The First Dane
Xerya’s
Choice
To
say our love affair began at first sight would be erroneous, but it was close.
Our house was broken into; my 16 year old daughter interrupted the burglary;
the barking doorbells (our two matched black Pugs) did nothing, in fact, I
think they may have even welcomed the intruder, and a man with a gun ended up
in our kitchen.
We
decided to get a big dog. Alarms systems
were not an option; our rural location and the cost did not justify such a
system. We just fenced our yard and consequently our watch dog, an aging
Dingo/Boston Terrier cross named Taz, died of breast cancer. We missed the safety of big bark and a set of
snappers. We also refused to purchase a
pedigree, having done so with the Pugs and finding little but health
problems. We decided to adopt a rescued
dog and rehabilitate it to be part of our family. A noble consideration.
My
daughter began lobbying for a Great Dane, nearly the biggest of the giant
breeds. No Labs for us; no medium dogs. We skipped straight to the behemoths of
the dog world; sometimes tipping the scales at 170 lbs and often 36 inches. We read everything we could for a week;
perused the rescue sites in Southern Idaho, read the newspaper and thought
about it. Would the new dog blend with
our already spoiled Pugs? How much poop would this dog manufacture? Were our
fences high enough? Where would it
sleep?
Then
an ad appeared in the local paper; a family was moving to Boise and needed a
home for their Great Dane/Mastiff cross. I called. Three times. We spoke. A
lot. We sent pictures back and forth and by the end of the day, I had all but
adopted the dog, sight unseen.
It
was close the end of school, and as my husband and I are both teachers, my
daughter and I drove to the home, one town away from ours, to see
this dog with no intention of bring her home until we discussed her with my
husband. We took the digital camera and a bag of dog treats, a clicker-trainer
and a strong leash so we could walk her and test out obedience and aggression
issues.
We
brought home a huge spotted Harlequin dog with one blue eye and one brown, a
docked tail and sagging jowls.
When
we drove into the swanky neighborhood, my daughter looked at me and said, “Wow,
these people have money.” I agreed. We found the house, rang the doorbell and
were greeted with a ferocious barking. Surely, this concord of snarling would
deter anyone else thinking of breaking and entering in our home. Then the door opened and out bolted a huge,
goofy version of dog-cum-moose. She was
thin and drooling and full of good humor.
The
owner, a woman about 27 years old came out with a little girl and began
explaining the situation: Her husband changed jobs; they were living with her
parents until they could move to Boise; the dog was causing a problem; the
dog’s kennel mate was a Boxer and had gone earlier in the week leaving this dog
the only obstacle between her joining her husband and staying with her parents.
Kate
and I asked the usual questions: Health? Vet records? Shot records? Behavior?
Training? Obedience? All questions were answered clearly and the woman was
ready had over the vet records for the dog. As for training and obedience, the
dog was not trainable and did not even sit on command. Sometimes she jumped up and it was game; jump
on your person and run! See if you can start a game of chase. She said her
husband used the water hose to spray the dog to keep it down.
During
this conversation, the dog took turns leaning against me and Kate, tongue out,
drooling down our jeans’ legs. I took
out the clicker and the bag of cookies. Within minutes the dog was sitting and
lying down. My daughter and I looked at
each other; “Can we call you this evening?
A decision this large needs some thought.” We were assured we could call.
Kate
walked toward the pickup; the dog followed; the owner made no move to restrain
her. Kate opened the door to climb in;
the dog beat her to it, settling in the backseat of the our old blue Ford. “I
guess we made our decision.” We left with a free Great Dane/Mastiff without a
name. Her previous owners called her ‘Z’. We were not sure about this.
Our
first stop was PetSmart; we needed to gear up for a giant dog. Bed, raised
bowl, special food, big toys, a huge bone that looked like it came from
dinosaur, but I was promised was a femur from a steer, processed in the United
States without formaldehyde. A collar; a leash; a harness in case she pulled.
Another toy, one she chose and drooled on so much we felt guilty leaving it. (I
think PetSmart may have a conspiracy going here; leave the toys down for the
dogs to get so the owners have to buy them!) The total for this little shopping
excursion: $187.50.
My
husband’s reaction was not surprise, but rather acceptance. He knew we were
goners when we went to look at the dog.
Our special needs household of animals was always serving one critter or
another, sometimes for a short while and sometimes for the rest of their lives.
We
found a wounded white dove once, flopping in our backyard, bloodied and
pest-ridden. My daughter, then only 13, saw it and proclaimed it a treasure
fallen from the sky. We put it in a dog crate, thinking it would die, but it
lived with us for 3 years, bearing the name Alberto, and cooing morning and
night. We finally found him a home where
he could live with other dove; he still lives there with his progeny,
apparently he was quite fertile and ready to service all of the young tender
doves he could.
We
also found a cat, once, and brought it home. It was Halloween morning and I
stopped, with my daughter, at Albertson’s to grab some treats for my classroom
and for my daughter’s friends. As we
left, we heard a plaintive meowing coming from behind the cornstalks; my
daughter investigated and pulled out a skinny, scraggly tortoise shell cat. She
was half-grown and clingy. I called my boss at school and said, “I’m going to
be late; we found a cat.” His response was, “Why doesn’t that surprise me.” So we ended up with Flannery O’Connor, aptly
named for the author my students and I were studying at the time, and for the
cat’s difficult temperament and lack of personal attachment to anyone in the
house. She tolerates us to this day, but only just.
So
when we walked into my husband’s classroom dragging a drooling 100 lbs. dog,
scared and shaking, he didn’t even blink. He just said, “This must be our new
burglar alarm.” The dog, 120 lbs.
quivered with fright. Apparently, her previous owner failed to mention the
dog’s fear of males.
So
began our summer with our first Great Dane, Xerya. The name, Egyptian-ish, was a concoction from
Kate and myself. It sounded exotic and beautiful, reflecting how we saw our new
companion. The name, Xerya, pronounced
Zera, tasted like honey figs when spoke and brought forth images in my mind of
camels and dunes, covered faces and erotic dances; however, I retrospect, the
name lent Xerya an elegance she did not possess. She was a dog firmly grounded
in her desire to please, her love of a good roll in the mud and chasing ducks
in the canals, a dog easy to train and easy to love.
Chapter 3: Short Life
Loss
Xerya died on gastric torsion on December 24, 2007. She was four years old. I swore never to have another Great Dane in my entire life. My husband had different ideas. So did my daughter.
Chapter
5
Lilly
and Cooper
Lilly
C Hurst 12/2008
My shadow is a lean, frightened black dog; fearful of
all, shy to a fault
she follows me, a hesitant breath from room to room,
waiting for notice.
Her eyes, a watchful orange, penetrate my thoughts, and I
feel her need.
Even when I am not with her.
She smiles upon occasion, but mostly just wanders until
she sleeps.
How did she become my shadow?
What does she demand of me?
She has always been there; I just did not choose to see
her until now.
Now I see her everywhere.
Like every storyteller, I have a
story to tell. Mine involves a dog. Actually 16 of them. After our first Great Dane, Xerya, died her tragic and untimely death from
gastric torsion, I declared our house a “Dane-Free” zone. My daughter was graduating high school that
year, I was busier than ever at work as we as my husband and I simply did not
see the need to clutter up our lives with more large and undeniably fragile
dogs. Of course, I was overruled
immediately.
By March of 2008, our lives were
different from anything we ever imagined.
We answered an ad offering two Great Danes for adoption, one behemoth
Blue male and one diminutive black female.
Immediately, my husband sent me the online ad from a local city (he had
been looking in his spare time) and I examined the dogs secured behind the tall white fence and
chain link gate. The male was bigger
than me! The female would not look
directly at the camera; not a good sign, I was certain. I said absolutely NOT!
So on March 15, 2008, we drove three
hours to that city to meet the perspective member of our family. We had no intentions of taking two dogs and I
was not interested in the female. When I
spoke to her owner, she hedged about some behavioral issues. Since I did not want a 100 + lbs dog with
behavioral issues, I calming made the arrangements to go up and visit the blue
male and bring him home on the following weekend, right before spring break,
giving all of us a week plus two weekends at home to help the dog adjust to his
new home.
Ha!
Double Ha! Ha ha! So much for
plans. We stopped my a Petco and bought
two toys for the dogs we were visiting, sitting on these toys and rubbing them
all over our armpits to scent them with our unique scents. These were the gifts we planned on
leaving. Looking back, I can see all
along the plan was to bring home that female, but at the time, it seemed like a
good idea and a perfectly innocent way to introduce ourselves. We found the address, a huge new built home
in an expensive neighborhood.
Whoops. We felt a little out of
place. We were simple educators, not
millionaires and this did not bode well for our chances are adoption. I wondered if she needed a bank statement and
pay stub. My daughter told me I was being ridiculous. My husband rang the doorbell and a cacophony
of barking rose from the backyard.
A tiny woman resembling Reba
McIntyre answered the door and asked us to come in. the house was new cleaned and almost
empty. “We are moving to Wisconsin,”
Reba explained and walked us through the artfully staged house into the
backyard. In the far corner, we a small
kennel and inside, four huge Great Danes. At least that is what Reba said and
promptly named them off. I counted
three. I recounted since Math is not my
strong suit and still came up with three.
Reba opened the pen and gingerly walked in through the dog droppings and
dragged out the black female. She shied
away from all of us, including Reba and stood quivering with her tail between
her legs.
“Can you let her out?” I asked.
“Stand back,” Reba said and opened
the gate. The black female was out like
a shot. She careened around the
backyard, running from corner to corner like a trapped pony. The whites of her eyes flashed at us and she
bared her teeth. So I walked over and
tried to pet her. She was cornered and I
figured once I could get my hands on her, she and I would at least be copacetic.
I was wrong. It took four hours to touch
her. It became a personal challenge and
I think Reba was sorry we ever came to her house; she kept checking her watch. My husband immediately fell in love with the
big Blue male and loved on him intensely, but I could not even approach the
female.
“How do you catch her?” I
asked. A guess that seemed like the
logical thing to ask at the time, but looking back, I may have needed a few
more details, like ‘Do you use a noose? A catch pole? A tiger trap? Darts?
Kevlar gloves? A SWAT team?
But no, not me, I simply asked “How do you catch her?”
“Oh, she tires out eventually and
she comes in to her crate when she is hungry.
Then I just shut the door and feed her and that’s that,” Reba shrugged as if that was the simplest and
calmest answer in the world.
“Oh, I see. Where is her crate?”
“In the garage. She is crate trained. In fact she likes her crate. She would rather be there than anywhere.”
“Can I see?” I simply could not imagine anything big
enough to comfortably house this dog, let alone her companion. I followed obediently into the garage where
four crates, each large enough to rent for a studio apartment and New York City
line was far wall. It was cold and there was just one think blanket on the
floor of each crate. “Don’t they get
cold?”
“Oh no. They are fine.” She walked over to a 40 lbs. bag of Black
Diamond dog food. “This is what I feed
her.”
This is a good as time as never, I
thought. “Well, actually, my husband and daughter seem taken with the big
male. Can we visit about adoption terms
for him, please?”
“No.
I am sorry. He has been
adopted. I am just keeping him until the
check clears. You can take the female,
though. I am sure you two will become
fast friends.”
“Ummmm. I really don’t feel comfortable taking a dog
I cannot catch and cannot touch.
Eventually, she will have to understand interaction. But thank you for your time,” I turned to go back through the garage and
into the perfectly staged house.
“Wait. Let me see if I can get her into the house
and make her lay down. Then you can meet
her.” She seemed a little
desperate. Maybe I did not notice it
because of the circus that ensued, but looking back, she acted like she did not
want to see us go.
“Okay. What about the other
two? Are they spoken for?”
“Oh, they are moving with us,” She waved her hand to dismiss the
subject. “It’s just these two. I can’t get them to breed, so there is no
reason for me to take them with us all the way across the country to have them
not produce puppies in Wisconsin. Here,
stand behind the door and hold it open.
Hopefully she will run into the house.”
Reba called the dog and herded her into the house. The dog ran into the house, took one look at
my husband and daughter inside the house and promptly exited. Next.
“This time, she runs into the house,
shut the door!” She hollered breathless
and a little frustrated.
“Okay!” I stood poised behind the door ready to slam
it shut when she ran through.
Unfortunately, the dog caught a glimpse of me and did not want to go
back inside the house and her memory was good enough to understand there were
strangers in the house and she did not want to go back inside. So rather than run into the house, she veered
and ran back into the yard, making the fence circuit again. “Holy Cow!”
I shouted.
“Once more, then we will try
something else.” Something else? What, a
rocket powered catch net with weighted ends and a bolos that wrap around her
feet and muzzle show she cannot move and she cannot bite me? Reba pushed the dog toward the door and she
entered! A victory!
Inside, the blue male was gamely
lapping up all the attention he could get.
His head, one big square with huge ears hanging off it, rested in my
daughter’s lap and his tail was thumping out a n asymmetrical rhythm on my
husband. He glanced up at me when I
followed the black female inside and I noticed his eyes were golden and
crossed. Oh boy. A dog that is almost 170 lbs and sees two of
everything. Well, he was someone else’s
problem.
“Honey, the blue male is taken. I am so sorry.” The disappointment on his face and my
daughter’s face made me want to counter-offer the adoption fee of the other
people.
“Oh.” One word and so much said with
that one word.
Now that the black female was inside
the house and the door was shut, I thought the rest would be easy. I never had a dog that did not adore me and
me him or her. I was the dog whisperer
(No offense Cesar Millan!). I was the person who loved on every single dog all
the time. The black female backed
herself into the corner and let out a low growl. Now, at this time, it was a challenge. I am very competitive and this had ‘win’ all
over it! I was going to get this dog to
let me touch her! I was going to win
this arrangement. Just watch me!
The black female and Reba sat on the
floor near the front door. We had
already been warned that under no circumstances should we open the door because
the black female would bolt. Yep. That’s the word used. Bolt.
Like lightning. Bye-bye dog. So I sat on the floor six or seven feet away
and moved toward her slowly. My daughter
retrieved the toys the truck and handed one to me and gave one to the big blue
male. The male took his; the female just
lifted her flues at it and growled deeper in her chest.
Now, it occurred at me at this time
that this dog did not like me. Okay, I
am slow learner and it always did take me awhile to catch on to things. And they let me be a teacher! Go figure!
But I digress. The female did not
like me; probably was never going to like and that was that. Still there was that unspoken challenge that
if I left, she won. So I moved close.
It took four hours to touch that
damn dog. Yes. Four hours.
By the time I was able to pet her foot, she was exhausted and falling
asleep where she laid. She allowed me to
pet her foot without biting my face off and I took it as a victory. When Reba put her in her crate, not only was
the dog grateful, but so was I. I
followed and watched the dog wolf down the meager meal offered her with a new
understanding of what was expected of me.
Whether or not I wanted this damn dog, she needed us. We left with the promise to call the next day
and confirm our plans. I had lost.
 |
| Cooper: Father of the 12 puppies. The human is my husband. |
Today a Dog Died
3.13.13
Today, a dog died. I did not even know its name, just one
of the many mongrels in the neighborhood. When we walked past the
puddle of blood in the uneven street, my husband comment, "Someone lost
their transmission" but immediately our own dogs, three Great Danes,
alerted to smell of blood and distress, grief and fear and scented, noses to
the ground, searching for the injured dog.
We dragged them home, grateful the death was not among our
own, questioning who would allow their beloved doggie to wander into the
street. Then we spoke to a neighbor and learned the truth. The dog
was one we did know. It belonged to the loveliest and gentlest soul, girl
child, on our block. It was a dog she rescued. She loved it.
Suddenly that puddle of blood, congealed and clotted had a name and a
face. Suddenly I was no longer in judgment of an irresponsible dog owner,
but in the league of a grieving pet parent.
When we walked our spoiled Chihuahuas around the block,
they were also distressed and I remembered not that long ago when we lost dogs
and how that loss affected us to our deepest core of humanity. One tiny puppy
had been a gift we did not deserve, a tiny long haired Chihuahua named Kitty.
Our Dane Lilly played too rough with her and she died in my arms.
Another was our Sullivan; a blind and impaired Great Dane we had to have
euthanized. Still another was Chu-Chu, a pug who died of PUG DOG
ENCEPHALITIS. Still another was our first Dane, Xerya, who died of
gastric torsion and then Taz, our long-lived and beloved Boston terrier and
dingo mix, who died of aggressive breast cancer. All part of us and all
deeply mourned.
Now that puddle of blood was a memory, an incarnadine item,
not just blood: It represented the heart and soul of a dog and owner. It
became a sacred moment and a sacred path. A time when blood must be
washed away to protect the living from those who prey upon the dead, a deep
seated fear committed to our collective memories for a time of caves and
nighttime horrors.
The little children that walk with us speculated about the
dog that died. We explained the blood and the science behind all of it,
but we could not explain the grief. How do you tell an eight year old
about death? How about a five year old? Even the 12 year old was
puzzled by the situation. She could not decide how to react, her small
and budding emotions trying to stretch their abilities as we conversed about
the blood puddle and the dog that no longer existed and the volume of blood in
the street versus the volume of blood in a small dog and how much blood is
necessary for survival.
When we continued our walk, neighbors stopped us to
reminisce about their own losses, dogs they loved and how much they missed
them. The man next door came upon the accident just after it happened; he
was taken aback by the level of grief the girl, kneeling in the street cradling
her broken dog, felt. The man up the street spoke to us about his Akita;
he may get another dog he misses her so. The neighbors behind us stopped
to let us meet their newest rescue, a Lhasa Apso named Yosemite Sam.
Their Golden Retriever died during the past winter. Each memory
added to the collective account of the love and connection we feel with our
dogs and the way they change our lives with their small presence. Each
dog left a hole in their owners’ hearts, but not their memories.
Regardless of all the circumstances, that dog was loved.
He was a pet, surrogate child of a girl-child herself. He was a
familiar face in the neighborhood, recipient of dog cookies when we walked and
met him with his friend and owner. She is just a tender and gentle child
who will be scarred from this, but will still love and live to adopt and share
her gift of compassion again. It will rain this weekend and the blood will be
gone, but the memory, the scent, the knowledge will long rest with the
remainder of our neighborhood, and continue to haunt us and remind us our dogs
are not just animals, but part of our souls; a part not easily replaced and not
easily excused.
