I have been moved to collect some tales of wagging tails that I shared (and perhaps overshared) elsewhere prior to being dragged from my den where I was licking my wounds and (snapping and snarling the entire way) into The Cage.
I would caution anyone reading that (even more than usual) some of what I chose to share in these collected tales may be... difficult for some of more tender emotional dispositions to handle. As always, I am sharing here what I shared there in an attempt to help rather than hinder, much less harm. So, I do ask that if a) you don't like dogs or b) you are emotionally wrought already, then please hit your back button on your browser and give this one a pass.
*****
Way, way back when I first got my little sister, Mom being the genius she was also got me a puppy. A little black cocker spaniel that for reasons that completely escape me I named "Sugar." (Gimme a break. I was four.) Well, for reasons already discussed elsewhere (as much as I'm gonna in open forum), for a long time I was only allowed to go out in the backyard and play with Sugar. In every way that counted, she was my only real friend for years.
Along the way, Sugar had her share of problems and more. Cancer. Heartworms. She even had a wound on her back at one point that flies had laid maggots in that had to be surgically fixed. Mom had her put to sleep when I was... I don't remember for sure exactly what age. But, I know I was already wrestling with death between losing my first grandfather and the old couple that I stayed with before I started to school (pretty sure I mentioned the one-legged carpenter somewhere around here) all within about three months. I don't know that it was the best idea, but Mom decided to bury Sugar beneath my bedroom window and plant... honeysuckle, I think. I couldn't take part. I just couldn't. I sat in my bedroom and cried while I listened to her digging right outside my window. But, it ever after meant something to me to know that my first best friend was right outside my window. And I always thought the plant was the most beautiful I'd ever seen.
Yeah, there is more than one reason "Where the Red Fern Grows" still makes me tear up.
Even before Sugar was put to sleep, Rowdy had come into our lives.
Rowdy was... I've never been really clear. But, I'm pretty sure Mom knew Sugar wasn't going to be around much longer, so she made arrangements with my best friend's Dad... the ex-marine DI turned Baptist Minister (and we did NOT see the same side of him on Saturday night he displayed on Sunday morning, let me tell you!)... to gift me with one of the puppies their dog was always having.
Looking back, I feel sorry for Rowdy. He came along at really the worst time in my life that a puppy could have. My adolescence. To a large extent, other than making sure he had food and water, he was pretty much all but forgotten out in the backyard while I was hustling around doing my school and church stuff and was hardly ever home except to try to get a little sleep and shower, much too busy playing Big Man on the Campus, hanging with my friends and chasing the elusive "split-tails." Then college happened, not one but two jobs, I managed to actually catch one of those "split-tails" (or was caught by her) and Mom had to take over even his feeding since I was, quite literally, never home.
He formed a tumor on the back of his neck and shoulder that was really more of a fluid cyst that just got bigger and bigger over the years until it was about half the size of his head. And despite always having only the best food, he would not eat and was little more than skin over bones his entire life. Don't even get me started on his teeth that were snaggled and would get caught in his fur. Those friends tried to say their dog, and Rowdy, were Pomeranians. But, the thing is, I know dogs. I mean, I was seriously a dog nerd. And I even took my dog encyclopedia to them and showed them the picture of a Tibetan Spaniel and dared them to tell me Rowdy couldn't have posed for it.
When I moved off to chase a career, I don't really remember whose idea it was. Mom was working on what would become her second failed marriage and asswipe had a whole pack of Shelties. Any road, I took Rowdy back to live with me. Which was a mistake since he'd only ever been an outside dog for about a decade and I was living in a little back house with no yard and working two jobs. If there was a single place in that house he didn't hike his leg, I don't know where it would have been.
But, sadly, Rowdy and I just never had the same connection that I'd had with Sugar. Which was my fault because I just never spent the time with him that I did with her except for those months he lived inside with me at that little house. I loved him and he loved me. But, we just didn't have that same... magical connection. So, when I moved back (and basically ended Mom's second marriage because I wasn't going to put up with dickweed being a lazy motherfucker and not working and then abusing Mom emotionally on top of it), when Love followed me, and I moved in with her, I left Rowdy with Mom.
I don't really remember just where she came from (I think from dickweed who was trying to worm his way back in with me no longer actually living IN the house), but, a Spitz showed up from somewhere. A female Spitz. With rather obvious results.
And, yes, I laughed my ass off when I saw them at it and she was having to lie on her belly for him to reach high enough to get the job done.
Well, Love and I were living together. But, I was working and working on my Master's. She was working on her Bachelor's and not working. And pretty much was alone in that little apartment most of the time and when I was home, I was typically sleeping off my 250mg of Elavil. So, Mom gave her one of the puppies which was marked just like Rowdy but built like a miniature version of Sheba.
Now the thing is, in addition to being a bit of a dog nerd, I've always had something of an affinity for dogs. Dogs that no one else can seem to get along with will take a shine to me more often than not for some reason.
But, I was bound and determined that Little Bit was going to be Love's dog. Not mine.
And I was mostly successful.
For the most part, if Love was home, Little Bit was going to be her shadow. And she very rarely had anything to do with me. Very rarely. Unless she was hurt or sick or frightened. Then she would come straight to me and want me to hold her about like a toddler, with her paws around my neck and her head tucked under my chin. I should probably mention here that Little Bit and her littermates were born in a pile of my laundry in the garage one cold night.
And then, shit got real!
As I said, I had left Rowdy with Mom. Well, when she moved to join me, Love had left behind an Apricot Pekapoo, Precious. And somehow, and I'm really not sure how, both of 'em ended up coming to live with us within the same month!
Holy shit!
Literally!
Taking them out to do their business was a chore as whichever one of us was on puppy poopy patrol had to juggle three leashes, a pooper scooper, and a baggie.
I can remember one particular day, I was the lucky one. (I usually was.) And a pickup rolled by with a German Shephard in the back and he barked. And each of our three reacted according to their natures.
Rowdy, thinking his tiny little ass (no bigger than one of my shoes) was Alpha, bowed up and came trotting from the other side of me to let the interloper know this was his yard.
Little Bit, being definitely Beta, tried to run behind me and hide.
I did mention retractable leashes, right? Hold that thought.
Precious had finally set aside her copy of Dog World and found the perfect blade of grass and was in mid-release of something that should have required Class III hazmat if we were technical about it.
Well, the leashes had somehow managed to get wrapped around my legs, as well as around Precious' leash, and tugged at both of us. Just as I was bending down to scoop up a deposit either the coward or the bully had left while the little old lady was finding her perfect blade of grass. I was already off balance and trying to pull my left leg up out of the leash web when Precious yanked like the sour dispositioned old lady she was.
And down I went.
I'll leave your imagination to fill in the rest since I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
Any road, Rowdy didn't stay with us all the time. As I say, he was really an outside dog for 90% of his life and just didn't transition well inside. So, he was with Mom when I got a call one day that it was time. And gave the go-ahead to have little man set out of his misery.
Precious, we reached that point before Rowdy, I think. I want to say she was already sixteen and only had two teeth in her head (and those didn't meet) when she and I were introduced. And she lived with us for a few years before I had to make the call. The funny thing was, that she was Love's dog for a decade and a half before I ever entered the picture. But, I was the one that when I was picking up the food and water dish ended up sitting on my ass with my back against the wall, bawling my eyes out.
We should have put Little Bit to sleep. I can see that now. Her mind was gone and she was in a lot of pain. But... well, it was after we'd both become disabled and money was tight. Actually non-existent. We didn't have food, much less money for a vet. And we'd just pawned our wedding rings for me to buy a bus ticket to see my mother in the hospital for what turned out to be the last time.
Mom died in the hospital from Lymphoma. And I was told her organs had started shutting down, but that was all. So, I had a very vivid imagining of what that must have been like. And a week after Mom died, Little Bit started shutting down. Until the day I die, I will remember holding that little puppy that was born in my clothes, surrounded by my scent, puking up bile in my arms as her heart and lungs labored. And thinking that this is what it must have been like for Mom.
Despite already struggling to get the trash to the dumpster, that night I went out into the backyard and dug a hole for that pretty little puppy with tears and snot running down my face.
About a week later, a friend found us burrowed under blankets with no heat, no light, no food, a big foreclosure notice on the front door... And took us back to stay with them.
One month after Mom died, three weeks after I held Little Bit in her death throes, that friend opened the front door and said, "Look what I found."
And a little puppy that I could tell at a glance wasn't ready to be off the tit came limping inside, straight over to me, and couldn't have said any louder if she'd been able to speak, "this is who I came for."
*****
When my sister was born, Mom, being the genius she was, decided I really needed a dog to help me deal with the usual bullshit a kid goes through when they aren't the only one anymore. Of course, three years later I was evaluated for allergies and found to be allergic to dogs (as well as just about everything else except myself). But, by then, it was too late. They could have my dog when I was dead and cold.
"Where the Red Fern Grows" still makes me tear up.
Any road, about a week after Mom died, so did the last dog she ever gave me.
The wife and I were in a bad way. Out of work due to a disability, but hadn't been able to qualify for disability yet. Savings were eaten up by medical bills and all the usual bullshit. Some friends came by to check on us and found us huddled under a blanket with no electricity, no heat, and no food and took us home with them.
Two weeks after rescuing us (three weeks after Little Bit died in our arms and a month after Mom died), Tom opens the door and calls out, "Hey, guys! Look what I found!"
Now Tom is infamous for an uncanny knack for being in the right place at the right time (or "wrong" if you ask his wife) to rescue animals. Seriously ridiculous stuff that could only happen to him or in the cheesiest plot you've ever heard of. Like seeing Mama Cat get hit while trying to get her kittens across a busy road while he is out riding his motorcycle. Pulls over and finds one baby kitten alive. Puts it in his jacket and brings it home. Like that, but consistently. Like at least once every four months or so, he will rescue a kitten or a puppy.
Mostly they had placed them, but two dogs and four cats stuck. Yet, still, he was consistently bringing home more rescued animals to tend, resocialize, and place.
Now, at the time, I was actually going through a rougher time even than my wife who was still able to get up and move around a little. I was mostly a couch worm, riddled with pain and muscle spasms until it was just safer for me to lay there, or to crawl on the floor if I had to go to the bathroom rather than walk.
And in walks this puppy like she knew just what the hell she was looking for and made a beeline straight for me, jumped up, and curled up next to my head.
In my misspent youth, I'd done my fair share of animal rescues too. At one point, our backyard looked like the overflow from a vets office with animals Mom and I were tending for farmers or whomever that didn't have the time to fool with it. Baby calves, baby pigs, baby sheep. Of course pups and kittens. Probably the strangest was a brown bat with a torn wing who had a baby until they could be nursed to health and returned to the bat colony at Carlsbad. Well, you get the picture. But, what I knew most about, what I was most attached to, was dogs.
And I knew dogs.
I knew dogs well enough to know THIS mutt was only about four weeks old and not ready to be away from Mama. And a pretty fair idea of just how huge this tiny little puppy that could already struggle just to get her face in a boot was going to get.
However, I was not, not, not going to get sucked into a) the shitstorm when his wife came home and found out he'd brought another animal home or b) get suckered into becoming this dog's person.
I don't know just how hard Tom looked, but he claimed the hour he was gone, he was looking for where it came from. When his wife came home, she was every bit as pissed as I'd known she would be, and I think she really did look.
Now, as I say, the wife and I were in pretty bad shape. We'd both been told they couldn't do anything for us and our life expectancy wasn't great. And we were so broke we had to rely on those friends to feed us and our four cats or we wouldn't have eaten. Besides still hurting from holding Little Bit as she died, no way, no how was I going to take another mouth to feed.
And I tried to have as little to do with the thing as I could. Which should have been easy since his wife borrowed a crate from their neighbors who kept Great Danes.
But, every single fucking time I would doze off (which was pretty frequent), one or the other of those three would let that damn pup out of its crate. And it would come to squirm up on my pillow and curl up next to my head.
And, since they were both working, I somehow got to be the one who would feed it and make sure it ate and took it outside to potty. (Although I categorically refused to play with it or encourage it in any way.)
Since their efforts for finding where it came from in the first place fell flat, and since I was adamant that I did not want it, they started trying to find someone who did (they claim).
I got shouted down in a hurry for my first offering as a name, "Shit for Brains." And they didn't like my fallback, "Knucklehead," much either. One of the gals that worked with his wife came up with "Daisy," and his wife came home with a pink collar with flowers on it and that name.
I was not, however, going to fall for that shit. And I told them so. Which they found just hilarious for some reason.
I knew I was fucked, however, when I was getting onto her for something and, without thinking, tacked on a middle name. "Daisy Mae"
Realizing just what I had done, I ripped open their back door and found his wife lying on the floor, holding her stomach, with tears streaming down her face, cackling like a mad woman. At least Tom and my wife had the decency to keep it to a smile, although their faces were awful red and shiny. I flipped them all the bird and slammed the door and left them to their hilarity.
And went back to the little idiot that was grinning just as big as she could and wagging that tail, happy I'd finally figured it out.
The next day, a tag with "Daddy's Girl" on the front and "Daisy Mae" on the back "miraculously" appeared dangling from that stupid pink collar.
Here's where things get weird.
I have always been infamous for being a heavy sleeper. Seriously. My sister once banged pots and pans above my head for five minutes and I didn't respond. Never heard her. I've had marbles straight out of the freezer dumped in bed (a waterbed) with me and just kept snoring.
The only thing that ever worked was Mom pulling the blankets off me and spritzing me in the face with a water bottle over and over.
That damn dog decided I should be awake one day when I wasn't. Got up from being curled next to my head. Peeled the covers off me by grabbing the edge under my chin and peeling them back over themselves.
Then she went to her water dish. Got a mouthful of water. Came back to jump up on my chest.
And let that mouthful of water go right in my face.
Any road. I could keep going, but I figure everyone is probably tired of this crap.
I'll just say my pretty little girl turned nine this last March. And that cute little puppy who would curl up on my pillow next to my head now stretches out on the queen-sized bed next to me with her front paws on the headboard and her rear paws hanging off the foot while she stretches.
Of course, these days, she doesn't bother with the water trick. She just jumps up and sits on my chest and I usually get the hint immediately.
And the white-jacketed assholes with stethoscopes around their necks like rap star wannabes pretty well agree that she did more for me than the fistfuls of pills they had me swallowing three times a day. My "discount therapy puppy."
And yeah, her halter and the chain around her neck, her leash, and her food bowls and just about all of her toys are still pink.
And more of my neighbors know her name than know mine. Like her more too. Those that don't run screaming "Dogzilla" anyway.
*****
And I should probably stop there. But, there is a story that needs to come out of me, I think. One I have only shared once before.
You see, my pretty girl is only nine years old this past March. And that doesn't seem very old. But, it so happens that I know quite a bit about dogs. And I know that we will be extremely lucky if that is only the halfway point since she is a large breed. And, from time to time, especially since October 2017, it hits me that someday, sooner than I want to, I will be holding her head in my lap as she breathes her last breath. I know it's ridiculous to go mourning something that hasn't happened yet. But, I think, too, in a way it's a good thing. Because it keeps me from taking her for granted in the meantime.
But, the thing is... Well, in a way, my life is bound up with hers. I've shared and perhaps overshared in places, that Daisy Mae is pretty much the reason I didn't turn my face to the wall and wait for death from October 2017 when Love died until February 2018. And I've hinted elsewhere that Daisy Mae was much more responsible for me coming back from being diagnosed with Parkinson's.
What I haven't shared before now, not with anyone anywhere, is that Daisy also stopped me from committing suicide, quite literally, before she was even a year old.
I won't go into why I had gone down that dark path. Nor will I discuss the reasons behind why I went to such an elaborate plan versus something simpler and much surer such as a bullet in the brain. Much less why I didn't discuss what I was feeling with anyone that led me there.
But, it was a cold night in the tail end of winter. I remember that much because it was part of my elaborate plan. I already wasn't feeling hungry or thirsty any more. I hadn't eaten any food in over a week, closer to two. And I had not allowed any liquid to touch my lips for at least three days. Perhaps longer.
It was the deep of the night, the wee hours of the morning, and it was cold. Very cold. The coldest moment of the night in the coldest month of the year that I could manage without a crystal ball. I took Daisy outside. Ostensibly so that she could use the bathroom.
And I sat down in my chair that I always sat in while we were out there.
Nothing could look odd, you see.
I closed my eyes. And I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, just like I'd planned.
Because the next thing I knew there was a sharp pain in my hand and that damn dog was doing her best to try to drag me out of my chair with her teeth clamped on my hand.
I didn't want to. I really just couldn't even express how very much I didn't want to. But, I allowed her to half drag, half coax me up out of that chair and back inside.
I don't know how much of it was real and how much imagined, but I sort of have fuzzy memories (all puns intended) of her curled around my head for the rest of the night as I slept on the couch. And occasionally nipping my nose and licking my face.
The next morning, I woke to find the sun shining cheerily, and my wife thumping around in the kitchen, making an unholy racket as she made her coffee.
I took Daisy Mae outside.
Love stuck her head out and chewed my ass for being outside with snow on the ground in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.
I never did tell her why I broke down in hard tears and sobs later that same day.
Daisy Mae, of course, licked away my tears.
The running joke for several years was that Love believed that I fought my way back for that damn dog more than for her.
I never revealed to anyone why that joke made me so uncomfortable. Until now.
*****
Any road, my long-winded (as usual) point (as much as I ever have one) is that dogs are something special.
Our condolences, and much love and warm furry hugs, from our house to any that have lost such an amazing part of their life.
