Our boon companion
Copyright © 2019
by Ralph F. Couey
There are a lot of interesting things one can find via social media these days if you're willing to endure the steady diet of politically-based hate that propagates there on a regular basis. Yesterday I ran across a video where people were crying, either for real or fabricated, and their pets strove to cheer them up. In some cases, the dog would embrace their human with their front paws, much as one human shares a hug with another. A lot of memories returned for me from the depths of memory. I have always been a pet person, usually a dog. I think I sought that companionship because I was a kind of solitary child and spent much of my time alone. We had two dogs growing up, both dachshunds, one died after consuming what we think was a poisoned rat tossed over the back fence. The second one lasted for nearly 17 years before finally surrendering to the terrible spinal problems endemic to that breed. "Brownie," as we named him was in many ways, my best friend. We went everywhere together and shared a bed at night. Although there were a lot of adventures in that relationship, the best times were when we just sat on the couch and shared each other. In human terms, we call that a ministry of presence. You don't have to say anything, or do anything. Just be there.
I didn't have another pet until after I got married and had kids. My wife had promised me that when we acquired a house with a fenced back yard, we could have a dog. We were in Columbia, Missouri when that finally happened and once we were settled in, I began to pay visits to the local animal shelter. I saw a lot of dogs I would have liked to own, but I am an emotional kind of guy, and if it were up to me, the house would be filled with animals. One day, Cheryl and I went after she got off work and began to walk among the cages. There were many who were jumping around, all seeming to say "Take me! take me!" Suddenly, she stopped and kneeled down before one particular cage. Inside was a beautiful white long-haired dog, a Samoyed as I would eventually find out. This dog was sitting patiently, composed, as if waiting for something. Cheryl stuck her fingers inside the fencing and the dog got up, came over, and licked them. She then turned to me and in that tone of voice I have learned to obey, said, "This is the one."
We had to go through a process, which included spaying, but eventually Samantha, as we named her, came home with us. She was affectionate from the start, and did very well with our kids. She fit in perfectly, and for the next 8 years, was part of our family. Of course she had her idiosyncrasies. Like all members of her breed, she was a consummate escape artist. She scaled fences with a dexterity of a human child. She absolutely refused to be an outside dog. If she was left in the back yard, she would either scale the fence or crash her way through a basement window. About two years later, we acquired another Samoyed, this one named Misty. She had been sold by a breeder in Central Missouri who was changing breeds and acquired by a family whom we know through our church. They had given Misty shelter and food, and little else. They were on the verge of taking her to the animal shelter when we (rashly, I suppose) stepped in. Sammy and Misty had a period of acclimatization, but eventually became close partners in crime. Sammy taught Misty the finer points of dogdom, including how to climb fences. But while Sammy was highly intelligent, Misty was far less so. I think there was some inbreeding going on there, and while she was affectionate, she could never do the same things Sammy could.
Because of our work schedules, we had to leave the house before the school bus came. We had to trust to them to make sure they were ready on time. What we didn't plan on was the degree of responsibility Sammy took on. Our neighborhood was defined by a looping street that entered on the east side and departed on the west side, the route the bus took. Sammy heard the bus enter the neighborhood and if the kids weren't on their way to the bus stop, she ran through the house, tracking down each kid and barking incessantly at each one until they were out of the house. Upon our return, we were always greeted joyously. And I guess that's the biggest value of having a pet, that boundlessly loving welcome home.
While they were with us, we also acquired three cats and another dog by reverse inheritance from our oldest daughter. They all shed, and at times the house was overcome with dog and cat hair. We burned out four very expensive vacuum cleaners trying to keep up.
Samoyeds suffer from hip problems, and for some reason, never live much longer than eleven years. Misty's dysplasia go so bad that she began to have incontinence problems and we finally had to take her on that last trip to the vet's office. Sammy was sad; clearly she missed her "sister." And it wasn't long after that we had to take that trip with Sammy. It was a sad time, and as the kids grew up and moved out, the house became emptier.
The dog we got from our daughter was named Tweeter. One of her friends' dogs had a litter of puppies and Nikki chose the one that clambered over it's brothers and sisters to come to her. Nikki was our wild child and for a while lived a kind of Haight-Ashbury existence. One night she brought Tweeter to us and ask if we would take care of him, as some of her housemates were singling him out for various forms of abuse. So, Tweeter became ours.
At first he was incredibly tiny, fitting entirely inside one hand. But he was very well behaved and smart. Nikki had taken the time to give him some rudimentary training, so he was a delight to have around. It was interesting to watch Sammy as she undertook the task of training him to be a dog. Then in 2004, I received my federal appointment and left for Pennsylvania. After a couple of months, I returned long enough to collect Cheryl, Tweeter and the two cats we had at the time. Tweeter traveled well, the cats not so much. Once we got settled in to our new house in Somerset, Tweeter made himself right at home. We took him for walks, often, which he enjoyed immensely. Inside, he was the perfect companion on those long, winter nights, staring hypnotically into the dancing flames of the fireplace. He was fun. Loved to play ball and patrolled the extensive back yard with unceasing vigilance.
One morning, one of the cats failed to come home. We think he may have fallen victim to some of the roving bands of feral cats in that area. Then, our youngest daughter moved to Denver and asked for the other cat. Tweeter became our only pet. He was in many ways the perfect dog, and if I had the money, I would gladly had had him cloned. In 2011, we were on the road once again, leaving Pennsylvania for Virginia and a new job. He was an easy traveler as always, and quickly settled in. The new back yard was way smaller, so we compensated by taking more frequent walks. There was a paved nature trail that ran behind the development and we used it often. Some of these walks were miles in length, but he never tired, and was always ready for a repeat. Our son and his family moved in with us for what turned out to be three years, but even being older and a bit more stubborn, he had a lot of fun with our grandkids.
There are a lot of memories, but one of the best happened in Missouri. We had gone to visit a friend of Cheryl's. At their invitation, we brought Tweeter along. Their dog had been slightly hit by a car and was limping around the house, getting all kinds of attention and sympathy from us. The very next day, Tweeter mysteriously acquired a limp. Concerned, we took him to the vet. He was checked out and found to be free of injury. Seems he saw the attention the other dog received and wanted some of that.
Early in life, he was diagnosed with a heart murmur, but it didn't seem to slow him down at all. But as he grew older, his walks became shorter and slower. He slept a lot more, and stairs became more difficult to tackle. One day, Cheryl came home from work, and Tweeter refused to go on his normal walk. All that evening, he stayed close to her. Later, he began to show labored breathing. I left work early and came home, and we took him to a 24-hour vet hospital. He was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, and beyond expensive surgery, there was really only one option. He was 17 years old, had lived a full life. He had been deeply loved and returned it fully. It was a painful decision, but we knew it was the responsible one. With a push of a plunger, his breathing slowed and his heart came to a stop. Fighting back tears, we snipped some of his fur and put it in a bag to take home.
Agnes Turnbull once wrote, "Dogs lives are too short. Their only fault, really." We've survived the passing of all of our pets, and we've tacitly decided that enough is enough. We simply don't have enough emotional gas in the tank to go through that one more time. Cheryl once told me, "I don't miss having a dog. But I miss Tweeter." I was in full agreement with that sentiment. We are in a phase of our lives where mobility is of paramount importance. Before leaving Colorado, we sold or donated all of our worldly possessions, except for a few boxes of winter clothes and documents. We still don't know where we're going to settle, except that we know that Hawai'i is way to expensive. Because of that, although we have yearnings for a furry presence in our lives, we have resisted acquiring another pet. Will we get one eventually? Hard to say. Personally, I don't know if I want to go through the process of bonding and loving an animal, only to lose them in a few years. But we have two grand-dogs and a grand-cat in Denver, and I guess that will suffice for now.
The unconditional love and devotion we get from our dogs and cats (although less so) is something that is of immense value to a human. Caring for an animal means stepping outside of our box of personal concerns, and taking their needs to heart. And as I said earlier, experiencing that greeting when coming through the door is so affirming. They can be a source of tremendous joy and quiet companionship, a reliable friend when the world seems friendless. There are those who say that pets don't go to Heaven because they have no soul. I beg to differ. I fully expect when I make the final journey, that a small herd of long-lost friends will be waiting there for me.
And in the place of limitless joy, we will be made whole together.
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