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| Dodger's Last Day May 31, 2013 |
My dog was not my best
friend. He was the needy child and I was the needy adult. It was a
clash of needs from the day we met. Our relationship was more like a dysfunctional marriage than
pet/owner relationship. It had its ups and downs, its tears, its fights,
its therapy, an attempted separation - but in the end…it was love.
Let me give you the background
first:
I found Dodger on an extremely busy
intersection when I lived on Long Island in New York several years ago.
It was a stormy Saturday morning in October and I was driving to Dunkin’ Donuts
for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. When I stopped at the stop sign to
wait for an opening in the traffic, there was this adorable black and white,
freckle-faced dog digging for China atop a pile of dirt at the side of the
road. We were eye-level. Our eyes met and he took full advantage.
His big brown eyes opened wide like
he had just recognized a long-lost friend. He wagged his tail and decided to be
extra cute with that long, dirt-covered tongue dangling playfully at the side
of his mouth – a look that will be forever etched in my mind. He had a
prance in his step as he bounded into traffic, aiming for my driver’s side
door.
I looked out the windows to try and
see where he was so I wouldn’t hit him before attempting to move into the
traffic ahead. I couldn’t see him. The line of cars had started building
behind me and they were starting honk. I was worried they might pull out
and hit the dog so I opened the car door and stepped out to see where he
was. At that moment, he dodged (i.e. “Dodger”) around me and hopped into
my car.
He was wet and dirty. His fur
was matted. But he seemed pretty happy, not wanting anything more than to
eat and play. I got my coffee and drove home wondering what to do
next. I hadn’t owned a dog since childhood. I worked 12 hours a
day. There’s no way I could keep him. How would I find his
owners? He was too cute to be a stray. He must have owners. As I tied him
to my shed with a long piece of Christmas ribbon I dug out of the basement, it
started to pour and I could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.
I tried to find his owners and when
a man called that first day after being matched with me in a “pet finder”
database, I felt a little sad. When he didn’t show up to identify his
pet, I felt scared again. I looked out the window and saw this drenched
puppy (because that’s what he was – I hadn’t realized that at first – I thought
he was just a small dog) with his one floppy ear and the other bent at the
tip. I want to remember him looking at me longingly, “please be my
friend, please love me,” but what I saw instead was fear. He was scared
of the thunder and the flashes of lightening. He was way more scared than
I was – and for a better reason.
Dodger remained fearful his entire
life. Thunder and lightning, fireworks, ceiling fans, car commercials, men
wearing hats, men with mustaches, cats - these were some of his biggest
antagonists.
He was fearful and needy and HOLY
COW - he was annoying!
He would bark in my face when he
wanted to play – which was all the time – night and day. He had an
ear-piercing bark that caused pain to my inner station tube. He wouldn’t chew a
chew toy by himself – I had to hold it for him. He had an abundance of
relentless energy that drove me crazy. I would invite the neighbor’s 11
year old boy over…just to try and tire him out. I crated him at night and
kept him outside during the day…just so I could breathe.
I read about Border Collies. The
web referred to the breed’s energy, intelligence, sensitivity, and even
neuroses. This dog was no walk in the park for someone with a long commute and
24/7 job, and a penchant for solitude. But I tried. I took him for
training. I took him for walks. I bought him toys. I put him
on Prozac. I brushed him. I took him to the beach. Those were the early years.
The hard years. I thought all the time about how to give him away.
I loved him, of course, but I was not the right owner for him. I knew
that. I’m a cat person. They fend for themselves; play when they feel
like it; snuggle at night – leave them a bowl of food and a clean litter box
and you can go on vacation for a week. Not dogs - and not this dog.
But he was also joyful and funny
and so smart!
I would let him off the leash in
the yard and he would run laps around the house until he collapsed from
exhaustion. He continued to be a digger. There were holes all over
the yard and he would prance around them and look at me with pride as he buried
another bone (I couldn’t get mad at that face). He would greet people he
liked by jumping on them full force – lunging and bouncing off their bodies (I
felt sorry for the men who usually wound up doubled over and cursing). He
jumped over the hood of my car to greet my friend one day. He barked at
his toys like they were supposed to get up and play with him – not the other way
around. He was obsessed with green tennis balls. I would hide them when he wasn’t looking – in
a drawer, in a bench, on the top shelf of a closet. He always managed to sniff them out.
“Show me,” I’d say, and he would -
turning his head in the direction of the hiding place while doing what I called
his “happy dance.” There was no ignoring Dodger when he was like this. He was relentless. But watching him play with
a green tennis ball was pure joy.
He had an incredible
vocabulary. He understood actual words. I demonstrated this to
disbelieving friends by lining up some of his toys and telling him to get
specific ones: “Get the spikey ball”; “get the Mickey Mouse ball”’ “Get the
bone” – he got it right every time.
He and I were known around the neighborhood
for our “sprints.” He was fast but so was I. I would leash him and
let him run as fast as he could with me at his side. We were both
sprinters with little endurance.
When he was 3-years old, I took him
to a Border Collie specialist in Connecticut who said she could get him placed
as a working dog on a golf course. He would chase geese for the rest of
his life. My heart leapt. Really? He would be so happy! When I
asked what happened to the previous working dog on that golf course, she told
me he was killed by a delivery truck.
At that moment, I
committed. It took 3 years to get there but I decided right then
and there to be his best friend – even if I wasn’t sure that he could be mine.
And we were friends. Good
friends.
He was not a cuddler most of the
time, but he would sleep with me when I fell asleep in front of the TV.
He would wake me up at 6 a.m. every morning with a lick on the nose to take him
outside. He put his paw on my shoulder and licked my tears one day when I
was sad. And I’ll never forget the day we drove to my sister’s house in
the middle of a thunder storm, he jumped into the passenger seat, stretched out
on his belly, rested his head in my lap, and let me stroke his head for the entire
2-hour ride. He was quiet. He was still. I was in heaven. He
trusted me.
When I had my son, Dodger saw him
as some kind of twitchy animal or squeaky toy. I was terrified that
Dodger could, even accidentally, hurt the baby, and made sure they were never
in the same room together for the first few months. My trust in Dodger faded
for a little while - and returned only when my husband took control and made
Dodger come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t the neediest in the house
anymore. Evan still bears a small scar from a bite (again
uncharacteristic but not impossible Dodger-type behavior) he received when he
approached Dodger’s food bowl while he was eating.
Dodger was 9-years old when Evan
was born. Because of their rivalry (mostly involving food), and because
Dodger was who he was, Evan never got to have that “boy’s best friend”
relationship with his dog. But Dodger never got to have his “dog’s best
friend” relationship with his boy either. Worst of all Dodger lost me to
Evan, but his bond with my husband grew stronger and I knew Dodger finally had
his Alpha male – the leader I couldn’t be – because I needed him as much as he
needed me.
Dodger died on May 31, 2013.
He was 16 years old and I had to put him down. I couldn’t bear to do it
and still can’t believe I did. I held on because I didn’t want him to go.
If he wouldn’t leave me, I wouldn’t force him to. I think he waited for me to
let go first – so I did. As weak as he was, Dodger walked into the vet’s office
that day as trusting as ever.
My last words to him were a
whisper: “thank you.”
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