Gracie and Ernie

I told the story in the last post about Gracie, and how she came to live with us. There are so many stories that can be told about her, it's hard to know where to start.

Not long after we got Gracie, Syd was a candidate for city council. While she was going door to door campaigning, I'd go along and take the dogs on leash. This was just a week or so after she came to live with us. At one house, a little girl answered the door, and when she opened it, her big nasty Rottweiler came rushing out, snarling and running straight at George. Gracie squared off right in front of him and did that junkyard dog snarl again, and the Rotty screeched to a halt, turned around and ran straight back into the house.

In the fall of 98, about a year after we got Gracie, Syd and I traveled to Germany to visit our friends Peter and Elsbeth. While we were there, we bought some of those ornaments made from decorated ginger cookies and coated with shellac. Handmade German cookie ornaments. We got one for each grandkid and some extras, I think about a dozen total. We had them, along with our other Germany purchases on our dining room table. We left for a while, and when we returned, we found that Gracie had snitched all the cookies and ate them (likely with George's help.)

Gracie would climb up on the cupboards and steal food with abandon. We had to carefully put food out of her reach. George was too lame to be able to do it, so we knew it was Grace. But here's the odd thing: after George died, Gracie stopped stealing food. Completely. Could George have been putting her up to it? Stranger things have happened.

Gracie loved attention. She'd always climb up in anybody's lap if she got the chance. Little kids could "dress her up" with blankets, etc. and she'd leave them on, loving the attention. She acted reallly lovey toward everyone, but I don't think she was actually very affectionate, except to Syd and me. But she was really affectionate toward us.

We moved to our "new" house just a couple of months after we lost George. When George first died, Gracie was quite happy due to the added attention she got from us. First, she was suddenly the only dog, and second, we fell into that part of grieving where we showered attention and affection on Gracie to assuage our grief from losing George. She loved it. But by September or so, she started showing signs of anxiety from being alone too much of the day. So Syd and I started thinking about adopting another dog.

We found a website that featured senior dogs up for adoption locally. There was a dog featured that was a male Aussie/Lab cross. We loved the Aussie part of Gracie, and thought he might be a good match for her. We contacted the website, and arranged to meet him one evening at the Creston school. He was a big old calm, friendly guy, black and gray merle, with a big head and feet, and a short stubby tail that, when he wagged it (often), looked like a propeller. His coat was long and unkempt. I took him for a short walk on leash, and he was very attentive to find out what I wanted from him. He and Gracie seemed to get along fine, but with unremarkable interaction. His name was Bandit, which is exactly the kind of name Syd and I do not like. We like our dogs to have people names.

Bandit's owner adopted him as a puppy, along with his sister/littermate from a person in Walmart's parking lot. Bandit was five years old. His sister died some time before when she was hit by a car. They'd always been allowed to run free. The owner had to move to Tennessee and couldn't take his dog. He asked for references, so we gave Rick Myers, our vet. Rick's assistant Judy said she talked to him when he called. He had numerous questions and kept her on the phone for quite a while. Finally Judy got impatient and said, "Look, I wish to God they'd adopt me!" So we passed, and arrangements were made for the guy to bring Bandit to our house.

Gracie had always done this thing where she'd try to play with other dogs, and sometimes people, by turning sideways and bumping against them. I called it "butt bumping." Other dogs would just look at her like she was nuts. But when Bandit came in and she tried it with him, he immediately jumped back and turned and bumped her. She was visibly delighted, and you could see them bond instantly. Bandit's owner was delighted.

So we had a new family member. Before he arrived, we'd decided on a new name. At first, I had the idea that we should call him "Bert" but that wasn't quite right. Syd and I talked about it and agreed, but couldn't decide why that wasn't right for name (we liked it ok.) The next day it hit me. His name should be Ernie, which was why Bert was close, but not right. Bert and Ernie of course are the names of the two famous Sesame Street characters, but more importantly, was the name of the cop and the taxi driver in "It's a Wonderful Life."

Not more than a week or so after we got him, we spent a long weekend at Rye Creek Lodge near Darby, Montana. Rye Creek is this wonderful place with modern log cabins located on the property in such as way as to be very private and distanced from each other. Each cabin is fully furnised and has a private hot tub. Best of all, you can take your pets. When we first inquired about taking Gracie, they replied by email, "Of course Gracie is welcome, and you and your wife can come too."

The cabins are surrounded by mountains and there is plentiful wild game always around. Shortly after we got there, I was unpacking the car. I guess Syd accidentally left the door open, because suddenly Ernie burst out of the door and took off running lickety split up the mountain toward a herd of deer halfway or more up the mountainside. I started screaming at him to come back, knowing that if he went over the top of the mountain after the deer, I'd likely never see him again. I was terrified. He ran after the deer, oblivious to my calling him. I kept calling, whistling, but in the mountain air, my voice was swallowed up and seemed ineffective.

Suddenly, probably at least 200 yards up the side of the mountain from me, Ernie stopped like someone put on the brakes. He whirled around, looked right at me, pinned his ears down alongside his head and came running at full speed straight toward me. When he stopped, he almost ran into me, and I praised him and petted him and knew at that moment that we had bonded and he was my dog.

We still have Ernie, and while he's aging, he still has his silly moments, and he's still my very good dog.

George: the best dog

In an earlier post here, I mentioned being seriously injured in a motor vehicle collision in 1993. The accident was February 18, and after having surgery, I embarked on an almost year long healing process. After they flew me home, I spent several weeks confined to a hospital bed in my home, followed by getting around via a walker, crutches, and a wheelchair. As I improved, I gradually went to two crutches, then one, and then a cane. By the fall of 93, I was trying to learn to walk without a cane.

It was a painful process, and combined with having no work during the slack season, I was sinking into a depression. My wife Syd was working as a bookkeeper at a trucking company whose offices and garages were west of town on highway 2. One night in October, Syd came home from work and said, "There's a dog that showed up stray at work. He's been there for a couple of weeks, and I think we should go out and you should take a look at him."

I was dumbstruck. This is the same wife who didn't want any more dogs. I honestly hadn't thought much about dogs since losing Rufus, but now six years had passed, and I was no longer grieving as much. I said, "Sure," and we went out to look at the dog.

We pulled up into the parking lot. I was so excited I left the car door open when I got out. The dog was kenneled to protect him from running in the highway traffic. He was a lab, and a beautiful fox red. I went over to him and opened the kennel, and kneeled down. He came to me with no hesitation and laid his head on my shoulder. I petted him and talked to him for a minute, then invited him out of the cage. I said, "Do you want to come home with me?" He immediately turned and walked to the car and climbed in.

We took him home, gave him a little bath (he had perfect manners and stood calmly while we washed him) and fed him. We were in the kitchen with him just after he finished eating. I said, "What do you suppose his name is?" Syd said, "Maybe it's George," and in that instant he turned quickly to look at her. So we decided his name must have been George.

The next day we got him groomed, took him to the vet for a checkup, and bought him a collar and leash. We were finally getting the idea how to take care of dogs. The vet thought he was pretty old, but I thought that even if he was old, he deserved a good comfortable home. Some time later, I figured out that he was only about four when he came to live with us. George had a bad right rear hip. When the vet examined him, we learned that he had an old severe injury that was mended by a metal rod and wires. The vet told us that the metal was typically removed after healing, but that people commonly left the apparatus in place to avoid paying their vet bill. Nice.

We still didn't have a fenced yard, so I had to take George out for walks frequently. This was very good for me, as it forced me to exercise my hip. George and I would walk down the sidewalk, he with his bad right leg, me with my bad left hip, banging into each other as we walked. George was great company. I wasn't working, and stayed home all day reading mostly. George was happy just to lay there beside me, taking the occasional walk with me, watching squirrels in the yard, and once or twice a day having a good game of fetch the tennis ball. We had a wonderful time, in fact it became one of the best times of my life. My depression disappeared, and George and I became the very best of friends.

Every dog person loves all of his/her dogs, but knows that there is that one dog . . . the one that's the most special. This was George to me. He was a wonder. His manners were impeccable. He would heel indefinitely off leash with a one word command. While heeling, he could constantly turn his head to look at my knee to make sure his head was lined up correctly. He would stay and not break the stay until told. We allowed him his run of the house, and did not restrict him at all. He restricted himself. He would not get up on most pieces of furniture unless we invited him, then was clearly uncomfortable.

He loved stuffed animals. His favorite game was "Get that guy" in which he'd run to catch the toy, then play tug of war with it until I got it from him and threw it again. He'd also grab the toy and shake it back and forth energetically. Not surprisingly, these toys didn't last long. I began to visit the Salvation Army Thrift Store frequently to buy grocery bags full of 50 cent stuffed animals. Syd taught him a trick. When we'd say "dead dog" he'd fall down instantly and lay still. He was really proud of that one, because it made us laugh.

We got in the habit of having him groomed often, so he always was clean and smelled and felt good. The groomer we took him to was very busy. When I'd call for an appointment, I'd say that I'd like to get my dog in for a bath. They'd say, "We're really busy . . . I don't know . . . what kind of dog?" "Well, it's George." "Oh, George! Oh, sure, we can work George in, just bring him down anytime." They would set up a special portable fenced area for him right in the middle of the work area to accomodate his bad leg, and I suspect to spend more time with him.

In 1994, after having all of my legal difficulties getting compensation for the accident, I decided to pursue going to law school. In February, I took the LSAT test. When the results came back good, I applied to law school. When I was accepted, I applied for financial aid. When that came through, I looked for an apartment. In horror I learned that I wasn't going to be able to rent an apartment that would allow me to have George with me while I was in Missoula in school. So I had to go by myself, and leave George home with Syd.

That summer, before school started, we took a vacation trip for a few days. We went to the Big Hole Battlefield, Bannack, and other places. George loved to travel, and he really loved Bannack. He'd go to each building excitedly, go inside and smell every corner of the building, then leave and want to rush to the next one. He went swimming in the Big Hole River and in Georgetown Lake. One of George's favorite foods was a baked potato. I'd microwave one for him every night. When we traveled, I'd ask the waitress to box up a plain baked potato before we ordered, so that it would be cool when we got back to George. Restaurant staff would always be charmed by the potato eating dog.

I wasn't able to get home every weekend, and I was pretty miserable those times when I had to stay in Missoula by myself. Fortunately, Syd was able to come to Missoula most of those weekends I had to stay there. We just kept George there and to hell with the landlord.

That Thanksgiving, just before I came home for the holiday, Syd called and told me that George was favoring his bad leg, and in obvious pain. She took him to the vet, who said that a piece of arthritic calcium had come loose and was caught in his knee joint. We had to take him in for surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Since he wasn't neutered, we had that done at the same time. George had to wear one of those "Elizabethan collars" so he wouldn't worry his stitches, so I stayed up all night with him, and spent Thanksgiving with him as well. Syd went to my sister's for dinner, and brought a plate home for me. I thought it was the least I could do, and frankly, I enjoyed my time with George more than I would have enjoyed the holiday dinner.

George loved to come to Missoula. Syd says that when she'd get near the freeway exit she took to my apartment, George would jump up and get all excited. He enjoyed hanging out in my apartment, and really loved our walks in Greenough Park, which was only about a block away. The three of us had some wonderful weekends, and I miss those days a lot.

I graduated in 1997, and took the bar exam that summer. Then I moved home, to wait for seven weeks for the results of the exam. George was right there with me the day the mailman brought the results, and shared my happiness. I was sworn in on October 6, and was in my new office interviewing potential clients on October 7. Once I got started working, and Syd continued to be busy in her bookkeeping business, it became obvious that George was pretty lonely during the days. We decided to look for a companion for him.

One Saturday that October, we saw an ad for a neutered black cocker spaniel at the county animal shelter. We went to take a look for it, and learned that he/she was already adopted. We decided to look through the kennels and were somewhat disappointed to see that there were few dogs that would be suitable for us. For one thing, we wanted a female, as we were told that females and males tended to get along better than pairs of the same sex.

In one cage, there was a multi-colored black white and brown medium size dog. She looked filthy and bedraggled. She had orange paint ball marks on her side. Her fur was dirty and matted. But she looked at us with sparkling eyes and wagged her entire body from the neck back. We were smitten. We talked briefly, then went out to the counter to inquire about her. It turned out that another couple were looking at her. The wife wanted to take her, but the husband didn't. They kept going outside and talking intensely, then they'd come back in and look at the dog, then repeating the cycle. Finally the husband said something tersely with a frown, the wife burst into tears, and they drove away. We swooped in.

We got George out of the car and went to the "get acquainted" area. Of course, George immediately tried to mount her. She turned on him with a junkyard snarl, he backed off, and that was the end of that. Other than that, they got along famously. So we adopted her and took her home. Her name was Honey.

We hated the name. We stopped by my sister Linda's house to show her. She said that if she had another female dog, she'd name her Gracie. Then it hit me. George and Gracie. OK, for you young folks, there was a great husband and wife comedian couple named George Burns and Gracie Allen.

George loved Gracie with all his heart. Gracie liked him well enough, but was just not that attached to him herself. In his last year, when he was stiff with painful arthritis, if she moved to another room, George would painfully get up and follow her. On the other hand, she would never move to be near him. Still, they got along very well, and the four of us had a great time together. I loved having two dogs.

On Mother's Day, 1999, we had family over and were celebrating. We put the dogs out in the yard, as the house was full of people. At some point, one of the kids called me and said that there was something wrong with George. I went outside. It was raining lightly, and George was standing in the middle of the yard gasping for breath. He was really laboring to breathe. I called our vet, Rick Myers, and he said he'd meet me at his clinic. I took George up there, Rick sedated him and examined him. He said he thought George had a partial paralysis of his tracheal area. There are two flaps which open from the middle when the dog breathes, but stay closed when they are eating or drinking. Rick believed that if the flaps were paralyzed, he couldn't get a gap between them large enough to breathe normally. No local vet had the proper scope for diagnosis. Rick gave George some prednisone to ease the symptoms, and recommended that I take him to the veterinary hospital at Washington State University in Pullman, Washington.

I asked if this was a viable thing to do, in that George was likely about 10 years old at that time, and labs usually do not live as long as smaller dog breeds. Rick said that George's heart and lungs were healthy, that he was generally strong and was therefore a good candidate. So I decided to do it. I made an appointment as soon as possible, and George and I took a road trip to Pullman.

The plan was to go there, have his diagnostic appointment the next day, and go home that day. Assuming he was a candidate for the surgery, Rick would do it at home. They examined George and confirmed Rick's diagnosis, but told me George was in distress and needed the surgery right away. They didn't recommend me taking him home in the hot weather. Rick conferred with the university hospital staff, then with me, and I decided to go ahead with the surgery. They scheduled it for the next morning.

George and I went back to the motel, and he was having a very hard time. He was having a hard time eating, because of his trouble breathing. He loved fresh vegetables, so I ordered out for a pizza for myself, and asked if they had any fresh vegetables I could buy. I explained that I wanted them for my dog, and they said they'd do what they could. When the delivery person brought the food, there was a big plastic tray filled with a variety of carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and other veggies. They told me there was no charge, and wished George a speedy recovery. He ate a little, but his breathing was labored, he was panicky, and I stayed up with him all night petting and comforting him.

The surgery the next day went well, but George had to stay in intensive care, and they wouldn't let me visit him because they didn't want him to get agitated. I intended to be away from home only one night, and didn't bring enough clothes or medication for a longer stay. I went to Shopko and bought a few items of clothing, and asked the pharmacy about getting a few of the pills I had to take to tide me over. They gave me the pills at no charge, and offered their wishes for George to recover well. When I asked for the location of a laundromat, the motel told me I could launder my clothes in their laundry facility after they were done doing the towels and sheets. Later, a maid came and asked for my clothes, insisting on laundering them herself, and again, the motel staff offered their best wishes for George.

I was there three nights, and then picked George up late the next day. They wanted me to travel at night due to the heat. So George and I drove home, arriving about 1:00 in the morning. I basically had to shut my practice down for almost a week, spent however much on travel costs, and about $800 for the hospital. A bargain at twice the price.

After George's surgery, he could no longer eat like he always had. If he tried, he would aspirate the food, because they stitched up one of the "flaps" which could no longer close to prevent the aspiration. He couldn't eat dry dog food, and worse, no more baked potatoes. We struggled trying to find a satisfactory way for him to eat, and finally settled on me feeding him premium canned dog food with a big plastic (like a wooden) spoon. The deal was, Gracie got to lick the spoon when he was done. Every day, twice a day, I'd get the can and the spoon and sit down, and George would hunker down in front of me and I'd spoon feed him. It was wonderful, and as if George and I weren't bonded enough, this just cemented it. I'll never forget the pleasure I got just feeding him every day. When they were at our house at meal time, the grandkids would fight over getting to feed George. The grandkids would say that Gracie is a good dog, Rosie is a good dog, Reggie is a good dog, etc., "but George is the best dog."

By 2001, George was failing fast. He'd had two good years after his surgery, and we'd kept the arthritis at bay with new effective drugs such as Rimadyl and others. It was expensive taking care of him. I estimate that during the years I had George, I spent way more than ten thousand dollars on him. Once I was talking to my mother, who had just told me my brother had recently bought a new power boat. Then we were talking about George, and she asked if it wasn't really expensive to take care of him. When I told her how much it cost, she said that she thought that was a lot of money to spend on a dog. I said, "Well, Mom, some people buy boats."

George just got worse. We were buying a new house that year, and I was a little worried that George would have a hard time getting in and out of the new house. One day we came home and found that Gracie had stolen a glass butter dish off the counter, and the dish was broken. When we cleaned it up, not all the glass was there, and we noticed some cuts around George's mouth. I took him to Rick and the xray showed he'd eaten some of the dish. He had to stay at Rick's for two or three days for observation until the glass passed. Then he started eating gravel from the back yard. He developed diarrhea and we had to keep him outside. He was miserable, and so was I.

Finally, a friend of ours, Chris Riebe, who for years was a veterinary assistant, told us that large breed dogs often begin eating odd things when they are ready to die. She encouraged me to think about George and his comfort, and not so much the pain I was feeling. Finally I knew what had to be done. But I just couldn't take him myself. Chris, bless her heart, offered to take George to Rick. I feel terrible that I didn't take George there to say goodbye, but I simply could not.

Rick's office arranged for George to be cremated. I had his remains placed in a beautiful handmade redwood urn. George sits on my dresser, by recommendation of my granddaughter Sadie, and I say good morning to him every day. My wife has strict instructions that when I die, George goes in the box with me.

There is a brass placque on the redwood urn that says, "George, ca. 1987 to 2001, the best dog."

TO BE CONTINUED . . . Next: From Gracie to Annie and Reggie, too.

The Story of Rufus

After we had to give Whitey away, and after the winter weather turned cold, we learned that our new landlord misrepresented the heating costs for the house. We ended up paying almost all of our money all winter to keep the house mostly warm. I was steamed. When spring came, I wanted to move. The landlord asked us to stay, and in order to keep us there, he offered to insulate the attic, and to replace the furnace in the summer.

I pretty much felt that he owed us big time for our trouble. We were taking the kids to a woman who lived out in the Evergreen area of Kalispell for daycare. She always had a lot of dogs hanging around her house, for some reason. I noticed a young dog hanging around who had a kind of unique look to him. He was mostly a sort of liver color and white, but had a black ring around his tail. He was clearly part lab, but I didn't know what else. Later I learned that his mother was Brittany.

I called him over to me, and he came halfway across the yard, then laid down to rest for a minute before coming the rest of the way over to me. I thought, "What a great, laid back dog." He had a wound on his paw that might have been a bite puncture, but looked to the babysitter's husband and me like a .22 bullet wound. There was plenty of evidence in the way he interacted with men that he'd been beaten. He was very thin and bony.

I went home and told my wife, who said, "No way. No dog." I bought a big bag of dog food and took it to the babysitter's who agreed to feed him every day. He was running loose, but spent most of his time at the babysitters. I told my wife I wanted to bring him home, but she of course mentioned the landlord's prohibition of pets. My attitude was, "Screw him." He lied to us about the heating bills, and as far as I was concerned, he didn't have anything to complain about.

Finally, after a couple of weeks of lobbying her, my wife went to work one morning and left me a note. "Go get your damned dog." I went and got him, and named him Rufus.

Rufus became a real member of the family. He almost always slept in Molly's room. He was very close and affectionate with Andy and played with him energetically. He loved Syd, my wife, and you could see that devotion in his eyes when he looked at her. But he was mostly my buddy. For a long time, I took him everywhere with me. I was teaching guitar lessons at a local music store, and he'd go with me and wait patiently through all the lessons. I went to the community college for a while and took him to class with me. Later, when I went on the road with a band, I was gone a lot and couldn't spend as much time with him, but we were very closely bonded.

Rufus was really smart. He had an old wiffle ball that he loved to play with. He'd take it in his mouth and throw it across a room, then chase it and catch it and do it again. Once when he was doing this, and I was sitting on the couch reading, he lost the ball under the couch. He came to me and cried, so I got up and took a stick or tree branch or some such thing that Andy had brought in, and batted it out from under the couch. Rufus continued his game, but soon lost the ball under the couch again. Back he came to me, and I retrieved it again. Finally, the third or fourth time this happened, I said, "Nope, that's it. I'm not getting it again." Rufus walked back and forth a few times, then reached down, picked up the stick, pushed it under the couch, and tried to get the ball himself! That's the only time I've ever seen a dog try to use a tool.

In our ignorance, and because we did not have a fenced yard, Rufus spent a lot of days on a chain attached to the garage out back. Kids from the high school would come by and let him loose, so we eventually had to put padlocks on both the collar end and the garage end of the chain. Sometimes when he'd get loose, if his chain came off at the collar, he'd be scared to death, and cower in the yard until someone came home. But if it came off at the garage, he'd run happily all over town dragging that chain behind him. I guess his chain gave him some sense of security.

At one point, a long haired white split eye cat decided he was going to live with us. We really didn't have anything to say about it. We named him Jack, and he hung around for a couple of years or so before he decided to go live somewhere else. Rufus adored him. Jack liked to rub against oil pans, and get filthy dirty. Rufus would sit out in the backyard with Jack and groom him for hours, cleaning off the oil and dirt. On cold days, Rufus would curl up and Jack would lay on top of him to keep warm.

Once again, though we were very ignorant about caring for dogs. We didn't have a vet, and we didn't act all that responsibly. I read about a free clinic where people could get shots for free for their pets, so I took Rufus, as he hadn't had his boosters for years. When he got the shots, the vet gave him a cursory exam, and pointed out a tumor that had grown at the base of Rufus's tail. We didn't have money to get it checked, so just hoped he'd be OK.

One night, not too long after that, Andy brought Rufus in for dinner, and said, "There's something wrong with Rufus." He was stumbling around and seemed afraid to move. It didn't take long to realize he'd gone blind sometime during the day. We made him as comfortable as possible for the night.

The next day, I took him to the first vet I could find who'd see him right away. They examined him and told me that he had cancer through and through. Cancer in his spleen caused pressure that caused the tiniest blood vessels in his body to burst, including those in his eyes. His eyes filled up with blood and blinded him. He was anemic, and could never survive surgery, even if it was an option and we could afford it. Having no other choice, I told them to put him down.

It was the first time I ever had to do that. I wasn't sure I'd survive it. I made it out to my car, and drove out on the highway, but I hadn't driven but a few feet on the highway when I had to pull over and just sob. I broke down numerous times over the next few days, and as I'm typing this, I'm having to wipe my eyes.

I loved Rufus with all my heart, and felt guilty for not having taken better care of him. He was a wonderful dog, and when he was gone, I had no desire to get another dog. My wife said that since both kids would soon be grown, she'd like to have a kid-free, dog-free house in her future. I didn't argue, just continued to grieve. Six years went by.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . Next: George

My life with dogs

It occurs to me that the posts on this blog are pretty serious. So let's talk about something more fun. Dogs have always been a big part of my life. At this point, I enjoy my time with my dogs probably more than I do with most people. I won't go into why. If you're a dog person, you know, and if you're not, you'll never know, so what's the point?

I don't actually remember my first dog. My mother tells me that a mongrel stray came around when I was a baby and attached himself to me for awhile. He'd guard my baby carriage, and when the old ladies tried to pinch my cheeks or chuckle my chin, he'd pull back his teeth in a junkyard dog snarl. Mom says he didn't hang around for long. They didn't even name him, but called him Dawg.

When I was about 4 or 5, I had a cocker spaniel named Ginger. I named her after a story book I had, and loved her to distraction. She disappeared one day, and Mom told me that Dad and her gave her to a farmer, as she wasn't happy living with us in town. I thought she seemed happy enough, and I was very sad, but what could I do but accept it? It wasn't until I was in my 30s that Mom finally told me that they just took Ginger out on a country road and dumped her. What a terrible thing.

We had one other dog for a while, but it was a dog my folks were fostering for some people while they were away for some reason. I didn't understand why Sally had to leave, but leave she did, and I didn't have another dog for some time.

The summer I was 7, my folks invited my Dad's Aunt and Uncle Marshall and Marie Kimes for dinner. While we were eating, they asked me some polite questions as adults are prone to do. One of them asked what grade I was in, did I like school, and then, "Do you have a dog?" When I said no, Marshall told my dad he should be ashamed of himself. "A boy needs a dog." Dad said he didn't want a dog around.

One week later, I was at the neighborhood store with my mom when the neighbor kids came running up to me all excited saying, "Terry, Terry, some people came to your house and brought you a dog!" I went running home and found that the Kimes had brought me a cocker/pekingese cross puppy. They just insisted that Dad let me have him. I named him Pal Hunter.

That was the start of years of one of the most unique dogs you ever saw. He was incredibly smart, and living in a time when people just let their dogs run free, he was pretty much unmanageable. But he was still a great dog. He was affectionate toward all members of our fairly large extended family, but most attached to me and my grandpa. Grandpa called him "Pie" because he said, when kids would call him, "Here Pal, here Pal," repeatedly, it would deteriorate into "Hep Pie, hep Pie." Pal used to go up the street about four blocks just before the time when Grandpa came home from work, and wait for him. In just a few minutes, here would come Grandpa's red Jeep pickup, and he'd pull over, let Pal in, and drive him the rest of the way home. He never went there on Grandpa's days off, and even when Grandpa tried to fool him, he didn't fall for it.

A favorite game was when we were playing any kind of ball game, Pal would wait for his chance and steal the ball. Then the game was really on. We'd all chase Pal and try to catch him to get the ball back. He'd tease us and play with us and keep the ball sometimes for hours until we were all exhausted. We never caught him. We got the ball back when he tired of the chase, and not a moment before.


He followed me to the movies and snuck in. He followed me to the city swimming pool and snuck in. When my sister Linda started first grade (no kindergarten in those days) he followed her, went in her classroom and sniffed all around it, then never went back. Until . . . about 8 years later, when my brother Doug started first grade, he did the same thing.

Pal loved to chase cars. When he died, at about age 14, he was found in a ditch beside the road without a mark on him. We always chose to believe he died chasing a car, in his glory. Pal died about a month before my daughter was born, when I was 20. Grandpa buried him beneath a cherry tree in his garden. The people who live there now removed the marker, but Pal's still there next to my mom's house, and I always say a silent hello to him when I visit.


I had pretty much the opposite feeling about dogs from my dad. It wasn't until I was around 30 that I learned the sad story of why Dad didn't like to get close to dogs. It seems that when he was a boy, he found a stray dog, took him home and sneaked food and water to him When the inevitable happened and his father caught him, Grandpa Hill told Dad to take the dog to the woods and shoot it. So poor Dad, certainly under threat of a beating, took a gun and tied a rope to the dog and led him to the woods, where he shot him. A while later, they heard a noise at the back door, and it was the puppy, only wounded, outside crying for Dad. The old man then made Dad take the dog BACK to the woods and finish the job. For the rest of his life, although we saw evidence from time to time that Dad actually liked dogs, Dad kept his emotional distance. You certainly couldn't blame him.


But rather than not wanting my kids to have a dog, I thought kids SHOULD have a dog. When my daughter Molly was about 2, one of my employees told me her daughter's dog had puppies. I brought home this little tiny chihuahua cross. We didn't have her too long, and never got past calling her Puppy, but she was a great little dog. We were pitifully ignorant about caring for dogs, and let her run loose. She, in concert with another dog, started running the neighbors' chickens, so we had to give her away.


Next, foolishly, while on vacation here in Montana (we lived in southern Idaho at the time, and were about to move to California) we took home a springer/beagle cross puppy. This was when Molly was 3. The dog was cute as hell. Molly wanted to name her Cruella DeVille, but we explained that was an inappropriate name for a dog, so instead, Molly chose a name from her Yogi Bear book and named the dog Booboo. Never was a dog named so aptly.


She was overly frisky, and didn't mind us at all, in any way. She'd barely come when called. We of course had no idea how to train a dog. We housetrained her, but that was a miracle. We hadn't had her more than a few months when one of my employees brought me a dog he'd rescued from drowning in a river. His father wouldn't let him keep her, so he brought him to me. Somehow we decided to keep her. She was a Samoyed, so of course Molly named her Whitey.



Whitey was a very good dog, whose only failing was that she hated male dogs and wanted to kill them all. Booboo, on the other hand, continued her evil ways. She would not be contained in any yard. She could jump any fence, regardless of height, and she was a short dog. She could leap up in the air, do a little pirouette, and divest our fig tree of all its fruit. On one of her adventures, she got pregnant, so we had a litter of puppies. Whitey killed one of the males.

Finally, in desperation after my wife discovered she was pregnant with our son, we gave Booboo away to a farmer in the area who wanted Booboo and all her puppies.


When our son Andy was born, Whitey adopted him. I've never seen any dog so affectionate toward a human child. She followed him around, and when he'd stick a finger in her eye, or something similar, she'd just sit there patiently. When he could talk, he called her "My Babe." When we moved back to Montana from California, we drove a large Uhaul truck. We drove cross country with me driving, Andy next to me, my mother-in-law next to him. Syd sitting on the outside passenger side with Molly in her lap and a parakeet in a cage in a box between her feet. We towed our car behind, which was completely full, and Whitey rode on the floor of the passenger side of the towed car. Just like a bunch of Okies.


Our first home back in Montana was out by the river backwash, near the woods. Whitey loved it. She'd take off first thing in the morning and be gone most of the day, coming home for dinner. Of course she got sprayed by a skunk, and we had to pull porcupine quills from her muzzle, but she loved it. Unfortunately, a year and half later we had to move and found a house in town where the landlord wouldn't allow dogs. We tried to come up with an alternate plan, but in the end had to give Whitey to a Bigfork family.

By this point, I was finally learning that we were not being good dog owners, yet I wanted very much to do it right. I loved all my dogs (except for maybe Booboo), and it crushed me to have to give them away. I didn't want to do that anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . Next: The story of Rufus