Month: August 2011

Wild Child

TheFawn0730

She gets bigger and braver every day, as do those of us who surround her. Biskit and I apparently harbor the greatest fascination, since Rusty continues to eye her with the suspicion characteristic of any self-respecting leader, while Chicago maintains the disinterest characteristic of any self-indulgent narcissist. The cats Basil and Mace haven’t lived their extended Barn Cat lives by taking chances on prey so much bigger and faster than them, so we’ve settled into a mutually curious but cautious coexistence.

She will occasionally graze just outside the barn, at the edge of the pasture border, while the horses are in for dinner, with no apparent concern for me or my activities.

On one such evening, I walked into the alley, right up next to the pasture gate – roughly 10 yards from the patch of clover blossoms on which she grazed. I squatted down for an unobstructed view, determined to finally get a really good look. She raised her head, stared confidently into my eyes, and returned to her snack.

We held our positions for several minutes – long enough for my legs to cramp and to create a sweat sandwich between my thighs and the back of my calves that spilled down my shins and pooled into a perspiration picnic for mosquitoes, barn flies and other assorted stinging insects.

Fearing any quick movement might scare her away, I managed to sit through the sweat long enough to pique her curiosity. Maybe she was trying to figure out why The Creature generally given to dragging around a bucket full of muck now sat frozen in a pool of her own bodily fluid.

In any case, she headed right toward me, steady and determined. I was thrilled of course. Initially. Then I realized, again, that I am indeed a slow processor, and that perhaps a little primer in cervine behavior may have been in order prior to this point. What if she charged me? Or bit, kicked, spit, or whatever it is that deer do to mortal enemies and reasonable facsimiles thereof? Somewhere between carefree and caution lies a middle ground of healthy choices that I someday hope to find. But for now I rely on the Luck of the Irish and the Eyes were Smiling that day, because as she neared the rope that separated us, the little one veered off to the greener pasture.

Good thing for the other side of the fence.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog–The Final Chapter

SleepyHeadZ

Yesterday, 8 days after his 15th birthday, I said goodbye to Zenga. I believe he had a stroke or strokes during the night as he was able to stay on his feet for only a matter of seconds, and when he did walk, it was in large erratic circles. He was possibly in pain, probably confused and definitely uncomfortable. When he refused his breakfast, complete with the last of the birthday cookie dough mixed in, the message was clear.

Born to be a Canine Companions for Independence assistance dog, Huizenga was named after a contributor to the organization, but responded to many nicknames in his 15 years. Among them: Z, Zenga, Zinger, Zinga, BaZinga, Paleface, Poochers, Little Yellow Dog, Old Yellow Dog, and He Who Hears Voices.

Zenga didn’t make the cut at CCI because he couldn’t tolerate the feel of wearing the gear necessary to identify him as an official service dog. His release was pretty much a given at the ceremony in which the incoming class of dogs was introduced, where he hopped up the aisle on three legs when his name was called because he was using the fourth leg to feverishly scratch at his “Puppy in Training” cape.

But his tactile sensitivity didn’t keep him from working for many years as a registered therapy dog. Oddly enough, he would endure overzealous petting and clumsy embraces but drew the line at retrieving anything. I guess it’s all about the compromise.

In the end, he earned his keep by lying on a fleecy blanket, listening to children read, admittedly, a job made more enticing by the treats distributed at the end, but one in which he willingly participated. My biggest concern was that while I could rationalize Z’s snoozing to a young reader as “he’s picturing the story as you read it” I had no credible story should he lapse into the deep slumber of his later years, which came complete with a very obvious snore.

I will miss him. I will miss the raspy pant that marked an exciting event, and the quiet that marked its subsidence. I will miss the contortions required to push my chair back so he could worm into the space between my feet and the table trestle while I did the crossword. I will miss the little spark of spirit that he showed in objection to my efforts to unsnarl the little mats that knotted the fine hair under his ears.

But mostly I will miss the look in his eye when he saw me come in the house, down the boardwalk, across the lawn or up the driveway because, with all due respect to my much beloved family and friends, nobody was as happy to see me as Huizenga.

Rest in Peace Little Yellow Dog.

Chronicle of the Old Yellow Dog

SleepyHeadZ

The Old Yellow Dog turned 15 last week. He celebrated by lying on a fleece blanket under a shady tree in the front yard, listening to a little girl practice her reading skills. Her work started with the story of a child baking birthday treats for a golden retriever having a birthday. It ended with the child making no-bake dog treats and feeding several of them to the golden retriever having a birthday.

I honored the old boy with the purchase of four, almost color-coordinated rubber-backed throw rugs, strategically scattered around the ceramic tile to cover all the customary routes with traction only a pawstep away.

Zenga continues to show his age just a tiny bit more every day. His hips get a little looser, putting a little more wiggle in his walk, and his loss of hind-end muscle tone has added one more momentum-building practice swing to get up the step from garage to house.

The bark formerly reserved to demand a trip out or in, now sometimes means “Help me get up” or “Where is everybody?” or “What are you thinking, sitting down in that chair with a magazine?”

And, with increasing frequency, he barks rather fiercely at guests in our home, even if he’s known them all his life and even if they’ve been standing right there in the kitchen for 15 minutes.

But though he no longer shows interest in joining the greyhound and me on our morning walk, he continues to complete his own daily circuit around the yard. And if I happen to catch him at just the right spot, his aging eyes light up and his face reflects the youthful delight of that little yellow puppy with the green ear tattoo I met at the airport in 1996. Then he will pivot (reality check – I have to help lift those heavy hips back to vertical) and trot and hop and bounce up the lawn with all the energy he’s got, fully convinced that he is SomeBody.

Then he spends a several minutes lying on the cool ceramic trying to catch his breath, closely resembling his owner just after she completes her Cardio Pilates workout.

But soon he falls asleep, snoring contentedly, his back secured against the entry wall, his feet within toe-touch distance of the blue-striped rug. And all is well.

Happy Birthday Huizenga.