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.
From Four Sticks Farm 