At first, field trialing didn’t hook me. I thought the people were too intense and the pace was awfully slow, and many of the dogs often were surprisingly uninterested in following the rabbit scents. My dog, Winston, was a complete bust and finished far back in the pack. But Ann was not ready to give up on Winston. She was convinced he eventually would figure things out. He had been born at a humble kennel in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, one that had not produced any renowned field-trial dogs. But on our walks and weekend outings, Winston always had his nose to the ground, so Ann was convinced his mythical “lightbulb,” which one of our field-trial friends had talked about, would turn on.
It did. After a few field trials, Ann took Winston up to the point where the rabbit was first spotted. He inhaled deeply and began to howl. A wild, exuberant howl that he repeated again and again as he sniffed his way through the field. Winston took a red ribbon that day. In the months and years that followed, he won enough ribbons to gain the title of a champion. In 2008 he finally had enough placements to reach the highest level of achievement—grand field champion.
All this was not accomplished without controversy. Judges assess the dogs on a number of traits, such as desire, determination, endurance and “proper use of voice.” Winston had plenty of critics who thought he was too quick to howl. Some called him a babbler who somehow fooled the judges by howling when he didn’t really, truly smell a rabbit. Over time, the criticism eased, even if it did not fade entirely, as Winston aged and grew more refined in his approach. He would move more slowly, bark less often, and he once successfully followed a rabbit’s scent across a difficult stretch of sandy roadway.
There was plenty of competitive fervor at the field trials, sometimes too much, as a few nasty disputes flared up. There was also romance. Though most of the field trialers were well into their fifties, sixties or even seventies, one younger couple began their courtship while tramping through tall creek-side grass in search of rabbits. They ended up getting married. We all attended their wedding ceremony, held after a long day of field trialing. There were also sad moments. Some dogs died. Some field trialers died, and we tried to honor their passing by ensuring their dogs—brought down by surviving spouses—continued to compete.
In the spring of 2010 Winston was diagnosed with a blood cancer. Over the summer he gradually faded away. He would bleed internally, then regain strength and then bleed again. On our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary Ann and I went to stay at a hotel in the Columbia River Gorge. Winston was so weak that he had to be wheeled on the luggage cart to our room. He passed away the next day, and we buried him in our backyard.
Ann said she wouldn’t get another basset for at least a year. The illness had been so long and drawn out, and she wasn’t ready for another basset. She was upset that we had even tried to leave home on our anniversary. But it was awfully quiet at our house. Our two children had both left for college. At night it was just the two of us, and a lot of basset memories.
Last October I was driving down Interstate 5 near the basset-hound field-trial grounds. I realized there was a competition that weekend and stopped by to say hello. Everyone offered condolences about Winston’s passing. Then a friend suggested we consider adopting a two-year-old basset named Maverick. He had spent two months with a family in Oregon. Things hadn’t worked out, and he had just been returned to the kennel of his birth. Maverick had beautiful lines and those soulful basset eyes. He came right up to me at the field-trial grounds and put his paws on my lap. I gave him a hug and took a bunch of cell phone pictures of the dog to show Ann.
Today, Maverick is a much-loved member of our family, although we think he sometimes struggles with our suburban lifestyle. Maverick had lived most of his puppyhood at a wonderful place, Tailgate Ranch Kennels on Whidbey Island, where he spent his days playing in the fields with his siblings. He was a country boy, and he initially seemed a bit insecure. He frequently sought to jump in our laps or snuggle up against us as we sat on the couch. And he could be spooked by small things, such as the sound of rattling paper.
But he was passionate about hunting. That made walking a chore, as he strained on his leash and often refused to move past a promising scent of a squirrel or cat. So in the spring we brought Maverick to the field trials. In his first competition he was a dud, just like Winston had been. But the second time around, he came to the line and gave a howl. Then another and another as he raced off through the Scotch broom.
The Green Collar
Sheryl J. Bize Boutte
Dogs were not among my mother’s favorite things. Begged for and then promptly neglected by each of her five daughters, or promising and then failed watchdogs for my father, they were just an extra chore for my mother. On more than one occasion she would yell from some corner of the house, “If you don’t feed that dog, you are going to find him stiff in the backyard!” Sometimes that threat would propel one of her girls into action, but more often, the playdate or the telephone call or the party would take precedence and the dog du jour’s stay at our house would come to an end.
So it came as a complete and utter shock to all of us when one day in 1980, my mother came home with a fluffy brilliantly white toy poodle she had already named Pierre.
Somehow this Pierre had managed to break through Mom’s decades-long avoidance of all things dog and capture her heart. Her devotion to him was proven even more when, at scarcely three months old, he required a serious and expensive operation. We thought for sure he would be counted among the “temporary” dogs we had growing up, but again to our surprise, Mom took him to the vet hospital, paid the bill without a word and walked the floor during his surgery as though he were one of her children. It was clear that Mom and Pierre had a special bond, and looking back, I think even he knew it.
Pierre fit perfectly into Mom’s life at that point. At a moment when her children sometimes placed conditions on giving her time and attention, Pierre was constant and unwavering in his loyalty. He asked no questions, never talked back and did not have any other obligations. He was calm, quiet and stealthily present, an escape from the sometimes raucous sibling rivalry, which often shattered mom’s peace. He looked her in the eyes when she spoke to him and seemed to listen and understand. It was as though their destinies had been divinely intertwined by forces beyond our control or understanding. And even though he was “Mom’s dog,” he was always happy to see us and, acting as the perfect host, greeted us warmly when we arrived at the front door to the family home.
Then, in 1981, at the young age of fifty-three and scarcely a year after bringing Pierre home, my mother died suddenly. The shocking loss of the person who was literally the glue that held us together created a fracture in our family that has never been mended. Pierre grieved along with us during those dark days of turning off life support and during the heavy emptiness that followed. Like us he shunned food, looked for her in the house and inhaled the lingering scent of Youth-Dew in her clothes to invoke her presence. During this time, Pierre transitioned from Mom’s beloved pet to the living vessel in which memories of her were stored.
When my father could no longer live with the memories that filled the house he had shared with my mother, he took Pierre with him to his new house and later to a small apartment, after the last of my sisters got married and moved away. The cramped apartment soon became too small for the lively and energetic Pierre. It was then that Pierre came to live with my husband, my young daughter and me.
Struggling against the leash my father held, freshly groomed and decorated with a new bright green collar, Pierre pranced across the threshold of our front door. After greeting the three of us, he ran through his new home, exploring each room. While it was understood that Pierre had an extended family, it was also clear that he would live out the rest of his days with us. During the ensuing years, Pierre kept my mom ever present and brought us joy, calm and unfettered, pure devotion. His regard for us enhanced our regard for each other. He was regal and anointed, with the countenance of a true g
entleman.
With his seven pounds of assumed swagger, he ruled his backyard kingdom, protecting it from raccoon, cat or bird interlopers who dared to set foot on his hallowed turf. He could jump three times his height and never licked a face without permission. We laughed when he would bare his teeth and bark to protect us from strangers or perceived harm. When an acquaintance came to visit and unkindly referred to him as a “little rat,” he was forever banned from our home.
No matter the season, when the sun would reach a certain point in the sky, Pierre would use his nose to turn over his bowl, signaling he was ready to eat. The sound of the electric can opener would send him bounding into the kitchen in anticipation of food. He loved to ride in the car, running from the back to the front and to the back again, never disturbing the driver. He luxuriated in bubble baths and would turn over without prompting for the soothing heat of the blow-dryer. And while he was undemanding and patient, he was every inch the proud and high-stepping poodle. He was happiest after grooming and would throw his head and shoulders back and strut with the bearing of a lion.
When I used my air popper to make popcorn, Pierre would scoop up the flying kernels from the kitchen floor. (To this day, when I use that air popper and have to get the broom to sweep up the errant kernels, my husband and I will say in unison, “Where is Pierre when we need him?”) When we needed a hug, Pierre would place his face on our shoulder, and we could almost hear him tell us everything would be all right. Pierre was our unruffled constant when we needed it most.
In 1995 it became clear that Pierre’s health was failing. By then he was seventy-six in dog years and had lost sight in one eye and most of his teeth. He was no longer the luminous white ball of boundless energy, but a lethargic, yellowing shadow of himself. As it had happened many years before with my mother, it became clear that life was leaving him and we had to make a decision.
So while our daughter, who could not bear to say goodbye, packed the rented minivan we were using to drive her to college, my husband and I took Pierre for his last car ride to the vet. The vet took one look at Pierre and told us his time had come. On a hot August day, on what would have been my mother’s sixty-ninth birthday, my husband and I tearfully removed Pierre’s green collar and said our goodbyes.
We drove home in silence. There were no words. We immersed ourselves in the other life-changing event before us: our daughter leaving home for her freshman year of college. We had planned it this way on purpose so we would not have time to dwell on the loss of Pierre. We were forced to focus on what was ahead.
There is no doubt in my mind that Pierre came at the right time for all of us. For my mom, he was the one who doted on her when all others seemed to have fallen away. And during what turned out to be the last year of Mom’s short life, Pierre gave her the gift of unconditional love. For the rest of us, Pierre was the only thing that remained calm and steady after she died, a time of family upheaval and change. He filled a void that would have been left open and unresolved. He was a connection to my mother that we all needed to keep from falling off the cliff. He was also an entity unto himself, independently loved and cherished.
Every now and then, I open the desk drawer in the kitchen and look at the green collar. It still contains small tufts of Pierre’s fur. After all these years I am still amazed at the power this ten-inch slash of fabric has to evoke such strong emotion and vivid recollection. Holding it in my hand starts the video of Pierre gazing up at Mom. Then, as the camera is pulled back and the image widens, Mom’s smiling face comes into the frame. As a physical manifestation of memory, the collar provides the tangible closeness Mom and I always shared and I continue to need.
I could stretch out the green collar and encase it in a frame. I could hang it from my rearview mirror or have it sewn into a quilt. But I prefer to keep it unencumbered but latched, as if to form the halo I am sure still floats above Pierre’s head.
Growing Together
Louise Crawford
When I first met my dog Lily, she was living with a foster-dog mom. I drove about an hour to get to the foster home, intending to meet a short-haired, small black dog that would fit my house and my backyard. However, when the foster-doggy mom opened the door, my eyes were drawn to another dog, which stood amid this herd of barking dogs, not making a peep.
She just stared up at me with her big brown eyes and trembled. This dog was clearly terrified, and so was I. I felt an instant sympathetic bond, but what if she wasn’t a dog looking for a home? What if she belonged to the household? And what if I really wasn’t ready for this dog ownership step?
“What can you tell me about this one?” I asked the woman in charge, pointing at the orange-and-white, fluffy-eared sweetie. “Is that your dog or a foster dog?”
She looked down at the trembling dog. “Her? Oh, she’s new. Just came in. We haven’t even gotten her photo up on the website yet. We’re calling her Lily.”
My heart leapt, and I blurted, “That’s the dog I want!”
Immediately I regretted saying it. The thought of having my own dog and being completely responsible for it was something I was really struggling with. Yes, I know most of the world is at ease with the idea of owning a pet, but not me. It had taken me three years in counseling to get to this point. My childhood was a hard one, and the aftereffects have left me with serious issues of self-worth, particularly when it comes to doing or having something that is just for me. Not for others, just for me. A dog would be just for me, and secretly I still wondered whether I deserved that.
When I bent down to get closer, I noticed one of Lily’s ribs poked out and she shook in terror. Had she been mistreated, too? I didn’t try to pet her but just stayed still. She was so small. I looked up at the foster mom. “What kind of dog is Lily?”
“The vet thinks she’s part papillon and part Chihuahua,” she said. With a laugh, she added, “Her ears could be from either breed.”
Lily’s ears reminded me of a fruit bat’s. They stood up like two radar dishes on the top of her head, alert for any threatening sound. This was not a dog that would relax and trust easily.
At the foster mom’s suggestion I went to the couch and sat down. Within minutes Lily had jumped up and settled on my lap. It was love. This was the dog I wanted. Because Lily was so new, I couldn’t take her with me that day. I had paperwork to complete, and she needed to be spayed and have a tracking chip implanted so she’d never get lost again.
I stayed and stroked Lily’s soft fur, hating to leave her there. Then I went home and told my daughter happily, “I found a dog!” I’d initially wanted a short-haired dog that wouldn’t shed, but once I met Lily, I didn’t care if I had dog hair all over my house, or if my house smelled like “furry animals.”
It became more obvious that Lily had been mistreated, as well as abandoned, when my daughter and I drove out to pick her up the next week. Lily still didn’t make a sound, while all the other dogs barked in excitement at the door. This time I noticed the poky rib again and how she retreated when I came near her, then nipped at me when I tried to pet her, letting me know I was moving too fast.
I sat on the couch with my daughter and the foster mom, and we chatted while Lily slowly gathered her courage and came into the room. After a few minutes she jumped up onto the couch between my daughter and me. We both let her smell us and finally she let us pet her.
Armed with dog food, a book on dog behavior and the name of a vet for emergencies, we drove home. Little Lily rested on a soft green blanket on my daughter’s lap. She poked her head up once in a while to peer out the window, but other than that, she stayed put and made no sound. Once we were home, I put Lily’s blanket on a small beanbag chair in the living room. It was meant to be her bed. She lay down on it, her eyes wide with fear, her little body shaking, and didn’t move all evening. Before bedtime I took her into the backyard and she peed. Then I brought her back inside and she slept on her bed all night.
I planned to do this right—I wasn’t going to jus
t plop a dog in my house and expect it all to work. I’d taken a week’s vacation from work so we could get to know each other. Our first day I hung out with her and watched her explore the house. When I sat on the couch to watch TV, she sat next to me. That night she slept on the couch instead of her bed.
I’d never imagined I would let a dog sleep on the couch, or anywhere except on its bed or in its crate, but here I was, happy to let her sleep on the double recliner. I stood in the doorway, smiling down at the sleeping dog. This adorable little fluff ball, all curled up in the corner of the armrest was my watchdog! Life would be perfect, I thought, now that I have a dog to call my own.
But the next morning Lily wheezed and coughed like she was trying to cough up a hair ball. She sounded like she might die. What had gone wrong already? What didn’t I do right? Terrified, I put her in her crate and drove to the vet. She whimpered and clawed and cried the entire drive, which was horrendous, because it was New Year’s Eve and the traffic was awful. It took an hour to get there. She was scratching to get out of the crate, crying and coughing like I was the meanest owner in the world, and her new mom was a basket case.
You know what they say about owners? That if the dog has a problem, treat the owner. Well, I think the vet saw that I was not coping well: my tears and my statement “I think my dog’s dying!” clued her in. She ushered Lily and me into a room, came in and calmed us both down, then took Lily in the back to examine her. By the time she placed Lily back in my arms, I was no longer hyperventilating or crying.
The Dog with the Old Soul Page 11