A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  “Llama, out.”

  Llama, who never disobeyed a command, didn't budge.

  “Llama, out.”

  Llama didn't move a muscle and remained planted by John's bed.

  The next morning, however, Llama began to pace frantically back and forth through the house.

  “What's wrong with him, Mom?” asked Wendy, who had come home to help her mother.

  “I don't know. Maybe he's sick.”

  The pacing continued all day and into the evening. At 9:30 that night, John passed away. Llama stopped pacing and lay quietly by the door.

  “He must have known the end was near,” said Wendy.

  Llama lay at the door, refusing to move, forcing people to step over him. For three days he grieved, along with the rest of the family. Then he got up, went to Donna, and placed his grizzled head in her lap. He had found someone else who needed him.

  Today, Llama and Donna are rarely separated. They visit neighborhood friends, both dog and human, daily. They go to Guide Dog meetings, take walks around the lake, and occasionally go to the beach. A neighbor has made Llama a ramp, so that he can avoid stairs and get in and out of cars. The dog Donna had given a home and her heart to and then sent out into the world to help another had brought that love back to Donna when her need was greatest.

  ˜Tish Davidson

  The Cost of a Dog

  Mrs. Hall, you have to get this child a dog.”I sat in the second-grade-sized chair, with my son's latest writing effort in my lap. His teacher was smiling, but I don't think she was kidding. After all, she'd had my son, John, in the first grade too, and by now she was getting sick and tired of his standard essays. Every paper had the same theme, and considering he was just seven, even less variation:

  I want a dog. I will feed it. I will play with it. My mom won't let me have a dog. My mom says dogs are a lot of werk. I will do evrything. I reelly, reelly, reelly want a dog. The end.

  That night I spoke to my husband about the possibility of getting a dog for John. First, we'd need to fence the backyard, because any dog would have to stay outside. My husband agreed. Second, we would need to consider what kind of dog would be best around children, because we had three of those. My husband approved wholeheartedly. Finally, we would need to think about the costs involved, because we lived on a pretty tight budget. My husband was one hundred percent behind me.

  The key, I said, summing up the whole dog issue, was to take our time and make the right decisions, thereby ensuring the perfect pet addition to the family. It looked like my husband was listening, but he hadn't heard a word I'd said.

  A few weeks later we had a fence. Boy, that was fast. I hadn't even made it to the library to check out any dog books. But there was still plenty of time for research. The spring baseball season was in full swing, so we were entirely too busy to worry about a dog. Until a puppy showed up at the ballpark one day. In the back of a truck belonging to a team member's grandfather. Hmmmm … it was just a little too coincidental.

  “Mrs. Hall, why don't you take a look at this puppy?”

  Why did I have the feeling my husband and John knew all about this puppy? My hubby glanced around sheepishly, avoiding eye contact. John, however, turned his big, brown eyes toward his mommy, looking just like, well, a puppy.

  “What kind of dog is this, anyway?” I asked, only because I was raised to be polite to my elders.

  The kindly grandfather thought she must be part pointer, part beagle. Pointer? I didn't know much about pointers. Come to think of it, all I knew about beagles was based on Snoopy. Did that count?

  Okay, she was cute. She was a puppy; she was supposed to be cute. But I still had my research to do on breeds and training and costs. It was way too soon to make a decision about a dog.

  I guess I was the only one surprised to find a brown and white ball of fur trembling in the back seat of our car that day. So much for taking our time choosing a pet.

  John named her Sally Hall. Both father and son were ecstatic, their doggy prayers finally answered. I was more concerned about practical matters. Like dog food, shelter, and shots. All the stuff my husband had conveniently forgotten while loading Sally into the back seat. Well, Sally was home now; we'd have to make the best of it.

  Fortunately, we have a rather large, screened-in porch, a great spot, we figured, for our new puppy. She would have plenty of fresh air, with access to our big, now fenced-in backyard. But all the help ful dog owners at the ballpark had recommended a crate for her to sleep in. Dogs like to have their own little home, they said. And she'll train almost overnight, they added. So we headed to the pet store. We bought a crate, puppy food, toys, a leash, dog treats, and a collar. Whew! We'd spent more than I'd bargained for, but that was just about everything, right?

  That evening we placed Sally in the crate with one of John's baby blankets inside to keep her company. All was quiet and calm through the night. I drifted off to sleep wondering why I'd been so worried.

  The following morning, I cleaned Sally's crate as well as John's baby blanket. Apparently, Sally didn't know that dogs aren't supposed to soil their own home. Next, John and I loaded her into the car for her first vet visit. It soon became clear that Sally was one of those rare breeds who do not enjoy a good road trip. She threw up before we'd even left the neighborhood.

  Of course, she charmed everyone at the vet's office. While John beamed, I scribbled reams of notes. Sally would need shots (every year) and heartworm medication (every month), plus the medication for regular worms (could take several doses; uh-oh). She'd likely benefit from a dog training class, considering her breed. (That didn't sound encour-aging.) And, naturally, she'd need to be spayed in a few months. The bill was more than $200, with who-knew-how-much-more in costs for future training, well care, and emergencies. So much for our children's college funds.

  That evening, after thoroughly cleaning the crate again, we said our good nights to Sally. John hated leaving his dog on the porch, but I was adamant. That was my last line in the carpet, so to speak, and I had no intention of letting Sally cross it. So when the first little yips began, I coolly ignored her. The yips gave way to yelps. I turned up the volume on the TV. The pitiful puppy whining continued. I went upstairs and put on my pajamas. Then I came back downstairs to sit outside on the porch with Sally.

  Sally redeemed herself when she crate-trained so quickly. She even stopped her crying through the night. But as soon as the dawning sun peeked out, she would bark. And bark. And bark. So by 6:00 A.M., everyone was up, whether they had planned to be or not. Someone (need I say it was always Mom or Dad?) would stumble downstairs and let Sally out to do her business. She'd bound from her crate and stand around for a while. This was no potty emergency; Sally had learned a new trick. Barking nonstop was sure to get our attention. It was an amazingly effective alarm clock.

  The time had come for doggy training classes, said the vet, so that Sally would know exactly who the master was in our house. I couldn't recall having to take any classes to get that idea across to my children, but $100 for a good night's sleep seemed reasonable, so off we went. By the end of the month-long course, she had learned to sit, as long as she really felt like sitting. As an added bonus, she learned how to jump up and ruin favorite sweaters. And though we tried tons of suggestions, we were still battling the wake-up-call barking problem.

  One day I found an anonymous letter in the mailbox. A concerned neighbor thought that Sally might need more attention. Perhaps she's barking so we'll spend more time with her. At six in the morning. They were only thinking of the poor, “neglected” dog; the “incessant barking” wasn't bothering them at all. But could we possibly do something?

  We (okay, mostly me) decided Sally needed a home in the country with enough space to bark her fool head off without bothering buttinski neighbors. She needed someone like a hunter, who understood an active breed like Sally. An ad was put in the paper: Pointer/Beagle. Free to a good home. The dog had been de-wormed, vaccinated, spayed, and train
ed (sort of), and came with her own crate. Yes-sir, Sally was a real bargain.

  The phone rang a week later while my husband was in the shower. A bachelor, living in a rural area, needed a hunting dog and loved pointers. Was Sally still available? Until then, every caller had been deterred by Sally's “rambunctious nature.” But this guy had definite potential.

  I shouted to my husband over the rushing water.

  “Someone wants Sally. He lives way out in the country.”

  “Okay,” yelled my husband.

  “He doesn't have kids, so the jumping won't be a problem.”

  “Okay,” he yelled again.

  I stood outside the shower. A minute passed.

  “Well, what now?” asked my husband, suds running down his back.

  It seemed ideal. Except now I was sniffling outside the shower door. “I don't think I can give Sally away.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sake,” said my husband.

  Sally had outlasted me. We purchased baby gates to enclose the kitchen, Sally's domain for the evening and early morning hours. Her new, larger crate took up half the dining area. Sally was still a yard dog during most of the day, but she often managed to escape. She'd run around the house in a blur, ending up on the front porch, waiting for someone to bring her inside. So much for the fence.

  But Sally had more tricks up her doggy sleeves. Now she barked all day. She barked at the neighbor mowing the lawn. She barked at the kids getting off the bus. She barked at lizards, squirrels, and shadows. When her barking reached a crescendo, we'd give a call and up the stairs bolted Sally. She was so happy to be inside she'd jump on anyone within catapulting distance. Clearly, Sally had all the signs of a raging juvenile delinquent. It was time for something drastic. Something known as doggy boot camp.

  Every day the boot camp instructor would call with a glowing report of Sally's progress. We had always known Sally was smarter than she looked, so we weren't at all surprised. If Sally had to be perfectly trained before she could come home, then Sally would go to the head of the class in record time. By week's end, we excitedly returned for our wonder dog.

  But first we had to master all the commands and prove our expertise as trainers. Our chests swelled with pride as Sally “heeled” like a pro. Our throats choked with emotion while she “sat” like a statue. Our jaws dropped when she “stayed” in the same spot for at least five minutes. It was a miracle! A miracle! And it had cost us only $500. We left boot camp with our new and improved Sally dog and a training video….

  And we pulled into our driveway with the same old Sally, barking like a maniac as she sprang from the smelly car.

  John's old enough to drive now, so that makes Sally pretty old too. She still barks at anything and anybody, but nobody really notices much anymore. She's still racking up expenses, but the budget has expanded along with her girth. The only time she's ever in the yard these days is when John is in the yard too, right beside her. Heck, we don't even bother with the gates unless a service person is around. But not because Sally jumps. She never jumps on anyone. She did learn that lesson. I guess we finally learned something too.

  One fine spring day we got a dog and named her Sally. Sally Hall. And this is her home, always. Because family is for keeps, no matter what the cost.

  ˜Cathy C. Hall

  Born to Be Wild

  Mom!” My son Ben stomped up the stairs from where he'd been playing outside with his younger siblings, Chloe and Sam. The anxiety in his steps was the kind a mom hates to hear; it usually means someone is bleeding. “Sam let Dakota out of the yard, and she's gone!” he said, gasping to catch his breath.

  It took most of my strength to contain the expletives that leapt to mind. It was hardly the first time this had happened, and Sam wasn't the only perpetrator. I'd done it, my husband had done it, and every child except the toddler had done it at least once.

  “You go make sure the gate is closed before Kelly gets out, and I'll go get Dakota,” I told him.

  I headed out the front door and immediately spotted Dakota in the cul de sac. I called to her, but when she looked at me, I heard the lyrics of “Born to Be Wild” in my head. Dakota had a penchant for heading down the roadway in search of adventure. As I stepped toward her, she bounded down the street, stopping only to see how close I was.

  I called down curses on her head and followed her at a slow walk. If I ran, she would run faster. If I acted desperate to catch her, it would only make her more elusive. If I called more than a few times, she'd just hide and play tag with me. We'd done this before. It was her one failing: Give her an open gate, and she would run.

  I called her name a few times. A neighbor looked up from spraying weeds in his sidewalk. “She's a good listener, huh?” he chuckled.

  “Oh yeah, she's brilliant,” I said. Dakota, meanwhile, kept running.

  When I got to the end of the cul de sac, I turned around. The choice had to be made — chase a dog who didn't want to be caught but would probably come back anyway, or go make sure my seven-, five, and three-year-old children didn't do something else I'd have to fix. It wasn't a tough choice.

  It had never been a tough choice, to be honest. Like many people who have dogs before kids, we'd seen our dog take a back seat to each successive baby.

  Dakota pre-dated our kids by about three-and-a-half years. She'd been our baby before we had babies. We got her about six months after finally buying our first home. We'd had cats for a couple of years by that point, and I would have been happy with just the cats for quite a while. Much as I love dogs, I was content. My husband, though, wanted a dog now that we had a yard, and since he put up with my cats, who was I to argue?

  We brought Dakota home when she was about six weeks old. A black Lab/German shepherd mix, she was small enough to fit in my cupped hands. She was a snuggler; we could tip her back and cradle her like a baby, and she would fall asleep. She was so small at first that when we tried to get her to jump up our backdoor step, she would just sit at the bottom, barking at us and wiggling her hindquarters as if to say, “You gotta know, Mom, I'd do it if I could!”

  As soon as she was housetrained, we started letting her sleep on our bed. She was a warm little lump between us that grew until we had to start pushing her to the end of the bed. Fortunately, she stopped growing at about forty-five pounds. She slept on our bed for a couple of years, and we became kindred spirits in our opinion of alarm clocks. When mine went off at 5:30 every morning, Dakota would groan, stretch, and bury her head. “I agree,” I told her every morning. Dutifully, she'd hop down when I got up, and I'd put her in the yard for the day. In the evenings, she'd come in and sit on the couch with us and watch TV or sit on the floor in front of us with our feet rubbing her belly. We were a threesome. A family.

  Babies were inevitable, though. I became pregnant with our first child, Ben, in October 1998. For a while, Dakota held her place in the bed, but as my belly grew and I battled nausea and insomnia, she ended up pushed to the floor. She still had her blanket and still groaned every morning, but I just couldn't share the bed with her.

  When the baby came, we moved Dakota to the hall outside our bedroom door at night. If she groaned when the alarm went off, I reasoned, how much more would she complain with a crying baby? Besides, since I had quit my job to stay home with the baby, Dakota would have more time with me and the baby during the day.

  For a while, it worked well that way. Dakota was enamored with Ben from the start. I'm convinced she knew he was part of me and his dad. She never saw him as an interloper. When he started crawling, I'd hover and watch carefully, not fully trusting her, since she'd never been around babies. She never even came close to giving me cause for alarm. She let Ben crawl all over her, tail wagging the whole time. It was like she had finally become a mommy too.

  Things were cruising along until December of 2000. I was pregnant with baby number two and already feeling crowded in the house with a toddler, a dog, three cats, and a growing belly. My mom called one night and
said someone had dumped a young puppy on her, and she couldn't keep the little thing. Would we be interested in a companion for Dakota? The pup was a black Lab, about five months old, and very sweet. We took her, and Dakota was thrilled. “A puppy of my very own!” her brown eyes sang. “Now I am a mom!”

  But two dogs in a house already bursting at the seams? No. I had to insist — they'd be outside most of the time. They slept in the living room at night until the puppy, Kelly, damaged the couches and toys one too many times. Then we put them in the utility room at night. I'm sure Dakota must have thought, “Ah, how the mighty have fallen!”

  Since then, Dakota has seen a lot of changes — a move, three more babies, the loss of one cat. She's happy and adaptable; she's wonderful with the kids' and we all adore her. But still, give her an open gate, and she will run every time.

  I'm convinced it's not because she's unhappy here. I watch her with the kids, and I can see pure dog love in her eyes. She adores them. When they are leading her around by the collar and feeding her fruit from our backyard, she's in heaven. I've felt guilty in the past for not paying enough attention to her, but then, the kids do that, and she was made for them.

  I think that, for Dakota, it's the lure of the open road that she just can't resist. Somewhere, under all of the adoration and love of her family, she's a wild dog. She wants to explore. It doesn't matter if she's smelled the same smells a hundred times, it's all new every time. There's freedom in her eyes when she heads off down the street. She loves her home, and she will come back — but only after she's smelled some smells, tasted some tastes, and heard some noises.

  Dakota is ten years old now. She hobbles a little on cold mornings. There's more gray than black in her beard. Her teeth are starting to show some wear. But in her eyes, there's still a spark of intelligence and a desire for new experiences. Couldn't we all use some of that in our dotage?