Twelve years ago we were heading north on 101 with our new doggie and Trophy said, Let’s stop a minute at the Hopland Superette. She went inside, dog and I stayed in the parking lot.
The little pup, a scant eight weeks old and a member of a new pack less than 30 minutes, sat staring up at me from the pavement, feet together, shoulders back, a serious look. It was a pose she was to strike many, many times through the next dozen years, and we came to call it “Reporting for Duty.” It was her default position, and suggested an outlook she was to retain all her life.
We called her “puppy” those first few days because we hadn’t yet named her Katrina, and after we named her Katrina we still called her Puppy. So did everyone else in Ukiah.
Puppy spent her days and years reporting for duty, insisting on doing only what we wanted her to do. If we hadn’t seen one another for a minute or a week she would approach, sit with those familiar squared shoulders, front paws 1.5 inches apart, solemn, staring up, like a little soldier in a fuzzy beige uniform.
How can I help? she seemed to ask. Is there anything I can do to make things better?
Puppy wanted us to love her and not be upset with her. She never needed a leash or a reprimand. She never chased a cat, barked at a squirrel or ignored a kid who wanted to pet her pointy little head.
Puppy had ethical standards, but thought nothing of zipping into Kitti Houston’s house, jogging to the kitchen and snacking on the cat’s dinner. Wrong? Says who? Explain how depriving a cat of a meal while simultaneously savoring its tuna-flavored kibble violates any rule under the sun.
And the word “trespass” never occurred to her when barreling through an open garage door hunting down Ken Edmonds. A quick scan, then out a side door to the back yard in case a BBQ was in progress, tail wagging all the way. Never once did she feel a pang of guilt or think she’d breached etiquette.
Uncle Bacon, aka Dave Riemenschneider, was fair game anytime Puppy was within six blocks of his kitchen.
She was welcome all around town. She could have been hired part-time by Ann at the bookstore or Jill at Triple S, and was voted smartest and best-looking member on the Raccoon Lodge bench seven years in a row. It was impossible to walk her home without pausing at The Barkery to woof Hello to Cindy and gobble dollars worth of chewies from a low shelf.
She loved her early morning walks at Todd Grove Park: long stretches of shameless begging, handfuls of biscuits, jerky, abandoned pizza crusts and the occasional baked pumpkin treat. Her accomplices, Boo and Haley (and Millie ‘til we lost her) worked a nifty triple tag-team tango, accosting donors repeatedly until pockets were emptied or patience exhausted. And, finally, a bit of walking.
Yes, life was good. Until it wasn’t.
By the end she was two dogs in one. Her spirit never wavered and her cheerful face remained. But back legs that had once lent her speed, agility and nimble strength now betrayed her and dangled like dry twigs strung from worn out hip bones. Useless as support, she was unable to walk, unable to stand. She was ebbing weekly, at times daily. Yet her wagging tail never quit.
Visits to the park were her last measure of joy in the world. Dog biscuits from her best boyfriend (she started going steady with Ken last May) and soft ministrations from the saintly Arlynn Johnson brought Puppy comfort to the end.
She showed it every morning with slow, happy wags, sometimes laying on her side on park grass, sometimes rolling about like a baby in a crib.
It’s a lousy business, this killing your dog. It makes you an accomplice to murder: Pick an execution time and date, then mark a wall with vertical strokes as the days dwindle down. It will probably rain.
Dr. Ed Haynes and Todd Netherton, to whom we’ve assigned the gloomy task, come to our home and make quiet arrangements in another room. Trophy and I kneel alongside our faithful old dog, murmur sad blessings and stroke her soft ears.
The needle goes in and Puppy closes her eyes, gives a sigh, and with a quiet thump wags her tail one last time.
(Tom Hine authors this column and assumes our young dog is now rolling on wet grass in Canine Heaven, dreaming of mornings at the park, hoping Trophy will emerge from the shadows so Puppy can inquire one last time, paws together and shoulders squared, if there’s anything she can do to make things better.)
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