May 31, 2006

• DOG DAZE

  
  

   

  
  

  As a kid growing up, I never really had a dog that was officially mine.  My mother had a chocolate brown poodle named “Teddy” that was seriously in need of doggy psychiatric help long before puppy shrinks came into vogue.  For the space of about two weeks we had a Beagle mix that was supposed to be my dog. Unfortunately, he tried to eat Teddy. I didn’t see a problem with that, but apparently my mom did, so she said we had to get rid of him.

  
  

   

  
  

  When I met my wife she was breeding Shelties and there was a new litter of really cute puppies for me to play with every so often.  They were always sold so it didn’t pay to become too attached to them. We managed to maintain this guarded objectivity until the very last litter that came along. 

  
  

   

  
  

  In that litter was a runt. Actually “runt” would be a kind word. He was more like a “Mini-Me” version of the rest of the pups. He was uncoordinated, afraid of his own shadow, hyper, and completely loveable.  My step daughter pleaded to be allowed to keep him. The plan was for the dog to belong to my step daughter and her boyfriend. My wife semi-reluctantly agreed.  My step daughter named the little guy “Ricochet.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Well, as these things often go; the boyfriend became history. Then the step daughter moved into an apartment on campus where pets were not allowed.  Then a new boyfriend came on the scene who later became the fiancé and then the husband. Then they moved 10 hours away into an apartment that didn’t take dogs either.

  
  

   

  
  

  Since I’ve never had a dog of my own and since Ricochets’ would-be master went and married a human and moved to another state, the dog and I decided to adopt each other.

  
  

   

  
  

  Ricochet and I quickly established a little routine. When I come home from work he likes to jump up in my arms and sit upright with his back against my chest and his front legs out in front of him. He will let me carry him around like this for hours and will actually fall asleep in this position. When I sit down on the couch and watch television he will crawl up on the back of the couch and then walk out and balance on my shoulder like a parrot in a cheesy pirate movie. When I get in bed at night he likes to jump up on the comforter and chase my foot around under the covers. That little seven pound, foul-breathed, fuzz-ball has more personality than the majority of people I know. Or perhaps I should say he had more personality…

  
  

   

  
  

  He’s dead.

  
  

   

  
  

  I came home on Saturday afternoon and opened the back door to let him in. When he didn’t come in I went out back and called for him. Because he was so tiny he could squeeze out of tiny little gaps in the fence and liked to do so at every opportunity. When I couldn’t find him, I figured he’d made a jail break and I got in my car and began to drive around the neighborhood. I scoured the streets for about an hour with no luck and decided to make one more sweep of the back yard.

  
  

   

  
  

  When I walked around the corner of the house I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before and I suddenly got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m getting ready to build a shop in my back yard and I had stacked about 10 sheets of plywood up against the side of the house in preparation for the project. It was incredibly windy on Saturday with gusts up to 50 mph. The stack of plywood had blown over and was lying on the ground. I went over and began to pick up each sheet and stand it back up against the house. I found him lying underneath about the eighth sheet, crushed to death.

  
  

   

  
  

  I’ve been around death all of my life. I buried my closest childhood friend in my teens. I buried both of my parents in my early 20’s. I’ve buried grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. During my years in the ministry it would not be an exaggeration to say I did several hundred funerals. I’ve always met death stoically, in complete control, and have handled it well; perhaps because that was always my role and responsibility.

  
  

   

  
  

  I’ve lost a yappy little dog, and I’m a fucking mess.

  
  

   

  
  

  I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see him lying there. I’m so damned pissed at myself for stacking that plywood against the house that I can’t see straight. I keep replaying it over and over in my mind, and I keep expecting him to greet me when I get home.

  
  

   

  
  

  With all of the human tragedy and death that hangs around us like a shroud, it seems silly to mourn the loss of a dog; even innapropriate. Perhaps, though, I’ve never really allowed my self to experience grief.

  
  

   

  
  

  Well, I seem to be experiencing it now…and its name is Ricochet.

  
  

   

  
  

  

  • 8:29 pm
  • 28 Comments