The critter in my arms came home with me almost ten years back. A pretty busy guy even for a Boxer pup, I came to the realization that, unless I was planning to beat him within an inch of his life, his capacity for what I consider doggy discipline was going to be a bit limited. I'd throw a ball for him, and he'd chase that thing like an outfielder at the World Series - and as soon as his jowls brushed the damn thing, it was as if a switch was thrown: he would come galloping back at me (notice I say
at; it wasn't uncommon for him to run into my legs) happily a-slobber and stubby tail wigglin' so fast his ass couldn't swivel to catch it -
without the ball. To him, that was just the greatest thing, oboy. Never in his life did that ball, or anything else, get picked up and carried for longer than a few seconds. His attention span was rather short.
Now figure, here I am, owned by dogs pretty much all my life after 6 years old; I've had purebreds and mutts, and loved them all. More than a few have been pretty sharp. A German Shorthaired Pointer I had for fourteen years, Tio that was, learned a series of tricks in but
one day, all because of the frisbee in my hand. No, I didn't clobber him with it; I would throw it and, no matter how hard or at what angle it flew, he'd run it down and catch it whether airborne or ground scraping.
His foible was, that if he found a scent, he'd put his nose on it and literally run off a cliff following it. (He did, too; outside of Sedona. Fortunately the fall was only about six feet. Scared the hell out of me, I thought he'd damaged himself badly. He simply got up, circled with nose in the dirt until he found his next scent, and continued on as if nothing had happened. Dumb as a box of hammers, by the Gods...)
Salty was, by my description at least, a few dog biscuits short of a box. This was something I just rolled with, as I had raised such hell with Li'lBit to acquire him, it was my obligation to keep him. If I'm gonna play the asshole to get something I want(I did, yeesh), then I am most certainly
not going to turn around and kick it to the curb when I find that it doesn't quite live up to my expectations. I made my doggy bed, so to speak. What became my reason for loving him the most didn't start out so well. I would go out to feed "the boys"- Chewy, a 120 lb shepherd mix, Morph, a 100 lb fawn Boxer, and Salty, an 85 lb bundle of slobbery energy - and I'd set bowls according to age: Chewy, Morph, Salty. We've all seen the doggy gratitude gig - wag the tail, give a lick or twelve, and so on. Young Salty was always determined to lick my face, by whatever means. He had learned that putting his paws on anybody to climb them was off limits and so circumvented that(he thought) by lifting his front straight up, given the chance. Pretty funny to watch, as he couldn't break the rules by actually touching you with his paws, but that tongue operated full speed ahead anyway, even if it
was out of reach of your face. Intent was enough for him. On this particular occasion I didn't have my guard up for whatever reason, and as I leaned over to set his bowl down, he came up to greet me...
I've taken blows to the head from time to time, by way of a fist, or rock, or pavement. Each has had its own consequence: a wicked blood-in-the-eye grin, a yelp of pain, or the asphalt cheese-grater effect. When the top of that dogs head made contact with my forehead, my legs only allowed me to do one thing - sit down -
hard - on my ass, in the grass. If I had power-walked headfirst into a block wall, I believe the result probably would have been less intense. A lump raised up on my melon, my vision blurred and swam and came back into focus, and as I grabbed my now-pounding-headache skull(to stop the spinning) I began to give voice to my displeasure: "You sonuva- I'm gonna kick your ass- GETOVERHERE...!!" Well, dopey as that dog was, he had the presence of mind to NOT getoverhere where I could lay hands upon him, instead dancing from side to side in a kind of distressed/happy way,"hoohoo oh shit hoohoohoo"... yeah. Oh MAN. That dog, in his own befogged way, knew that daddy was not in his right mind and doggy soccer was on the menu.
He survived.
I never got my head close enough for a repeat, though.
It was always about his love. He didn't care a bit about whether or not his tongue ever came into contact with your face; He would run that tongue as long as you got close enough(Oh! The
dogbreath!). I never once heard him growl at anyone - human, anyway; I believe that he did not have a mean bone in his bod. His life was for us, and his yard mates; though from time to time he'd get some goofy notion he was Alpha Dog, and they would put him in his place. He had a couple of spots on his head where either Chewy or Morph had bloodied him in a fit of pique, and the hair never grew back as thick. If I was blowing off my jeans after working on the yard, he would try and bite the air stream from the blowgun... anybody ever see one of those vampire movies where the so-called "evolved" vamp's mouthparts spread out about a foot? Well take out the sharpies and you have Salty on airgun, all pink-and black maw and flapping jowl. Swear to the Gods his head would almost split in half, as big as it was.
Day before yesterday he started having trouble breathing. We thought p'raps he'd gotten stung by a bee, or that the allergies he'd been dealing with since his middle age were troubling him. Anybody who's had a Boxer is familiar with the snuffling noises that blunt muzzle can produce normally; this was a little more clogged up. Li'lBit treated him with some antihistamine in an attempt to ease it. It didn't help as much as we'd hoped, but he didn't act as if he was distressed, and while moving slower than he had been the little stub was still a-wiggle.
Yesterday I looked out in the yard, early morn (as always 'cuz the damned pigeons go after his remaining kibble and I scare 'em off). I didn't see him right away, no big deal He had taken to snoozing outside the door from the backyard to the garage, and that's where he was. He got up and moseyed over to me, wheezin' and splutterin' like the night before, but still bright-eyed, so I wasn't overly concerned. I knew, though. It wasn't a fully conscious thought, just a little shadow flitting through my heart. I rubbed on 'im and scratched all his favorite spots while he leaned into me with all his weight (Sometimes I don't know where cats end and dogs start). I puttered around taking care of the tortoise in his little sunning pool and watering, and Salty poked along with me for the occasional pat or scratch.
I took off to spend the afternoon with the local traffic school - got a ticket for the first time in years, and in order to keep the ol' insurance costs down I opted to hang out with strangers and get a certificate saying I am now a better driver. About midway through I got a text message from Li'lBit: Salty's breathing had gotten worse, so they had run him to the local emergency vet; as soon as they got into the parking lot, he finished up. They tried to bring him back, but...
He was a good dog.
The most poignant thing I have learned, and accepted, is that everyone in my life - be they two or four-legged - is on loan to me, and I to them. Bittersweet. I finally got it at about 6 years clean, as I held Tio in my arms and the vet helped him slip away from his pain. On Loan. I do my best today to remember that, and treat all my beloved friends and family accordingly.
