A Dude and his Dog
If you’re a dog person, chances are you remember your first dog. The first dog that made a difference in your life. I know I do.
I was 8 years old, and this dog’s name was Pee Wee. It’s worth mentioning that this was 1971, long before Paul Reubens created the persona of Pee Wee Herman, so I like to think my dog was the original Pee Wee with a dog house instead of a playhouse.
Pee Wee was an American Eskimo Spitz with long white fur, pointed ears, a curled, fluffy tail, and a look of perpetual happiness in his eyes. My father talked an elderly lady into giving Pee Wee to us because her husband had passed, and she was having difficulty providing him with the care and attention he deserved. See, my dad was a salesman and had a way with convincing people to do things, like giving him money for contracted services or surrendering animals. Sometimes, he came home with chickens.
I was an only child, so Pee Wee became my buddy. He followed me everywhere. We lived out in the country, so we had many adventures exploring the woods and creeks. Picture a boy and a solid white dog, coming home both covered in mud, and a mother losing her mind. Good times.
Pee Wee loved people, but sometimes he was like a protective older brother. Once, my Uncle Tommy and I were roughhousing in our backyard. Pee Wee didn’t like that. He bared his teeth and chased Uncle Tommy to his car. I felt bad, and my dad was a little upset about it, but when no one was listening, I hugged Pee Wee and told him, “Good boy!”
Pee Wee lived to the age of 12. I came home from high school one day, and noticed that Pee Wee wasn’t at the door to greet me like he always did. My mom told me he had found and eaten something outside that made him very sick (dogs do that). At his age, his body couldn’t handle it, and he went into cardiac arrest and died at the vet’s office. I was crushed and upset with my mom that she didn’t come get me from school and take me to him before he passed. I got over it, but it still bothers me to this day.
There have been other dogs in my life that I consider myself lucky to have shared with my family. There was Sparky, a white and brown Jack Russell Terrier, who knew no fear. He loved people, but hated any critter that ventured into our yard. Squirrels, rabbits, and raccoons were collectively his arch nemesis. And snakes. I have a picture of Sparky after a snake encounter, where he snatched up a snake like a mongoose and shook it so violently, it left red stripes on his sides. You can guess what happened to the snake.
Sparky once got into a fight with a raccoon under my truck that turned into a Battle Royal. Sparky and the raccoon rolled out into our driveway, locked up in a furious ball of flying fur and blood. I tried to intervene and ended up flat on my ass next to them on the asphalt, as they both bit, scratched, and clawed each other like furry warriors. I resorted to shoving them into the yard, where they finally separated. The two sat up, stunned from combat. The raccoon ran off, and Sparky came to me, with his tail wagging, with a look on his face like, “Are you proud of me?”
“Good boy, Sparky!”
At age 13, Sparky developed a tumor near his heart. I spent money I didn’t have trying to get him better. The vet (a dog oncologist) said that even after the surgery, he would have to have both chemo and radiation therapy for the rest of his life. That’s no way for a dog to live. So, we had a decision to make, and it was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. That, too, still bothers me.
Then, there was Zoey, a female Jack Russell that we rescued from a puppy mill situation. It was an adjustment for all of us, but she showed us just as much patience as we showed her. In Zoey’s previous life, I don’t think she was ever given any love, because when we gave her love and affection, she gave it back to us in a way that far exceeded anything we could ever imagine.
Zoey didn’t care about critters. She coexisted with all things living. All she wanted to do was play and be with me and my wife. Zoey loved my wife so much, there were times I thought they would conspire against me. That’s a joke, of course. Zoey would have talked my wife out of any diabolical plan.
Again, cancer reared its ugly head. And a blood disorder that made the tumors growing in her little body inoperable. Another decision. My wife and I made it together, leaving both of us heartbroken. But I can honestly say, we are better people because of having Zoey in our lives. We miss her to this day, and probably always will.
Now, we have Brody. He’s part beagle, part Australian cattle dog, and part shithead. We rescued him at 3 months old, and he’s now 14 months and fully house-trained. Thank God for Bissell. He’s very high-energy and keeps us young and sore. We’re both in our early 60s, so we can use the cardio. He’s learned to beg. We didn’t teach him. He figured that trick out on his own. He sits up on his haunches, with his front paws hanging down and his tongue hanging out, and looks like he’s smiling. Our hearts melt every time.
I was joking with the “shithead” comment. He’s technically a teenager in dog years, and all teenagers can be considered shitheads at some point in their lives. Brody will grow out of his rebellious, non-listening stage. I hope.
I wonder why we keep doing this. Bringing dogs into our lives, knowing that eventually, and inevitably, it will lead to a hard decision and more heartache. I think of a line that I wrote towards the end of my forthcoming novel, titled “Let Sleeping Dogs Lie,” where my main character, private investigator Joe Cooper, talks a woman into giving him her neglected pets (a Jack Russell named Sparky, and an overweight cat named Larry).
In reference to the animals, the woman asks Joe, “Why do you care about them so much?”
Joe answers the only way he can.
“They give without condition. Love, protection, comfort... They don’t care how rich or poor we are, or how many times we’ve succeeded or failed in life. Who else do you know who does that?”
Thanks for reading, dudes.
We’ll see you out there.
Ron Clyburn
Website: ronclyburn.com
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