MY LITTLE DOG TOO

… a true-to-life rescue story…

 

On a recent Sunday, we were the humans of a second dog for about 45 minutes.  Because he was a stray who, like our lab-mix Edward, sorta found us, I named our new dog “Too.”

         California’s State Route 175 heads east from US 101 at Hopland.  It alternately winds through foothills and races across fertile valleys of vineyard and ranchland.  Were it not for a 17-mile stretch of crumbling, twisty pavement over the Mayacamas, it might be considered a shortcut to somewhere.  Just shy of those mountains, the Sanal Valley is home to the industrial strength Ray’s Station Winery.  175 shoots a straight line across this valley’s floor and travelers pick up the pace from around 30 miles per hour to above 65.  

         That Sunday morning, we were powering up along the stretch when our eyes were distracted by a tiny tan and white dot cris-crossing the pavement near the winery.  We slowed, as did an on-comer.  Drawing near, we found the wandering dot was a tiny dog – perhaps a chihuahua-terrier mix of some sort – darting here and there, into and out of the traffic lanes, likely confused but surely in danger.

         “Oh, we need to stop!” Candi said.

         “No, we need to keep going,” I replied, knowing we had somewhere to be at some specific time.

         “It’ll get run over!”

         “Keep going!”

         “I can’t live with that.”

         Candi pulled into a wide spot and idled the Subaru under a spreading oak.

         Reluctantly – because I know how these things have ended up in the past (apologies to Edward) – I hopped out and while crossing the highway, palmsed down approaching vehicles to encourage them to slow.

         I positioned myself between the little dog and the pavement.  He warily scurried about on the dirt shoulder.  At times, I could approach and lightly scratch his head but was viciously snapped at if I attempted to scoop him up or slip my finger under his tiny red collar.  No tags dangled from that collar but the collar told me he belonged to someone.  With each of my futile attempts at capture, he would gyrate away.  A couple of sport bikes whistled by, then an F-150.  I knew couldn’t let the dog make it back to the road.

Not the real dog, but he looked a lot like this one...

         “Grab Edward’s leash!” I hollered across the highway.  Edward, by now, knew something was up.  He was peering out the side window of the Sube witnessing in horror, I’m sure, that his humans were about to violate the first commandment: that being thou shalt have no other dogs before me.  (Apologies to Moses.)

         Candi snapped the leash around the red collar – couldn’t seem to match the clip to the collar’s D-ring – but the little guy apparently didn’t cotton to such constriction.  He rolled over on his back and kicked and snapped at us from the dust.  We retrieved a towel from the car and tried to wrap him up, but he didn’t particularly want to be wrapped up.  Finally, we fashioned a bit of a noose by looping the leash through the leash’s loop on its people end and slipped the thing over the little guy’s head.  Tightening it no further than simply secure, the miniscule critter suddenly relaxed.  Five minutes of soft murmurs and gentle rubs on the head and then belly, and the little guy was ours.  

         With a cell tower in sight, I placed a call to Mendocino County Animal Control.  Closed on Sunday.  This seemed as outrageous as a dump being closed on Thanksgiving. (Apologies to Arlo Guthrie.) But my call was patched through to sheriff’s dispatch.  Explaining the circumstance, the dispatcher, once learning that the locale was a state highway, forwarded my call to the CHP.  Upon finding that we’d already secured the animal and it was no longer a potential hazard, the CHP rerouted my call to Animal Control.  Nowhere was where we were going and there was somewhere we were supposed to be.

         Apparently, the dog was now ours.  Placing hands on each side of his heaving ribcage, Candi carried him across the road at arm’s length and placed him in the footwell of the Sube’s passenger seat.  He’d calmed appreciably by this time.  Perhaps it was trust.  Perhaps he knew he was no longer in danger.  Maybe he thought he was going home.  Our home.

         Candi was pleased.  The puppy was pleased.  Grudgingly, I was pleased.  Edward, however, was not.  What other commandments do my humans choose to so willingly ignore?

 

 

Now what?  We couldn’t take him with us, and we couldn’t leave him there.  

         The little guy must have been a local.  The red collar told us so.  That, and he was too cute and too compliant to be a pup someone would abandon by the side of a state highway.  Well, most someones.  The little guy was a charmer.  In the footwell he was quiet and no longer feeling the need to nip or cower.  At one point I could swear a heard the slightest chihuahua-sized sigh of contentment as he settled against Candi’s feet.

         Across the road from the Ray’s Station Winery lay a farm or cattle ranch that likely dated back to the nineteenth century.  Not having given way to wine grapes, the fencing and distant barns said livestock.  They also suggested that whoever lived there might know where this little chi-terrier gentleman belonged.  As we wended along the gravel road between the snaking fences, I reached down into and rubbed the little guy’s head.  Craning his wanting neck toward my departing fingers, he seemed to say, “Please, sir.  I’d like some more.”  (Apologies to ‘Oliver’.)

         “What if there’s nobody here?  What if they don’t know the owner?”  Candi asked as we bumped along. “What if…”

         “I guess we’ll have a second dog.  I already know what to name him.”

         The parallel fence line widened as we approached a dusty complex of barns, outbuildings and corrals.  As we drove up, two men were heading out in an aging burgundy red Dodge pickup.  I suspected they didn’t get a lot of visitors out this way.  

         Lowering my window, I held up a hand.  “We found a little dog wandering about on the highway just now.”

         The driver looked at Edward.  “That one?”

         “No.”  Candi lifted the chihuahua and whatever-happened-to-be-on-the-block-that-day mix from the footwell.  “Do you know if he belongs to anyone around here? We’re on our way to somewhere and we really can’t or shouldn’t keep him.  Called the shelter but they were closed.”

         By this time, the rancher who’d been driving had stepped out of his Dodge.  Candi held up the rascal.  The rancher looked at the dog.  I suspect they made eye contact: man-to-dog, dog-to-man eye contact.

         The man considered, but only for a moment.  “I have two dogs already.  I don’t think having a third one would much matter.”

         He gently took up the dog, grasping him by his now-not-heaving sides.  

Not the real lap, either, but what does it matter?

         “Look,” I said.  “If you can’t find the owner or it somehow doesn’t work out, here’s my card.  E-mail me and I’ll come pick him up and take him to the shelter when they’re open.”

         Tucking the little guy under one arm, he took my card and nodded.  “This will be no problem…”

         “But if it is…”

         He nodded again as we turned and headed back toward the highway.

 

 

Once returned to route 175 Candi asked, “you said you had a name for him already.  What was it?”

         “Too,” I said, and I explained why.  Candi seemed to nod.  “Plus," I added, "when we go to the vet, the vet can refer to him as 'Your little dog, Too'.”  (Apologies to the Wicked Witch of the West and to Margaret Hamilton who owns that role on film and who uttered that iconic line.)

         After thirty-five years of marriage, my loving wife had long since grown more than a bit weary of my wit.  Presently, we began to consider the principal differences between dogs and humans:  

…Dogs are loyal.  

…Dogs are inherently trusting and true.  

…Dogs are protective and their love is unconditional.

         We agreed on these and quite a few others including: “A dog would never abandon their human by the side of the road.”

         Five miles up the hill, I was half-hoping the rancher would not contact me.

         Days later, the other half is still hoping he will.

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE – CLIMATE CHANGE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and a winter storm advisory has been posted for the foothills twelve miles east of here. Snow level down to 3,000 feet. Carry chains. Outside, the sky approximates the underside of an antique pewter serving tray. Mottled tarnish. Edward the impulsive black lab mix pup, who regularly finds delight in nipping Jax the Dog’s aging rear ankles, instead lies by my side as I read a winter book atop the quilted bed. The terminally nervous Aussie, Jax the Dog, rests uncomfortably at the foot.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I am thinking I should either activate the furnace against this unseasonable foul blast, or set a log in the fireplace and add some cozy to the environ. Maybe pour a dram of whiskey into a glass and watch the weather advance across the neighborhood and through my back yard. But that would mean disturbing one or both of the dogs. So I continue to read.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and from somewhere inside that leadened sky, a roll of thunder reports. Distant. Subtle. Soft. Edward leans closer to my body. He sighs. I look up from my text and realize his eyes are fully shut: his body in still, peaceful slumber next to 'Dad.' Jax the Dog shudders at this first distant report and with the second, springs off the bed seeking shelter where there’s none better to be had. Jax knows what will happen if she’s not on her guard. If she’s not on her guard that thunder will shatter a window and burst through. It will clutch her wriggling, helpless body and drag her to a hell where she will spend eternity protecting her weary old haunches from being nipped by a million or more impulsive little black puppies. It will be worse than a bath.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and I stop my reading, rise, move to the computer and compose this entry. Edward disappears. Jax the Dog follows me to my desk and squeezes into the footwell. The rank smell of her nervous panting rises from the floor, past the keyboard and into my nose. Suddenly, there’s a muffled deluge behind me, just through the double-glazed windows. The thunder again claps. Closer now. Louder. Jax the Dog presses my ankles and emits an involuntary whimper. I want to tell her, “It’s all right, Sweetness. All dogs go to heaven,” but her fear constricts my throat and I am silent. I understand, but she doesn’t – and Edward doesn’t care. My shepherd’s shepherd, I run my fingers through thick, soft fur and hope her panting will subside.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and normally, on a date as late as this, I’d fancy myself exploring some road or canyon or vista on the motorbike. But Jax the Dog needs me. And really, there is nothing better than being needed.

IT IS FOUR DAYS UNTIL JUNE and as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m going to pour that dram of whiskey and watch this storm, all the while cuddling Jax the Dog.

© 2010
The Church of the Open Road Press

A TREATISE ON TRYING TO WRITE WITH A DOG IN THE HOUSE

THERE IS A NATIVE AMERICAN MYTH telling the people that when the world was created, a great fissure began to split the earth. Humans were caught on one side of the chasm, animals on the other. The dog, however, seeing the gap widen, leaped across to the human side, where he has been ever since.

IT IS MARCH, only a week before the spring equinox; normally a time of rising temperatures with lows not as low as a few weeks ago. But not so today. An air mass from the Gulf of Alaska has slipped southward and it feels like January. Edward, the once-stray lab-mix puppy, has, in his year, grown into a full sized black dog. Now weighing about forty pounds, he is sleek and shiny, has a pleasant face, and is generally of good disposition. He stays on a pillow close by.

Working on my project, "The Curious Demise of Pug LeBreaux," I alternately sit at the computer to type and revise, and retire to the futon where I can recline and read, edit and reread the section I’ve just burnished. On this cool morning, Edward believes this is his time. Without asking, he climbs atop my supine body, placing his butt at about my knees, and stretches forward with his pleasant black face atop my sternum. There, he exhales twice or three times and, soon, is in some other realm.

Dog temperature is superior this morning to the temperature in my chilly office. I set my work aside, touch the velvet fur near his whiskers, stroke his head a couple of times, and when I awake, another twenty non-productive minutes have ticked by. Edward is still at rest atop me. I feel his soft exchange of air, punctuated by a quiver of a front paw followed by a muscle in his hip. His eyes begin to roll beneath their closed lids. Soon, still sound asleep, his body is a swarm of tremors and quakes and little paw twitches. He is chasing a bunny, stalking a squirrel or, perhaps, reliving the moment when his ancestor leapt across the great fissure.

WHEN I DIE, I pray that the last thing I remember will be a human touch: someone ushering me over to the other side, wishing me peace and wellness and asking me to be patient until her arrival. Short of that, if my final sensation could be that of an Edward or a Jax (the Aussie) or a Sadie (the boxer) loyally, lovingly next to me, keeping me warm as I journey across the divide, heck, that’d be okay, too.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press

My Note from Dr. Seuss

The late Theodor Geisel (Dr. Seuss) dropped in the other day, saying he’d like to help with my house cleaning chores. Imagine my shock and surprise! I gave him the vacuuming to do as I hate to vacuum and I never get it right anyway. He left this note behind:


Everywhere I see dog hair.
I see dog hair most everywhere.
Beneath the couch, atop the chair,
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

There’s dog hair on the carpet square.
There’s dog hair where the floor is bare.
There’s dog hair climbing up the stair.
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

Upon banana, peach and pear;
Atop the counter, it is there.
In the butter dish, I swear.
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

There’s dog hair in the food I share.
There’s dog hair in my underwear.
In weather foul and weather fair,
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

Asleep at night, I see dog hair,
And when to the potty, I repair,
In the toilet, there’s dog hair.
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

Dog hair floats throughout the air,
Therefore deep breaths I do not dare,
For I’ll ingest great gobs of hair.
There’s dog hair nearly everywhere.

Blowing here and blowing there.
The sands of time cannot compare
With the drifting nature of dog hair.
There’s dog hair damned near everywhere.

I’d like to live without dog hair,
But sans a dog, I would despair:
No human pal can quite compare
With man’s best friend, despite the hair.

- Ted

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press

Day Ride, Injury and Aftermath

THE BRICK PATH OUT BACK OF THE HOUSE

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE OF PIKE CITY, (population about three – four if you consider the dog whose Sunday reverie I’d interrupted) Schoolhouse Road kinda disappears. There’s a sign at the intersection by the old red schoolhouse that reads “Schoolhouse Road.” And, referencing my Sierra County map, the road is listed. So I take it. It isn’t paved. And after a hundred yards or so, it isn’t graveled. And after a bit farther, I can’t even see tire tracks. To either side of whatever I am on are “No Trespassing” signs, so I know I’m on something. I am divining my route by the widest distance between the pines and oak trees and the levelest flank of land leading between ‘em. Sorta like playing croquet – aiming the big Beemer through the wickets. But that’s not the story.

Somewhere out here, all the bars go away from my cell phone. There’s no coverage – so in my mind, “nationwide coverage” is a slogan. A myth. I say to myself, “I hope I don’t get a flat tire out here because no one will find me until the thaw in the spring. If then.” Then I think: I hope I don’t fall off this thing and break a foot or something because no one will find me until the thaw in the spring. If then. Then I think: What if I’m lost? Then it really won’t matter that the phone doesn’t work because I won’t know where to tell ‘em I am.

As I’ve done so many times before, I find myself gently tiptoeing the bike over new-to-me, uncharted territory and wishing I’d given better direction to loved ones as to where I was planning to ride this day. That thought, of course, presupposed I had planned where I was going to ride this day. Which is never the story.

In about the amount of time I would have expected it to take, Schoolhouse Road tees into Pliocene Ridge Road, a paved thoroughfare that goes to points-known to me. Sigh of relief. Only at the intersection Schoolhouse Road is now called Anderson Ranch Road. So I was lost! But that’s not the story.

A pleasant day ride on both paved and unpaved roads, through tamed and untamed regions proved beautiful, if uneventful. No story here.


IT IS EVENING. Dusk. I am home, sharing the above non-story travelogue with wife and folks. Also grilling our weekly fare – this time teriyaki salmon – on the smoker out back. The fish is done. I ease the spatula between the grill and skin and gently slide the main course onto the serving dish. It is savory.

Stepping from the deck upon which the smoker is placed, my right foot twists atop a strategically placed red ball. A dog toy. Both pups were peeking around the corner of the shed. I’d seen the twinkles of anticipation and delight in their eyes that I was about to understand. I should have known something was up when I heard Jax the older, say to Edward the younger, “Shhhh! Watch this.”

My unbalanced course threw me from the brick path into the six-inch rock cobbles landscaping the area around our heritage oak. Momentum carried me into the tree and by this time, my right foot was throbbing. I am found leaning against the old oak, moaning, it was reported. The perfectly grilled teriyaki salmon slipped off the platter onto the rocks and was thoroughly enjoyed by my two “best friends.” But that’s not the story.

Over the phone, the advice nurse tells me to elevate, take ibuprofen, avoid Scotch and she’ll schedule an appointment for me with my primary care doc for the morning. I attend and a fracture is confirmed. The busted foot I deserved to get out in the woods somewhere, I’ve gotten in my own backyard! I am fitted for an e-boot and hobble to the car thinking, I used to work in Chester, now I walk like him. But even that’s not the story.


THAT EVENING, my betrothed is a bit later than usual coming home from work. I am concerned, but I do not call. I am assuming she is dropping by the local Rite-Aid and picking up some ibuprofen for the pain. Or aspirin. Or maybe even whisky.

Noooo…. My loving wife came home with three new dog toys. THAT’S the story.

© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press