Finny
The romance with dogs began during my babyhood. According to my mother, my first word was not “mama” or “dada” but “doggie.” “Doggie” served me well for a while. Depending upon the inflection, the word became an expression of excitement, curiosity or unhappiness. “Doggie, doggie, doggie!” I would exclaim over a particularly joyful event.
I have a vague recollection of the dog that prompted my canine-inspired vocabulary. King was a reddish–blond dog with a sweeping tail and a bubblegum-pink tongue. King lived in the same building as my grandmother in Worcester, Massachusetts. When I visited Grammy, I would first bound up the staircase to her third-floor apartment to see the rubber mouse she’d used to block the hole left by the old stove pipe. Next, I would run downstairs to the sandbox and to King. Hearing my voice, King would appear out of nowhere and wander over to me, tail not wagging, but undulating in a slow, wavelike motion. I remember his open, grinning face (King smiled) and his soft fur.
King loved to lick my juicy baby face, much to the chagrin of my grandmother. King faded out of my life eventually. It was back in the day when dogs were allowed to wander. My grandmother was very protective, and kept the reason for his disappearance from me.
Over the next several decades, I lost touch with my love of dogs. They were temporarily displaced by my infatuation with a de-scented skunk (the mascot at my nursery school), the imaginary mongoose Rikki-tikki tavi, Black Beauty and countless cats, birds and praying mantids in jars.
For a while I even thought I disliked dogs. There was the dog that scared my little brother. Then there was the dog that jumped up on me, ripping an outfit I was wearing for the first time. Dogs seemed messy, disobedient and always a little too moist around the muzzle. Even a brief dog exposure would leave hairy mats on my business suits. I was no longer a fan.
It wasn’t until many years later, when my new husband expressed the desire for a dog that I began the process of reconciliation. Unfortunately my husband was fond of Australian shepherds, one of the busiest, lickingest, sheddingest breeds around. I went only half-willingly to a breeder to see an older puppy, last of the litter–the unwanted, spotty guy with a curly coat, one blue eye and one golden eye.
We went to the edge of the puppy fence where the spotted puppy was playing among a group of smaller, younger, more handsome dogs. Without hesitation, our boy came running over to us, mouth wet, stump of a tail wiggling, shedding hundreds of curly white hairs onto my jacket. We took him home that day.
My love for Rudy rivaled my love of husband and children. He was a sweet dog-boy with the gentlest of manners. I taught him to sit, shake hands, speak and roll over. His only flaw was that he would bark when my husband and I would try to slow dance together in his presence. Maybe he thought we were playing too odd a game or maybe he didn’t want to be left out. Whatever the reason, we laughed and called him “canis interruptus.”
Nica the Chica
Three years after we got Rudy, we went back for another dog. Rosie, a beautiful red dog with a silky coat, joined Rudy. Our daughter chose Rosie. Then came Nica, the little lost Chihuahua mix who loved to kill her stuffed animals with a sharp shake and a little growl. For several years our family felt complete. We went for walks together. My husband and the pups visited the dog park nearly every day. Our house was always full of dog hair and I rarely wore black any more, but it was a house full of doggie love.
Rosie
Rudy, left us first. Battle-scarred and stiff after two difficult ACL surgeries, he began to age all too quickly. He was twelve by now, still our funny-looking, spotty boy, but slower. He developed a cough, which the vet wasn’t worried about. Unfortunately it was a symptom of the congestive heart failure that would eventually take him. When we finally got a good diagnosis, it was too late. In spite of the dog cardiologist and our wish for him to live forever, we finally had to make that decision that all dog owners dread. It was one of the saddest days of our lives. Weeping over his furry body, my daughter, my husband and I clung to each other tightly.
By then, my husband and I had bought a home in Tucson, Arizona. With a large, fenced yard, rabbits and quail and all the sunlight a dog could want, it was paradise. We’d hoped Rudy could spend his last days there, but that wasn’t to be.
With a hole in my heart, I began searching the Internet for pictures of Aussies. On an Aussie rescue website, I found a picture of a large, elegant red merle with two blue eyes who needed a new family. We drove over a hundred miles just to take a look and brought Copper home the same day.
Copper
Next came Oscar, a nervous, needy, wormy Aussie puppy my daughter bought but couldn’t afford. We took Oscar and he wormed his way into our hearts. One of the smartest yet most neurotic dogs we’d ever owned, Oscar needed a tranquilizer to survive the thundering summer monsoons. Oscar grew on us, and on Copper. How Copper loved Oscar! He nurtured, licked and tolerated Oscar’s nips and growls. They would play and roll and growl together, golden hair and black coming out in clumps on the floor. We would joke about making toupees out of all of the dog fur in the vacuum cleaner.
Oscar
Copper was an older dog when we got him, older than we’d thought. After four short years, we lost him. We went to the vet thinking we’d be bringing him home, but when the vet said, “come on in and take a look at him,” I knew we’d be bringing home an empty collar. The light had gone from Copper’s eyes. They were no longer that crystal, clear blue. Having learned from Rudy that keeping them here too long is not a good thing, we let him go that morning. This time it was the vet, my husband and I weeping over a dear dog. “It doesn’t get any easier,” said the vet over Copper’s limp body.
They leave such terrible holes when they go. There is nothing quite like losing our furry mutts. They embody all of the innocence of childhood, new love, spring…. Each one is irreplaceable, but the longing to recapture a lost doggie love can be irresistible.
So, about one month after Copper left us, I was on the Internet again looking at pictures of Aussies—lethal whites, Aussie mixes, pound puppies. I wanted to fill the hole by bringing home another rescue. That wasn’t to be.
Online I found a picture I couldn’t resist. Finn–a six-month old mini Aussie, deep red, curly coat–needed a home. In the picture, he sat primly on a couch. Yet those golden-rimmed eyes had a look that said, “I know you will choose me.” And we did. Finn embodied all the qualities we loved in the Aussie, a perky personality, loyalty, playfulness. He took to us immediately and we brought him home.
We’re older now. We have four dogs. Each of our Aussies has lived for 12-14 years. Rosie is deaf and almost blind. Nica is getting old and sleeps most of the day. It will eventually be just our two mini boys–Oscar the elder and Finny.
By the time Finny hits twelve, we will be well into our elder years. He is our last puppy. Richard, Finny and I will measure our aging years together. Twelve years from now, we’ll all be a little slower, but hopefully we’ll be sitting side-by-side watching the quall and rabbits frolicking in the yard.
Finny and Oscar
