Rusty Returns

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace.”
― Milan Kundera

I admit, I am a dog person. Sure, I do like cats and have had quite a few in my life. There was Isaac the jet black Siamese throwback, all 30 lbs. of him, who was my best buddy in the shop, sitting patiently on a stool as I soldered a wonky CB radio or built an antenna so I could hear KSFO on cold winter nights in the north. Or Rupert, the Maine Coon, who was even heavier than Isaac and loved to splay out on the rug on top of my feet.

But at the end of the day, especially a hard or frustrating one, there is nothing like a dog wagging its tail madly and wanting to lick your face! No pet is quicker to play catch with a tennis ball or curl up next to you and snooze on Sunday morning while you watch Premiere League. And when the world looks bleak or there are hard decisions to make there is no greater friend to talk things out with than a dog!

Mark Twain once said “The more I know people, the more I like my dog!”, and in some ways that is very true. Especially for a person like myself who has been married several times and lived a nomadic life where friendships were either short or long-distance! It’s not that I don’t like people, far from it, it is just that I would prefer a dog as my travelling companion. There are no expectations, no timetables, no hidden agendas to consider with a dog, merely the here and now, the time between breakfast and the next cookie treat. Such a life!

After Rusty, there was Potlicker, the one and only time my Father named a pet. My Father took quite a shine to Potlicker, who was much like Rusty, though perhaps a wee bit less feisty. Or perhaps, like the rest of us, my Father just plain missed Rusty. Potlicker followed me home one day from beachcombing, sans collar or tags, and popped in and out of our lives for a few months before disappearing into the forest. My Father said there had been reports of a pack of dogs chasing deer up the Iron River Road so I expect that is where he ended up. Unlike when Rusty disappeared, Potlicker was everybodies friend and no-ones so the loss was not as deep and long lasting.

In the weather service, one of my first postings was to a tiny hamlet in extreme northwestern BC, Dease Lake. And extreme it was, 10 hours by gravel road to the nearest town (Terrace, population 8000), 6 hours by gravel road and air to Vancouver and 4000 feet above sealevel on a bluff overlooking the mighty Stikine River. The station was an important checkoff point for pilot heading over the north Pacific to Korea. In fact it was during my first few months on the job that I took the checkoff report from Korean Airlines Flight KAL007 just hours before it was mistakenly shot down by the Russians as it flew over the Kamchatka Peninsula. Such a ‘high point’ of my two years there!

But I digress.

When I arrived at the station, #2 on a 2 person staff, one of my assumed duties was to take care of Cheyenne, the station dog. And what a mangy mutt she appeared when I first set eyes on her. A St Bernard – German Shepherd cross she couldn’t have weighed more than 60 lbs! With dull eyes and a hung head she just stood in front of me, looking for all the world like she was on her last legs. And she was!

My boss, who definitely would qualify in a Turd of The Year competition, handed me a large bag of all-purpose mash pellets, you know the ones you toss out for chickens in the yard, and said “Here, I bought the first bag of dog food, after this she is up to you!”.

I was shocked! Cheyenne looked at me with her big doe eyes and mine filled with tears. Enough of this BS!

As I had planned a trip for groceries that afternoon to the next hamlet in Cassiar, I added kibble to my list – the biggest bag I could find! And that started my recovery mission for Cheyenne.

At first she could only eat the kibble one kibble at a time, soaked in milk, the slowly I started adding kibble and taking away the milk. Adding in a raw egg every second day, which she LOVED!, in about a weeks time she began to fill out, her eyes brightened and I had a friend for life! And what a sweetheart! When my wife’s cat, Cirrus, had her first litter, the huge dog would curl up on the rug and Cirrus would gently tuck her kittens in amongst Cheyenne’s soft belly fur. Hardly breathing Cheyenne would lie there for hours in heaven while the kittens snoozed and mama cat got a much needed break. Even Isaac, Cirrus’ ‘husband’ came to love Cheyenne, lying down next to Cheyennes nose and snoozing on the rug.

As time went on I began to realize what a character Cheyenne was. Due to her large size Cheyenne could sweep her snout across the kitchen counter without standing on hind legs. And she would, snitching hot dogs, candy bars, basically anything that was loose. One night while I was prepping hamburgers Cheyenne was intent on stealing the buns off the plate on the counter. Thinking I might dissuade her I shook out a puddle of Worcestershire Sauce onto the counter next to the buns. Nothing doing, Cheyenne quickly lapped up the Worcestershire Sauce, gave out a soft yelp and ran down the hallway to lie in her bed with blinking eyes glaring at me. I went back to prepping my burgers.

About 2 minutes later Cheyenne reappeared at my elbow with a soft boop. Looking over my shoulder I could see she was sitting on her haunches with that ‘cookie please’ look on her face. And with that started a ritual between the two of us, whenever I was prepping dinner at the counter it was expected I would dole out a puddle of Worcestershire Sauce for Cheyenne!

And so it went for two years, Cheyenne turned into the most beautiful large dog you ever met, in appearance and manner. She protected the weather station with her size and growl and ALWAYS met me wherever on site I was with a happy woof and wagging tail. When it came time to leave Dease Lake I asked my Turd-Boss if I could take her with me. The answer was a curt “No!”. As far as he was concerned she belonged to the station and on the station she would remain. It was a sad day indeed when I had to say goodbye, leaving an extra 50 lbs bag of kibble in my house for the new #2.

I thought a lot about Cheyenne in the months ahead in Lytton, my new post. She was a bit arthritic the last winter in Dease Lake and I was concerned about the upcoming one. Bill, the fellow who replaced me, would email back and forth about her regularly. Now you have to know that Bill was the #2 that I had replaced and he was amazed at how she looked when he returned! Until my arrival, I learned, my Turd-Boss had been in charge of her care and feeding, something that I suspected from the get-go.

In November the emails stopped. I queried Bill several times with no reply. Finally just before Xmas he responded. He was emailing me from his home in Vancouver, since he did not want to email me from the office in Dease Lake, and he had just left on a holiday down south.

The long and short of it was that Cheyenne, protecting the property, had low regard for cross-country skiers cutting through the station. This had been an issue my first winter there but the skiers had learned to stay clear. After I left though, they had returned. On one occasion Cheyenne had put the run on a pair in the middle of our snow observation course. Since the two were friends of my former Turd-Boss, he had made the command decision that she had to go. Thus Cheyenne was loaded into his truck and taken to be put down. To him she was just another part of the weather station, a tool so to speak, to be tossed when no longer of use. Even more than thirty years later it brings tears to my eyes to think of that beautiful Cheyenne smile and soft brown eyes.

After Cheyenne it was a long time before I had another dog. Cirrus, Isaac and family dominated the Lytton house, but I could tell from the way Isaac would circle the living room before lying down for a snooze that he was looking for his old friend.

After Lytton I returned to the north for eight years in Fort Nelson. My wife had a small dog of some sort but for the life of me I cannot remember its’ name. A wooly little mop it came into our lives for a very short time and left when my wife moved out.

My second wife was much more the outdoorsy type, a professional geologist and helicopter pilot she preferred nothing more than a good hearty hike or 20 mile ski around the lake in winter! From slowpitch in the summer to snow golf for charity in winter, with lots of bicycle riding in between it was the active life I had missed since my days in the military. Heck, I even quit smoking, something that shocked EVERYONE, including myself!

It was not long after my second wife and I got together that Lucy came into our lives. At 130 pounds of Black Lab – Akita cross she was a force of nature, eating a large salad bowl of kibble twice a day and depositing a huge pile at the other end in the backyard! But she was a love muffin! Imagine lying on the couch watching a hockey game when a fluffy black missile launches itself into your lap! Day immediately becomes night as the fluffy head hides your view entirely. And once your wind returns from the 130 lbs on your chest she will look at you with big brown eyes and tuck her nose under your chin to ensure you cannot see the game on TV.

Lucy was big enough to tow myself and my second wife on our skis for miles and miles. She loved it, we loved it, and it was a great way for her to get the exercise she needed in the winter. After a run in the woods and a big feed she was ready to flop for a few hours.

But Lucy had one issue – men! As a pup, prior to us having her, she had been abused, left in a cold, dark garage and fed as little as possible. As a result she had a great inbuilt fear of men. I had no information on whether she had been beaten as well, but I suspected that was the case.

In any event, as long as my second wife was in the house, Lucy was my best buddy, following me around, jumping on my lap, resting her head on my lap while I ate dinner. In short a great dog! But if my wife was not in the house, the entire world changed and Lucy would scurry into her kennel and not come out until my wife returned home. No manner of treat, cajoling or otherwise would get her out of her kennel as she cowered as far from the door as possible. The only way I could interract with her was to lie on the floor in front of her kennel and talk to her through the open door. She would respond to that and lie her head next to mine but inside the kennel and never venturing out. For the 6 years she was in my life Lucy never budged one iota and over time I came to live with it, dropping treats inside the front door of her kennel as I walked through the living room and talking to her as much as possible when I was in the room. She always watched me closely and I think in time came to understand I meant her no harm but the early trauma of her life would remain. When I moved on Lucy remained with my second wife, in an idyllic world of all-women.

Jake arrived with my present wife, a scruffy old bugger if there ever was one. Technically a black lab he had more grey on his chin than black. Jake adored my wife and son but kept well away from me, preferring the west coast backyard where he could dig a hundred holes. He made the trip across Canada with us in 2003 but when it came time to return to Ontario three years later he was much too crickety and stiff to sit in the back of a stuffed Toyota Corolla for five days. Our next door neighbours in Chilliwack took quite a shine to him so we left him in their care for his retirement.

Once we had settled in Teeswater my wife was on the hunt for another dog. Thus it was that our tiny house on Marcy Street became the home of an oversized white love-muffin named Baxter. Baxter was a German Shepherd-Husky-Golden Retriever mix, all big feet and clumsiness, and without a doubt the most loving pet I have ever seen. Baxter also adored my wife, fretting if he was more than 10 feet from her at any time. My youngest son, being autistic, did not especially like this oversized furball, which made Baxter work all that much harder to be liked. Sam would toddle around the living room with Baxter close behind and the saddest eyes possible. Occasionally Sam would reach out to pet Baxter, which would put the poor dog into seventh heaven. My middle son was also a favourite of Baxter’s, taking long walks in the park together or just rough-housing on the living room rug. As for myself I was literally chopped liver; the dude that filled the water and food dish, scratched ears when offered and otherwise was not worth the time of day.

Baxter called us family for almost 13 years; from Teeswater to Crystal Beach and finally into the Carlington area of Ottawa. Never complaining, happiest just to be a part of a family activity or snoozing in between. My wife walked him religiously when she could or Ben when he was home. Towards the end he could only walk around the block on a good day but he was happy, lifting his head for a pet whenever you walked by or standing patiently at the back door to be let out for a pee.

The summer after we moved to Carlington the in-laws visited for a week. Now besides my wife one of Baxter’s favourite people was Laura, my niece / goddaughter. Although she did not visit often Baxter took special care to make sure she knew he was about. And she reciprocated, spending hours petting him or playing ball in the backyard.

But that summer Baxter was different. He was getting old, creakily moving about the backyard and preferring to sleep more than be awake and part of our activities. We knew the end was coming for him, and I think so did he. During the week the in-laws and especially Laura were here, Baxter was extra happy, lying on the big mat outside under the awning for hours while Laura played on her iPhone or chatted with my wife and her Mom. It was like he was holding it all together just so he could spend time with them.

The night after they left he took a serious turn for the worse. We had gone to the store for groceries and upon return found him in the front hall in a pool of blood he had spit up. Baxter had the most embarrassed look on his face as he lay there. My wife called the vet and left a message. We made him comfortable and cleaned up the mess. My wife lay down on the couch in his full view and began a vigil. If Baxter was still with us in the morning we would try the vet again.

All night Baxter lay watching my wife, with a little smile on his face. At 8 am I trundled down to my office, giving Baxter a wee pet on the way by. He smiled.

I had hardly sat down at my desk when my wife appeared with tears in her eyes. “Baxter is gone.” she said softly, tears running down her cheeks. We cried together and then prepared to say goodbye to one oversized love-muffin!

I did not know that Ottawa had a pet funeral service. We called them up and a lovely pet funeral director arrived with hours. Together she and my wife sat down at the table and worked out all the cremation details etc. Then the lady gently, with my middle son assisting, lifted Baxter into a large basket and covered him with a blanket. It was all done so respectfully and tastefully, my wife and I were in awe.

After 13 years it was hard not to look for Bax when I came in the front door or up the stairs from my office. He wasn’t in my way when I carried laundry baskets through the living room or keeping my feet warm under the dining room table. As much as I was chopped liver I missed the big guy!

For my wife it was even harder. Baxter would be in her view all day, every day. Just out of touch but ready for snuggles, pets and especially long walks. Even Laura was sad, 300 miles away when we phoned to let her know that Bax had died.

As my wife and I knew at some point he would walk over the rainbow bridge, we had had a number of discussions about whether we would take a break from pup parenting after he was gone. We had semi sort of concluded that unless a special dog came along we would be dog free for awhile, a year or two perhaps.

Being August and a bit at loose ends, my wife and Sam took a drive in the country out to Almonte. If you are in the Ottawa area in the Summer or Fall it is a lovely drive, away from the freeways and honking horns. And at the other end there are several excellent cafes and tea rooms to enjoy. You may know Almonte as being the setting for many Hallmark Channel TV movies, filling in for Vermont, New Hampshire, even Northern California.

For myself, in the middle of prepping tech support for the upcoming federal election it gave some quality quiet time in my office.

Long about 2pm a text appeared on my phone from my wife. – ‘Guess what, i have a surprise!’

Hmmm, I wondered, what could be the surprise? It had only been a few days since Baxter passed and my wife seemed awfully cheerful, all things considered.

‘OK’ I texted back and went back to work.

About 4 oclock they returned. I could hear them walking back and forth upstairs. But there was other footsteps as well, little, scampery ones. I cocked my head to one side and listened. There it was again, like something small moving quickly across the kitchen floor over my head.

And then I heard it, “WOOF!”, perhaps the loudest bark I have ever heard. I scrambled upstairs.

There in the middle of the kitchen floor with my wife grinning like crazy was a wee little bright red dog, a rust red dog smiling at me like crazy and wagging her tail a million miles an hour. And in that instant two things happened, I realized this puppy was the spitting image of Rusty.

And I was totally smitten with Miss Frieda.