SISTERHOOD, WE CAN ALL AGREE, come in all shapes and sizes, ranges across continents, and some day may go into space and, as anyone who lives with an animal will tell you, crosses species, as well. Right now I live with a male dog, the 12th dog of my life, Otter (above), who was himself preceded by another male dog, who was preceded by what I call the sisterhood of the dogs.
Twenty years ago I met a man who had never lived with a dog. Neither had his father nor his father before him. So I married the man and set about to change all that.
Softening his resolve began by auditioning names for the incipient dog. After a few weeks, the options narrowed to bird breeds, the logic being that for a honeymoon period, anyway, my new spouse deserved to believe that his dog might actually do something. Much as expectant parents mouth children’s names, I would call them out to no one in particular. And then one summer afternoon I looked up from my gardening to see a filthy, yellow and white, plume-tailed young dog trot into our yard. She was wearing a red ribbon around her neck.
“Mallard!” I yelled, dropping my trowel.
“Oh no,” my husband replied into the topsoil.
She loped right up to me and licked my face. Mallard was with us for two unsteady years, during which time she would occasionally walk out of the yard just as unabashedly as she had walked in, staying away for weeks. She always returned with a red ribbon tied neatly around her neck. Never with us on holidays, we figured that we shared her with someone, and became grateful for the time she chose to spend with us. After all, her affection for us was lavish.
She sat primly in the canoe for paddles of any duration, and never ran away from anywhere but home. Then one day she left and didn’t return. We never figured it out. My belief is that being blonde predetermined such infidelity, but my husband will tell anyone who will listen that if I hadn’t renamed her for a migrating bird she would not have taken to behaving like one. At the time he would also tell you that the only thing dogs do is break your heart.
We waited, dogless, for a year, and then got a call from a friend in Mexico whose aunt had just died, leaving behind her three-year-old Weimaraner. If the family paid the transit, our friend wanted to know, would we accept the dog into our home? European-bred, this dog was the biggest Weimaraner I have ever seen. She weighed in at 80 pounds and stood tall enough to fall asleep with her head leveled on the dining room table.
Her name was Coqueta, Coca for short, and unfortunately she only understood Spanish. This proved humiliating for us both at a rural firehouse during obedience school, when all around were mutts of eager discipline awaiting the response of a fancy dog laid flat on the floor, her owner pleading softly but urgently en Espanol for her to sit up.
Coca had been raised in a walled garden, the precious companion of a well-to-do eccentric woman. And at first that limited the things she wanted to do in any language. She’d sit near the fireplace, her paws crossed below her breast, and look at us in a purebred Katharine Hepburn demeanor, as if awaiting the conversation to become engaging enough for her to participate. My husband’s theory was that no one had ever asked her to do anything. He may have been right, because in our nine years together she learned to run all day beside a cross-country skier, climb the high peaks of the Adirondacks, and selflessly listen to the world of problems that this woman regularly emptied into her vast heart.
When we became parents, Coca, like many nannies before her, rose to the new occasion and ballooned to nearly 100 pounds, sitting pretty under the high chair’s continuous stream of flotsam and jetsam. Outside, she guarded the playpen with her great head over the demurely folded paws, snapping her jaws at flies that threatened to attack the sweet-smelling child napping in the shade.
But all too soon it seemed that everyone in our household was either male or young, except me and Coca. We started going for slower walks, bonded in a war against aging, or at least so it seemed to me. Then we went less frequently, and then I merely looked in on her when I went walking alone. Then I carried her outside–the dwindling 70 pounds of her sustaining dignity–and, toward the end, cleaned up after her. Finally, I didn’t have to do any of that, after I took her to the vet for the last appointment of the day and cradled her against my heart as she died.
I loved that dog more than I love most of my friends, and I am not ashamed to say that I also found her more intelligent than some. It seems to me that while I rarely meet a dog I do not like, I frequently come across people I cannot bear.
But I am an easy mark. The real test was my husband, whose loss I thought I’d have to look hard to see. Then I remembered that Coca did a little dance every night when he walked through the door, and that once or twice I had caught him doing it right along with her. He had bought her the orange T-shirt in hunting season so no one would mistake her for a deer. And there is that snapshot of them napping together, her paw resting on his shoulder.
I realized that what Coca did best was reach my husband in ways that Mallard never could, teaching him that dogs are good to the end, and that even after death, they can remain steadfast parts of what we are proud to call home. She did what all dogs can do, if we don’t mess with them too much: Converting him to a person who can love almost any dog.
This is what the sisterhood of the dog can do, and has done forever, reaching back to that first human who threw that first stick, and to that first dog who took a chance on love.
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Oh, I wanted a dog before, but this just cements it.
Oh, Danielle, get a dog. Get yourself a good dog to love, and life is changed forever in the finest of ways. Let us when you do. We’ll want to see photos. And thanks for coming by. Please come back soon.
Lovely, Marion. By chance I re-read your first piece recently, looking for some pointers on writing about animals. Thanks for the editing lesson in what you did here, as well as the beautiful writing.
Hello, Mary. And Welcome back to TSP, where animals are sisters too. So glad to see you here again. Yes, this is a distillation from a much longer piece I published a few years ago in a collection of dogs stories. How good of you to remember. Hope it helps. Thanks for the kind words. Hope to see you here again soon.
The day is always improved by a reading a wonderful dog story. Yours is an especially beautiful one. Long live our four-legged tail wagging companions! Thanks, Marion.
Hey there, sister Nancy. The love of a fine dog is a great gift, indeed. So glad you agree. And so glad to hear from you, woman. Please keep in touch. We love hearing from you.
Loved this! Had a beagle when I was a child, that wandered constantly like Mallard. I washed and brushed that garbage hound like she was Best In Show at Westminster. Got a Weimeraner as “The Divorce Dog,” as a teen, so I am pretty confident that Coca, spoke English, probably French and Italian too. They are just so smart! She probably didn’t feel like doing what you wanted. I’m on my third Dobie, Jake. He’s getting old, he can’t make it up the stairs anymore. My Dobies brought an adopted “sister,” into my life, my dobie breeder, my friend of 20 years, wise and wonderful in her 80′s. She’s definitely a sister despite our age difference. She makes up for all the humans I have met, that most dogs would like to bite. I think I have some writing to do. Thanks!
I hope everyone writes about their dogs.
I am an animal lover in general, but have been only had cats in the past because of apartment dwelling. Your story spoke to my heart, as I remembered vividly cradling my own (feline) sister, Veronica, against my heart as she died. Now that we own a house with a yard, I find myself with a husband who does not like dogs (gasp!). However, I have a neighbor with beagles, and one of them, Lady, has made our yard her second home, and she comes to visit, often. She’s such a sweet pup, and I accent my kitty lovin’ with puppy lovin’ on a daily basis. Thank you, Marion, for such a lovely story. You really touched me.
Hi, Tracey. Oh, that’s wonderful, that garbage hound who you washed and brushed, “like she was Best in Show,” as well as a “Divorce Dog,” which, by the way, would make a great title for a story or memoir about the dogs in your life. Just terrific. After reading this I, too, hope everyone writes about their dogs. Thanks for stopping by. Please come back soon.
Hi, Amy, and welcome to TSP, where we love those kitties just as much as our canine partners. I had two cats, both living for 16 years, and dying within a very short time of one another. My first and second husbands, as I still refer to them. So glad you have a borrowed dog on your scene, as well, just to add the goofball aspect to the party. Please come back soon.
I write this with tears streaming down my face. Having just suffered the death of an 18 year old cat, the end seems so painful…
I have wanted a dog all my life, but have never had one. My dad had dogs as a child (well, step-dad), but no one else did.
I want a dog, the children want a dog… it’s just the husband. Her argues (correctly), that none of us is disciplined enough to walk the dog every day; that we travel too much, and would have to board the dog… He wants to be as footloose as possible, and dogs ground you.
*sigh*
( I, along with the children, am madly in love with a friend’s wasp-eating Golden, Dakota. I am hoping Dakota can convert the husband, and convince him to surrender.)
Hello, Monika. Send Dakota’s home address. We’ll write and tell him (her?) to be extra cute. Oh, yeah. My husband had every one of those objections, plus objecting to the projected costs. Now we’re on the fourth dog of our marriage. May this happen to you and yours. Thank you for the kind words about the piece. And oh, my thoughts are with you for your loss. It’s wrenching. When Coca died, I continued to take our daily walks for a good month, carrying her leash, tears streaming down my face. Oh my, oh my. Oh yeah. I know. I do. Please come back for more. We love hearing from you.
I thoroughly enjoyed and appreciate this tale. Even though I would never wish to live with a canine, the story was a delight for one who finds dogs to be amusing, annoying or frightening.
Hi there, Deborah. And thanks for the kind words. It’s good we could get you to visit with our dogs, if only digitally. How lovely of you to do so. Please come back soon for more.
Vegetable Heaven
At first we thought we had raccoons digging up
our Swiss chard but there were no chewed leaves
just the indent of an animal body that had snuggled in,
tamping down a space, crushing the broad foliage.
One night I caught the dog turning circles before
lying down on the cool vegetables and damp dirt.
I yelled at her, “Hey, get out of my garden!
What is wrong with you?
You’ve never done this before,
you crazy old hound”
We put up plastic fences for protection but late
at night she’d manage to knock them down,
driven to be where she wanted to be.
We discussed this odd new behavior and thought
that at 13 she was getting a little senile.
Then last Friday she had a massive stroke.
We knew this was the end.
As she took her last breaths we caressed her soft
flanks, murmured love words in her mostly deaf ears,
and wished her fields of green chard to roll in.
In memory of sweet Bonnie the spotted dog
July 1995 – September 5, 2008
Oh, Leana. I’m crying right down my shirt. This is a piece of beautiful writing, a love letter that throws open your heart–and ours–to the world of the dog. Thank you. I’m going to print this out and hang it on my wall. Then I’ll go hug my dog and tell him the tale of Bonnie, the spotted dog. Please come back soon. We’ll look forward to it.
We had dogs when I was a kid. The first was Buffy — he was a total terror who stole my glasses once and buried them out in the yard. Then there was Sam — she was a sweet poodle terrier mix who we all just adored, but wanderlust got to her one day and she was hit by a car. The last was Muffin — she was a mutt who lived a long and happy life. By the time Muffin died, my parents were empty-nesters. They were so upset by her passing, that they never could bear to get another dog.
I’ve been a cat person for 30 years, even though I love dogs too — it’s just a lifestyle thing. We lost our 19-year-old cat Denver a few weeks ago, but still have 2 young cats to console us.
My husband and I talk often about getting a dog someday, maybe when we’re retired. He grew up with dogs also and has a thing for Labrador retrievers especially. He loves dogs so much that his friends nicknamed him “The Big Dog” and the name stuck even though he hasn’t had a dog in a long time.
On a lighter note, I read in the paper today that the dog who played Toto in “The Wizard of Oz” was actually a female dog named Terry. Go Sister!
Hi, Sandy. Oh, I adore this. Buffy, Sam, Muffin to cats. A great linear tale of fur and love, right up to your husband. Thank you for sharing this. Wonderful, wonderful. Please come back soon.
There is either a dog or a man in my life, but so far never the two simultaneously. This I have always thought was odd, since usually I’m not too bad at multitasking, but somehow it’s always worked out that only one “best friend” sleeps beside the fire in the cave. Your story gives me cause for hope. In other words, maybe it’s not me, after all.
Hi, Petra. There is cause for hope for all women who love dogs, and for all dogs who love women, as well as for all the men who love women who love dogs. So there you are. Love and be loved. And let us know how it goes.
The King Lives, For Now…
“I have to sell my home. I cannot come home to no greeting. I cannot go to bed alone.”
George isn’t eating. He weighs 19 lbs. and he didn’t get that way by not eating. These are my thoughts as I drive my cat to the vet’s office. I know it is bad. I can feel it.
Our vet, Dr. Woody, is a dead ringer for Santa Claus and loves cats. Last year George had his blood drawn for the first time. Dr. Woody emerged from the back room with a big grin on his face and blood on his forearm. “I got more blood out of him than he got out of me!”
A full dental exam, determined no cavities or gum disease. Hmmm. Why no appetite? So, another blood test. This time Dr. Woody escaped unscathed. George, however, did not.
Nine years ago I moved to a new town and in with a man for the first time in my life. I knew this man had problems with depression. But who is perfect? After a month I was in turmoil. This man’s world was bleak. It was like talking to a sink hole. I needed companionship. Someone at home I wanted to see when I came in the door.
So, I went to the pound and found George. A six month-old orange tabby who was so wild the staff hadn’t been able to touch him for three days. I opened his cage. He was cowering in his litter box in the corner. I put my hand on the floor of his cage. He reached out and put his paw on my hand. That was it. He was mine.
George greeted me. George listened to me. And, five months later, George moved out with me. George has been with me ever since. He is the king who worships me, his queen.
My king has chronic renal failure. I cried when Dr. Woody told me. I cried as he showed me how to make a tent of skin to stick in the needle to give George fluids to help his kidneys. I cried all the way home and for the next day and a half. I cried thinking what I would do without George. How empty my home would be. I struggled with the loss of the deniability of death that lets us all live in relative calm. Calm until we know death is imminent.
I have never believed in allowing animals to suffer. Up until now this belief had never been tested. I am happy to say that I still feel this way. I will not do anything to prolong George’s life that causes him pain or otherwise compromises his quality of life. The king does not deserve that. So, I approached the administration of fluids gingerly. I decided that if George wouldn’t stand for it, then it would be the end. To my surprise, the king took it in stride. He purred, stretched out and relaxed during the entire infusion process.
It has now been six weeks since the diagnosis of kidney failure. George is his old self and some days he is not so happy about the fluids. So be it. On those days he doesn’t get fluids. I can see he is becoming finicky with his new food and losing weight.
I don’t know how much longer George will be with me. I’m pretty sure I won’t have to sell my home, but it will never be quite the home it was.
Post Script: It is now five months later. George and I are old hands at fluid administration and I finally found a kidney food he likes. And, I am once again basking in the river of denial instead of the river Styx.
I currently have three dogs: a ‘bitsa’ (bit of this, bit of that) who is a martyr to her weight issues; a border collie who was born impeccably trained but is too intense; and a recent addition being the only male dog we have now, who is now 5 months old and is a ‘Huntaway’ a large breed dog bred distinctly in New Zealand to herd stock, and although he will not be working as such, we live rurally so he will still experience the exercise and expanse of land that they need to be happy. I have always had dogs around me since I was born, so now does my teen daughter, and I married a man who was also brought up by dog lovers. We find it very unsettling when we are away from home for any length of time and there are no dogs around. We also have four cats, and have at times had up to nine cats, so I understand you completely when you say that humans can be less pleasure in company than the animals – I had a rottweiller/german shepherd cross who followed me everywhere & guarded my child like she was royalty, and he had this wonderful ability to let me know when I was at the height of unease or anger, that everything would pan out. My Huntaway has the height and markings of this great dog (Huntaways are a mixture from a 100 yrs ago) of rottie/border collie/german shepherd & one other french herding dog) so Im blessed to have another wise gentleman enter our house (and sisterhood).
Oh, my dogs. I so love this topic. And I am so glad to read you here, Nicole, about your dogs and the life they lead you. I’m going to write a post soon about a neighbor’s dog and the sisterhood that developed around him. Stay tuned. And do read around the site and find out what else we’ve got here at TSP.