sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 210

Scout hopped up into the Audi like she’s done ever since I first brought her home eleven years ago as pup, just a bit slower. Those damned hips of hers. I scratched behind her ears and heard her sigh as she settled in shotgun and looked at me lovingly through cloudy brown eyes. I’d left her not-much-younger cousin Tess behind in the house and could hear her howling. Had tried to act normal all morning long but somehow they know when we’re going to the vet instead of the dog park. This visit was no big deal, though, just Scout’s annual checkup and shots. So I gave her a reassuring smile and scritched and scratched her here and there some more then whispered the two words she always wants to hear from me: “Good Girl.”

Dogs. My first was a black-and-tan miniature dachshund. The runt of her litter. Teeny-tiny. Fit in the Oldsmobile Man’s front shirt pocket when we picked her up from Doc Swenson, a surgeon the Beehive worked with who raised show-quality dachshunds on the side. I was five years old at the time and Big Sis and I had been yammering on and on and on around the house about how we wanted a dog because everyone we knew had a dog and we needed one too. Yes, Everyone. But the two members of The Supreme Council were reluctant. “Who’d take care of it?” they’d ask. “Clean up after it?” they’d query. “Make sure it was fed and had water in its dish?” they’d wonder.

Pish posh, Big Sis and I would shrug in response, swearing to the moon and the stars we’d do all of that and more. That we’d pet it and love it and play with it and please please please please pleeeease could we get one and sooner than later I was riding home from Doc Swenson’s in the backseat of the Blue Whale—our giant ’65 Delta 88—with a barky little rat-tailed weiner dog climbing all over me. Big Sis and I were beside ourselves and by the time we’d gotten home we’d already named our precious new pooch after Mom’s favorite flower. Daisy.

From then on life was different for the sludgos. Where once there were four there were now five and it stayed that way for sixteen years until one mid-November day right before Thanksgiving when the inevitable became inevitable. Big Sis and I were away at college and the Oldsmobile Man was at work out at Camp so the duty was left to the Beehive. Didn’t call anyone for permission nor notify anyone of her intentions. Just felt sad and sorry for a tired and blind and deaf and toothless old dog that had earned some well-deserved rest. And mercy.

Big Sis and I didn’t find out what had happened until Thanksgiving Thursday when we breezed in from Grand Forks barely in time for dinner. We’d hurriedly said our ‘hellos’ and given our hugs and kisses to the crew and had just sat down and started to dig in when Big Sis asked where Daisy was.

Silence.

Aunt Agnes and Uncle Ted shifted uncomfortably in their folding chairs. Pop stared down at his cranberries. Grandma Lettie stirred her creamed corn. Then Mom cleared her throat and dropped the bomb.

I remember being angry at her. Angry she’d done it on her own. Angry she hadn’t asked anyone else beforehand to see what we might think about it all. And I felt a powerful sense of loss unlike any other I’d felt before. Pledged then and there over my turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes to never get attached to one of those four-legged critters ever again. But of course, things change, don’t they.

Around that time I’d met the Blonde and we’d gotten pretty serious. Ended up walking down the aisle with her right before we moved to San Pedro and when we got there she wanted a dog. I wanted my new bride happy so I said what the heck. Found out our landlord knew a guy who had a friend in the Valley who raised Shetland Sheepdogs, so one Saturday evening we hopped in the Beretta and drove out to check out the show. Brought home an adorable sable-over-white gal who was a runt, just like Daisy. Had noticed her kenneled off by herself in a corner of the shop, skinny and shivering, but the breeder ominously warned us off. Said her dam and sire had been turned in once too often and she was the result. That she’d never be a show-dog or be able to have pups because she was so small and what made matters even worse was that she wasn’t right in the head either. Nervous. High-strung. Might even be a nipper.

The Blonde and I walked over to her kennel. Leaned down and took a closer look but the little sheltie didn’t seem nervous or high strung to us. Was more woozy and dull-eyed than anything. Mentioned that to the breeder and he said he had her on doggie dope. Only way to keep her calm, folks.

I looked at the Blonde and she looked at me and we grinned. I turned and asked the breeder what he needed for her and he said that she wasn’t worth much to him. That dogs like her usually ended up at a pet store or at the pound so we could have her for pennies on the dollar if we really wanted her. Told him we really wanted her and ten minutes later were rolling back to Pedro with a tiny puff of sheltie sound asleep in the Blonde’s lap. On the way we started trying on names for her. The Blonde was always kind of a Spacey Tracey and told me she really liked ‘Moon.’ Said that it meant serenity and enlightenment. Sounded good to me, so Moon it was.

Two weeks later Moon was off the dope and doing fine. A little more energetic than your average mutt but no real problem—we just took her for more walks. She liked her new bed and her new blanket and her new squeaky-tiger chew toy. Had found a favorite hiding space in back of the couch. And was smart as a whip. Paper-trained in a flash and quickly learned over a dozen tricks. My favorite was ‘Bang!’, a real crowd-pleaser where I’d point my finger at her and say ‘bang’ and she’d drop on the spot and lay limp and motionless until I chirped ‘okeydoke!’ and she’d spring back to life. She didn’t work for free though. Following a performance she always expected a fresh liv-a-snap. Or two.

That all being said, true to the breeder’s warning Moon was also crazy as bat guano, sarge. Barked ferociously into empty corners. Snarled furiously at new furniture. Attacked the lawn mower regularly if not restrained. And she was an obsessive herder. Always counter-clockwise. Instinct gone wild, the vet said when we asked but we didn’t really mind. Never needed a leash on our walks because she’d just trot around us, dutifully keeping her flock of two in check. Bystanders would ask if we’d trained her to do that but we’d just laugh. Uh, nope. She’s just crazy, we’d say. But the funny thing about it all is that when the Blonde and I split that crazy little dog kept me from going a little crazy. Maybe even kept me alive. Was a pretty dark time for me and just seeing her satisfied and happy, content to cheerily bum around my ratty old house was soothing. Centering. I liked that she hated to see me go and was thrilled to see me return. That she looked forward to our long walks as much as I did and that she lazily snoozed next to me on the couch late at night while I watched Letterman. And I especially loved those times she rode shotgun topdown with me in the ‘B—the only place she ever seemed to settle down, which always seemed to settle me down. Man’s Best Friend, indeed.

Life moved on as it does and twelve years after the split with the Blonde I was married to the Redhead and had two young sons and Moon was slowing substantially. Heard from a buddy that a new puppy oftentimes reenergizes an old one, so enter Molly. Another sable-over-white sheltie. Definitely not the runt of her litter, she was a boisterous fireplug of a dog who initially tried to use her size to take the lead-dog slot from Moon, but Moon wouldn’t have it. Flashed Molly a near-toothless but still fearsome snarl a couple-three times letting her know who was boss and that was that. Became great friends thereafter but then, a shocker. Just after Molly turned two her kidneys up and quit. First symptoms hit Friday evening and she was gone by Monday morning.

It was a staggering punch to the heart for all of us, including Moon. She wandered aimlessly around the house long afterwards softly whining to herself. Never tell me dogs don’t love. Or mourn.

Time passed, but not very much of it, before the Redhead came home one evening from work and told me she’d overheard a coworker talking about her uncle having a fresh litter of miniature dachshunds that were for sale. That she’d been checking around the office to see if anyone might want one of them and the Redhead had raised her hand. Less than a month later, a jet-black long-haired little girl started showing up in our family pictures. We let the boys name her and they picked ‘Shadow’ because, well, duh.

She was a terrific doxie. Tail always wagging. Everybody’s friend. And she worked the same Puppy Fountain-of-Youth magic on Moon that Molly had, perking the old girl up for a bit but it was too little, too late. My dear little friend was failing badly. Couldn’t see anymore. Was nearly deaf. Having lots of trouble with stairs and navigating herself around the house, getting lost in corners a lot. Had begun messing herself too and seemed embarrassed when she did. So, on a bright spring day in May with the boys at school and the Redhead at the office I took her for one last ride in the ‘B before taking her for one last ride in the ‘B. Drove home from the vet alone. Cried like a baby all the way.

(Next time, Part two)

Peaceful travels…

sludgo