March is a bad month for Enterline dogs.
Cases in point:
- March 5, 2010 — Passing of our twelve-and-a half-year-old black Labrador, Abbey.
- March 20, 2017 — Passing of our thirteen-year-old Schnauzer-Poodle, Charlie.
If dogs could read calendars, I’d understand if the hair on our dogs’ backs went up whenever we flipped the calendar from February to March. It probably explains why my pet emotions run high in March, and explains my need to write about them before the end of the month.
There are dogs owners who love their dogs, and then there are dog owners, like my family and me, who LOVE their dogs. Actually, most of the dog owners I know fall into the latter category. And there are lots of us out there.
125,000 of us have followed Pumpkin the dachshund on Instagram, and grieved along with his owner, a lovely young lady in California, when five-year-old Pumpy died from lymphoma earlier this year. Hundreds of messages of sympathy were posted. Likewise, we all recently rejoiced when Pumpy’s momma introduced us to Parker, an equally adorable, longer-haired “hot dog” puppy. (See “pumpkinandparker” on Instagram.)
There’s a two-minute video titled, “So God Made a Dog.” Over a hundred-thousand shares. (click here to view) Be prepared for a smile, a lump in your throat, and for your heart to swell.
Most of us have a favorite dog—or cat, ferret, rabbit, horse, fish, or parrot—story. Our pets get to us. Besides dogs, my family has had a cat, fish, and dwarf hamster. We’ve loved them all (not sure about my husband and the cat), but probably not all in the same way … a deep, deep down way … that we’ve loved our dogs. Dogs are just different. They return our love with such enthusiasm; they love us enthusiastically and unconditionally when we don’t even deserve it.
Which likely explains the tremendous grief we feel when they die. But more on that later. First, a little Enterline canine history … or a tribute of sorts to dogs gone by and to those currently offering us their unconditional love.
I should first explain that, prior to having dogs, and even upon first bringing them home, our two kids were terrified of them. I’m talking “run down the block away from them, hollering the whole time” afraid. (It was a fear that Matt and Nicole probably inherited from me. I can still remember the time, as a single-digit-year-old, I scaled a neighbor’s backyard fence into the arms of my Aunt Nora to get away from another neighbor’s charging, but I think otherwise friendly, German Shepherd.) Rick and I decided the best way to help our kids get over their fear was to actually get a dog. Exposure therapy of sorts, I guess you could say.
Abbey, a black Labrador, was our first family pet. We brought her home in August 1997, from a litter hatched on a farm located about forty-five minutes away from our suburban home in Harrisburg. She was an adorable five-week-old, five pound runt of the litter. The only one in her litter with a white patch on her chest; otherwise she was a fluffy jet black.
Nicole and Matt, ages six and four at the time, started crying a chorus of “No, no no!!!” when I proposed sitting between them with the puppy on the back seat of our Ford Taurus station wagon for the ride home. I considered the “tough love” approach (“Okay guys … get over it!”). Instead, I heeded their protest and rode home on the front passenger seat, with my husband driving, and our five-pound fur ball in a small cardboard box on my lap. She looked ferocious … when she wasn’t sleeping or licking me.
On a hot and sticky Saturday night a few days after Abbey’s homecoming, we heard reports of Princess Diana’s death in a car crash in a tunnel in Paris. I had taken up the task that evening of walking our new puppy up and down the block, trying to teach her to, “go potty.” Even when she did the deed and I made a fuss over her success, it was hard to find happiness in a dog, when the whole world was starting to mourn such a shocking loss.
But we did find happiness in Abbey for twelve and a half years, minus all the times when barking made her happy. Much to our ears’ dismay, Abbey found great joy in barking … at doorbells ringing, of course, and anything she saw from her vantage point at the front window: people, dogs, people walking dogs, cats, dogs chasing cats, deer, rabbits, leaves, and the errant plastic bag or food wrapper that flew by.
Abbey didn’t miss much, which is a good quality in a watch dog. But I suspect our version of one would have been more likely to roll over for a belly rub from an intruder than she would have been to scare them off Cujo-style, with jowls drawn back, frothy beads of saliva spewing, and fangs protruding. Fortunately, we never had to find out.
Abbey had a dislike for professional football, especially the Philadelphia Eagles. The Eagles weren’t very good at the time (recent success aside, I guess they weren’t very good for a long time), and Abbey fed off my husband’s high stress level whenever the team played. I’m not sure who irritated me more—Abbey for barking, Rick for yelling at her to stop barking, or the Eagles for playing lousy. I usually just left the room.
Despite the strength of her lungs and disdain for the NFL, we dearly loved that dog, including the kids. Abbey had long since dispelled their fears. By the time she passed in March 2010, Nicole was in college and Matt was a high school senior. This sweet creature who, at first, had so cowed them, had helped coax and comfort them through their teen years. The phrase “good and faithful servant” comes to mind. Abbey obviously wasn’t our servant. She was our companion, and in that role she served ever so faithfully.
Next up was Enzo, a black Lab mix, who I named after the main dog character in Garth Stein’s bestseller, The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Enzo was a rebound relationship. It was too quiet in the house after Abbey died. I lasted two months and then decided that we (okay, I) needed another dog. Why was that? What, exactly, was gone, that I needed again so desperately?
It was a presence. Dogs have a presence that our senses get used to and our hearts miss when it’s gone. We see them running after balls and sticks; we hear them barking; we rub their bellies and scratch behind their ears; we feel them snuggle up against us; they lick us; we smell their foul breath when they get too close. Dogs satisfy that part of us that needs to love and be loved; to forgive and be forgiven; to protect and be protected; and to laugh and play.
When I brought Enzo home from the shelter, we had that presence in the house once again. But it took a while to appreciate Enzo’s unique presence.
Enzo, a black Labrador mix, had had a rough start in life, just like all shelter dogs. He was about seven-months-old when the Harrisburg police picked him up while he was roaming the downtown streets and took him to the Humane Society. He spent his next five months there. The day I spotted him in May 2010, he was obviously underweight; his ribs were protruding. He would pace slowly and nervously in his pen, with his head lowered, and then, all of a sudden, he’d start running in a tight circle. After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’ll take this one,” I said while pointing toward the spinning dog.
“Are you sure?” replied Lucy, one of the shelter employees.
I wasn’t. But I was sure the dog in front of me needed love and a home, and I had both to give.
The first twenty-four hours of Enzo’s new life in our home made it clear that he was a socially backward bundle of nerves and was still traumatized by his prior life on the streets.
He didn’t bark until day two, when he saw his reflection on the glass of the china cabinet door. He ran away from the sound of the garage door and was terrified at the sight and sound of the mailbox being opened. Enzo had no clue what steps were all about, so for the first few weeks he did a combination slide-tumble down steps and an awkward crawl back up them. And to this day, he recoils whenever we’re on a walk and a truck goes by, the memory of dodging vehicles on the city streets still fresh.
There were times after we brought Enzo home when loving him wasn’t easy. Once he learned how to navigate steps, he decided that it would be fun to nip at my feet whenever I climbed steps in front of him. I started carrying a spray bottle to fend him off.
Enzo made the backyard look like part of a golf course that had been attacked by weekend hackers. His idea of backyard fun (besides chewing it up) was to run across the yard full bore and take a flying leap at me. During one unprepared moment when I had my back to him, his flying leap up onto our back deck knocked me flat on my face and gifted me with bruised ribs to nurse for a few weeks.
For all of his early antics, Enzo has been an awesome dog, very sweet and loving. He went from being our furry Baby Huey to a gentle big brother.
Yes, I eventually decided that Enzo needed a pal.
When I first met Charlie, he, too, was behind bars at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society. He was cowering in the back, right-hand corner of his crate. His eyes were dark, moist, and pierced with fright. His black and silver fur was matted in enough places to conceal the curls we would later discover after his being groomed. (His loving groomer, Andrea, decided that Charlie was a schnoodle, a combination of schnauzer and poodle.)
There was nothing about him that said “special,” except for that look of what he could be with enough love and attention. But how would I ever explain choosing this gnarly-looking dog to the rest of the family. The explanation turned out to be that which explains every great love story: It was devotion and a bond and formed at first sight. Matted hair, rat tail, and bowed legs be damned … this little guy was going to be mine!
The shelter staff had named him Charlie, a name we decided to keep. But, to me, he was also my “Little Man,” a name I often called him. In her memoir,Let’s Take the Long Way Home, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Gail Caldwell describes her feelings the day she brought home her Samoyed puppy, Clementine. Wrote Caldwell: “I had had animals all my life, but never had my heart been seized with such unequivocal love.” That’s what I had found in Charlie
Charlie tolerated other people and dogs. He kind of adored me, though, and the feeling was mutual. There was just something about that dog. It was as if God had taken one of my ribs and created a furry little version of me. I saw some of my soul in him. Charlie’s groomer saw it too. Each time I took Charlie in for a haircut, she would say, “There’s something special between you two.” For some reason I would always reply with, “Really? You think so?” But I knew she was right.
For such a small thing (about 20 pounds), Charlie knew how to stand up for himself. He would growl and snap at ninety-five-pound Enzo whenever the big lug came within a foot of his bowl. Enzo was such a sweet-natured thing … he always backed off.
My Little Man wasn’t able to run very well … hardly ever did. Except when I came through the door. Then he couldn’t get from point A (wherever he was) to point B (me) fast enough. Outside, I never had to use a leash with him. From day one I could always trust that he wasn’t going anywhere. We both just knew—we were a team.
Why all the gushing about my relationship with Charlie? I use it as an example of the bond some of us have with our dogs. I know that I’m far from alone in this. For many of us, there’s “the one” who steals our heart and never lets go.
Until we have to let them go.
We never knew Charlie’s exact age. He looked old when I brought him home. Add the five years he had with us, and who knows … maybe he was around twelve or thirteen. Maybe even fourteen.
I was out of town the day he started having seizures. He died in my arms on our way to the vet the day after I arrived home. As Rick drove and I cradled Charlie, pressing him to my chest, I could feel his heartbeat get slower and slower and then stop. I drew him in tighter, breathed in … inhaled him … kissed the curls on top of his head. I said nothing to Rick. For those few seconds, I just wanted it to be Charlie and me, one last time. Finally, I choked out, “He’s gone.” And it was clear, though I already knew, that Rick dearly loved him too.
A few weeks later, I was back at the Harrisburg Area Humane Society with a friend who had also just lost a dog. “I’m only going, Denise, to help you find a dog!” We both knew that was BS, that I wouldn’t be able to resist adopting another if just the right one gave me “the look” and my heart latched on.
We walked up and down well-kept rows of one pen after another. Some dogs barked, some paced, others slept. There were signs saying, “Please Don’t Pet The Dogs!” But we did, at least the friendlier-looking ones … the little bit we could by reaching in a couple of inches (a common transgression, I’m sure, among shelter visitors).
Denise eyed a brindle Cane Corso (we’re talking BIG dog!). I felt some relief at not having found one. It was probably too soon anyway.
Then I came upon the very last pen, and a bright-eyed, short-legged, long-bodied, scruffy-looking thing. He was a four-year-old dachshund/Jack Russell terrier mix. He had “the look.” Even more, he had “the name.”
Given to him by the staff and typed on a sheet hanging in a page protector on the pen … his name—Little Man.
It was as if I had him back … in a different body … in a different color.
A few days later, Rick and I brought Little Man home. We renamed him Toby … because, well … he’s his own little man. He settled right in. Felt like Toby had already lived with us for years. In many ways, Toby picked up right where Charlie left off. The baton had been passed.
The week before Christmas 2017, I brought home a little sister for Enzo and Toby. A thirteen-year-old Chihuahua mix named Contessa. Blind in one eye, almost deaf (you could slam a door shut and most times she wouldn’t even lift her sweet little head off her bed), massive hernia hanging from her belly. Oh, and she wears diapers. Contessa rules the roost and doesn’t put up with any of the boys’ sh … enanigans. She’s been the perfect addition to our merry little band of misfit dogs.
It’s hard to describe the love that fills me whenever I’m surrounded by my dogs. But other dog lovers—probably animal lovers of any kind—you know what I’m talking about. Is it a kind of love that’s different than human love? Yes, of course. But in a truly lovely way.
Perhaps our love for our dogs—our pets—is more pure. It can’t be based on anything they say, or do, or give to us. And let’s face it, we could say the absolute worst things to our dogs, and they would still come charging at us with tails wagging the next time we come through the door, and lick us from head to toe if we let them.
My love for my dogs is based on no conditions at all. Except maybe one—we need each other.
Christmas 2017 with Toby, Contessa, and Enzo
Thinking about adopting a dog? Consider adopting a senior. You won’t find a dog more grateful to have a happy, loving home.
(Top Photo Credit: Jennifer Regnier on Unsplash)