It's Just A Dog

“It’s just a dog.”  That’s what she said.  That was her first offense.  Her second offense was saying it to someone who had had to put down her two Rottweilers within about a year of each other.  Actually what she really said was, “It’s just a fucking dog.” Which only served to redouble the offense.  This was part of a friend to friend conversation. 

After ACL surgery

 The woman who’d lost her two Rotts is a close friend of mine and had teared up reading an email that I’d sent to her relating our Rainey's failing health. The “fucking dog” woman asked what was wrong and when told she made the remark; “It’s just a fucking dog.”  Obviously this person has never given heart and soul to a dog.  If I’d been my friend I would have terminated the friendship – straightaway, unceremoniously and punctuated with a hearty “Go jump in a lake.” – or maybe something a little more withering and off color. I suppose that my friend is more indulgent than I am. 

My Rainey was not “just a dog,” – fucking or not.  Rainey was one of God’s creatures, warm and so very gentle.  And 11 ½ years ago she did that maddening thing that dogs tend to do.  She came into our home and took our hearts.  She never asked or cajoled or strong armed.  It just sort of happened.  She simply was Rainey and without knowing we all became as one. Maddening?  Anyone who’s surrendered their soul to a dog knows that universal axiom, “They don’t live long enough.”  It’s as true as any mathematical equation and maybe just as cold. And so when the time comes for them to go they leave a jagged edged chasm, an emptiness that we futilely try to fill with memories. 

Rainey was the perfect dog.  Of course she was.  All dogs are perfect.  Just ask the family down the street about their Bichon, or the guy who walks his German Shepherd mix, or my daughter who dotes on her Lab.  They’ll all tell you, “My dog’s perfect.”  In most cases that’s true.  They are God’s perfect creatures.  It’s people that rob them of their perfection.  Its people; people who beat them, berate them, leave them outside on stormy nights, starve them or do the thousand and one things that rob those wonderful creatures of their loyal and loving essence.

Yeah, Rainey was the perfect dog.  We knew that the day we met her.  I’d contacted a breeder who I was told had Gordon Setter pups available.  We arranged to meet at a field trial a few hours away near the Sacramento Valley town of Marysville.  When we met her she walked us over to a pen with two wriggling pups; a male and a female.  Brody, the male, was a big handsome boy who Cora took to right off, but he was already promised. We knelt down to meet Rainey and she immediately rolled over on her back for a tummy rub.  That was it.  I couldn’t have wanted her more if she’d had a thousand dollar bill tucked in her collar. 

We arranged to pick her up at a later date at the breeder’s home in Modesto.  We were ushered into the house where we completed all the requisite paperwork, wrote out the check and received instructions, suggestions and handouts. She also came home with a first place ribbon she’d won at a field trial – first place in Baby Puppy Class.  Business formalities done we went out to the backyard where we found out that in her own doggy way Rainey was not quite perfect.  We caught her snacking on poop and the breeder must have thought it might be a deal breaker.  Well of course it wasn’t but over the ensuing 11 years she never gave up her poop habit, even though she was admonished before going out, “And no poop for dessert!”  Not even getting her teeth brushed broke her of the habit. When we left, the breeder handed us an orange and blue squeak toy – a plush duck.  It was her puppy toy. 

The first day was spent getting acquainted.  We did the things that new dog owners do; bought bowls, collars, leashes, food, chew toys a dog bed and a crate.  That crate would become Rainey’s apartment; her private place where she would curl up and snooze or at times just stick her nose out and observe her pack’s going’s on. 

I’d resigned myself to a few sleepless nights, expecting that our puppy would be awake and whimpering all night.  We set up a dog bed with a pink blanket and her ducky in a little corner near my side of the bed.  Come bedtime we pointed her to her spot and she walked around in circles on it to find the right spot and plopped down looking back up at me as if to make sure that she’d done good.  We turned out the lights and to our pleasant surprise there was no puppy whining.  She slept through most of the night.  A couple of times she got up and walked up to my bedside, looked up, I suppose for reassurance that I’d not snuck out and then she settled herself down again.  That was something else that would happen almost every night for the next 11 years – a visit to my side of the bed to check up on me.  Sometimes in the darkened room I would sense her presence, reach down and rub her head and whisper to her for a few minutes and then tell her, “Back to bed sweetheart.”  And dutifully she would plop herself down with a little groan. After that first quiet night Cora offered that our puppy must have reasoned to herself, “Well this is my new family so I guess I’ll have to make the best of it.”  

A short while after Rainey joined out family she experienced her first challenge – well that is if you don’t count being moved from your original home and pack to a new one.  From day one she’d negotiated our stairs the way a downhill skier rockets down a mountain and with about as much abandon.  We figured that it was one of these wild descents that resulted in a torn ACL in her right leg. 

We found a surgeon in Fremont on the northeast fringe of Silicon Valley.  Dr. Brown specialized in ACL surgeries and owned Setters so we felt comfortable that our little girl would be in good hands.  We were certain of that when this gentle man approached Rainey, saw that she was trembling and immediately said.  “Oh she’s afraid,” as he cupped her muzzle in his hand and kissed her on top of the head. I’ve always found a greater measure of compassion in vets than in people doctors. Maybe it’s because vets don’t have patients who can make a hobby out of busting their chops. Surgery for Rainey was indeed indicated but not until months down the road after her growth plates had developed.  Now our challenge was to try to keep a Gordon Setter pup relatively calm.  In October she had her surgery and was confined to a small pen in the family room.  By the holidays she was romping around and blasting down the stairs again.

“It’s just a fucking dog.”  Sort of like that old couch that’s popped some springs that you put out on the sidewalk for Waste Management to pick up at spring cleaning time?  Or the dead D cell batteries that you drop off at the recycle bin at Best Buy?  Rainey was not an “it”; not a “just.”  Had she been “just a dog,” my heart wouldn’t ache every evening when I walk in the door and see an empty spot on the floor where Rainey’s crate had stood for 11 years.  I wouldn’t pause at work to pull up a picture of my late companion on my phone and then have to wipe away a tear.  This morning when I got out of bed I instinctively swung my legs out wide and looked down to avoid my sleeping friend on the floor – and then realized that she wasn’t there and would never again be there.  With that innocuous little reflex I began my day with tear stained eyes. 

I don’t imagine that the “fucking dog” lady owns a dog –  fortunate for the random dog.  She doesn’t realize that you don’t actually own a dog. I went through 11 ½ years laboring under a false belief that Rainey was mine.  After all we were running buddies, weren’t we?  We were Starbucks coffee on Saturday morning buddies when I would sit at one of the outside tables and read while she stared and quivered at the sparrows that flitted around looking for crumbs – always the birddog.  And what about that time that we were seated at an outdoor table at a restaurant in Coronado.  The woman seated just behind me at the next table tapped me on the shoulder and complimented me on my beautiful dog.  “And l can tell the way she looks up at you that she just adores you,” she continued. 

There were times when Cora thought that Rainey was hers.  After all, Rainey went to work with Cora every day.  She was a Clif Bar dog;, one of the many canine employees whose job it was to bring some tail wagging joy into the workplace and get paid in praise, dog toys and treats from the staff.     

Cora and I were way wide of the mark.  On that Saturday afternoon in March 12 years ago when we brought Rainey into our family we’d concluded a business transaction that transferred ownership to us.  But at some point the notion of ownership was altered.  Sure we buy the food, pay the vet, give the baths and make sure that the dog is a good citizen.  But at some point in the relationship a seamless transfer takes place.  We never did realize that over the course of the years we became hers – not until the day that she left us.   

Parting note: I’ve written extensively of late about our recently departed friend.  I suppose that it’s my therapy after having been dropped into this desolation of loss. There will be more and I ask the reader’s indulgence.  Could be worse.  I could be writing about the elections.