There are those dogs that one comes across in their lifetime. A dog that is the stuff of legend, that is all the things that an American dog is supposed to be. These are the dogs that get stories written about them in anthologies of dog stories. You know the kind of stories; the ones that are amazing but always make you bawl by the end because the dog always dies of old age eventually.
Northwest was one of those dogs. Intelligent, loyal, humorous, and feisty all describe his spunky personality.
His beginnings were humble and typical for mutts of character, he was a young dog in a shelter, labeled unsuitable for family life and waiting for the ending shot. The hypothesis is that his first home was one with small children who pulled and hit and generally abused him without understanding the consequences, and when he defended himself against the attacks, he was thrown to the shelter. He was never relaxed around children and was aggressive towards them, but I remember that aggressiveness was accompanied by the subtle expressions of fear.
It was a day before he was scheduled for death when Kerry came to the ASPCA looking for a dog. As a recovered alcoholic, he was ready for the companionship of a dog. Kerry is one of those men who must have his furry sons. His ex wife had taken the Chihuahua they had owned when he entered rehab the first time. The hound he had adopted after was returned to the shelter when he had to go back, something I know still haunts him a bit, even years later. Perhaps it was his bond with Northwest combined with the sting of his failure with that hound that kept him out of rehab a third time.
A single man, recovered alcoholic, living a solitary life in a trailer situated above Charlottesville on the ‘little mountain’ was the perfect match for a feisty terrier with a strong attitude. Northwest rewarded his new master with a devotion seen only in dogs that are truly loved.
And there was no doubt Northwest was loved. Kerry took him everywhere with him. Northwest spent much of his spare time hanging out in his second love, the car, going anywhere he could tag along. He had a place at the kitchen table, his own plate, eating with his master. When Kerry and his best friend, Bubba, where outside shooting, Northwest lay behind the line, relaxed and content.
Nothing could separate him from his master for long. Even water was to be suffered if it meant being with Kerry. Once visiting a lake, Bubba carried Northwest out to a small island, separating him from Kerry (who’s own dislike for water sports may have influenced Northwest). Despite the dog’s absolute hatred for water, whether it be a body of water, a bath or even rain, he swam back to Kerry.
Kerry’s adoption of me was just as perfect, lucky and random as his adoption of his dog. My mother had known him for some time, she had dated Bubba several years before and had fancied Kerry even back then. They started seeing each other when I was about six years old. With Kerry, of course, came his Northwest and I was fascinated by the dog as much as by the man. As my mother and Kerry grew more serious, he would often baby-sit me when she went out to events that he had no interest in attending. We would sit on the front porch of the house in Batesville, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken. The summer I turned seven, my mother moved us into Kerry’s small trailer.
Now, as I mentioned, Northwest was not always agreeable to small children and I was just young enough to be included in his general mistrust. We often were at odds, particularly when food was involved. I was often growled at when I came to close and he would attempt to steal my food, sometimes succeeding because he intimidated me. Yet at the same time I was obsessed with getting that dog to like me, and as time passed, I succeeded. Northwest was never my dog, but I was one of his humans.
Overtime I grew older and the original mistrust became a thing of the past. I was no longer a small child and not as easily intimidated. Northwest also changed, becoming a bit more mellow and relaxed.
He reached those difficult years of old age as I reached my teens. Medical complaints took him back and forth to the vet. His sensitive skin was prone to Demedex and cancer took his testicles and a toe, and eventually his life. At 16, with a license, I was often the one caring for him, picking him up, giving him his medications and special baths. He rewarded my care with an affection I had never received from him before.
One of my fondest memories of him is a spring Saturday. My best friend and I had spent the night at my house, then gone to my soccer game together. After the game we picked Northwest up from the vet. He had just had his toe removed. We decided to go to the new park that had just been built at the end of 53. Together we slowly walked the path from the parking lot to the small pond and back. Northwest, despite his recent surgery, was happy and cheerful, trotting along with the same vigor he had always displayed. While me and Christine had lunch at Michie’s Tavern he napped peacefully in the car, waking cheerfully to scraps I had smuggled out.
Looking back, that was one of his last really good days, and I will remember it always as one of the most peaceful and enjoyable days of my life. Without Northwest, I think the day would have been nothing special. It was as though he was finally telling me that he did like me, trust me, and I was worthy of being one of his people.
Northwest’s end was as tragically commonplace as so many other dogs. As his control diminished he was confined to the back bedroom and hall. As a dog who had scrupulously attended to his business outside and never had accidents, when I found him worn out, as though he had struggled for hours, laying in a puddle of his own waste with a look of total defeat and misery on his face, I could not ignore the truth any longer. I cried as I called my dad and told him about Northwest’s pain. I cleaned him up the best I could and made him comfortable in a worn blanket as we waited for dad to come home. Dr. Betts had been notified and agreed to stay late to care for one of his favorite patients. We took him to the vet. Even in his old age, the vet’s was still one of his favorite places, and his wagged his feather tail as we carried him in.
I think even Dr. Betts cried that day. Kerry and I stayed with him as he growled for his last shot and then slipped away in sleep.
Northwest was buried next to Bandit. Only a couple years later Buster joined him. With his death, the pack of my childhood was nearing its end. Northwest embodied all of those things I think a perfect dog should be. Smart and troublesome, with flare and attitude, but most importantly love, devotion and loyalty. From Northwest I learned patience. He taught me to earn respect, and that earning respect can also earn love.
0 comments:
Post a Comment