A Dog Remembered
Like a lot of good things, Chuckles came into my life by chance.
Fifteen and a half years ago, I was standing at the top of of a 10-foot ladder hoping to patch a crack in a 14-foot ceiling. Outside, a dozen car horns blared. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of a dog cowering in the middle of the busy intersection, so I clambered down the ladder, the three flights of stairs, and out the door. There, tying up traffic, was a half-grown dog, so thin every rib was outlined. His brown and white fur grew in sparse patches. Mostly, I saw a skinny bit of pink flesh that barked.
When I scooped him off the pavement, he trembled. Of course, I told myself, I'll take him to the S.P.C.A. But first he needs to eat, to rest, and to stop trembling. He also needed to grow some hair. Later, I'd bring him to the animal shelter. Chuckles, whom I named for his particular combination of silliness and soulfulness, knew better.
He stayed for the rest of his long doggie life, never missing an opportunity to be in a family photo, to catch what dropped to the floor during a meal, and to chase all cats except our own whom he adored. Over time, he stopped trembling at loud voices and imperceptibly he became beautiful. People would stop to admire him, to ask if he was a Brittany Spaniel, or a Welsh Springer, to ask if I "showed" him, or took him hunting. I could only laugh at his transformation.
But there was more than good looks to Chuckles. Here was a dog of substance. He hated leashes, ruining many by gnashing them in two the minute he had the opportunity. Fortunately, he walked right beside us without a leash. After his experience in traffic, Chuckles never wanted to risk abandonment again. But we had to be alert for cats and be ready to grab his collar.
He was also talented. Chuckles barked at such a high pitch that visitors clutched their ears. We tolerated the noise. He barked to herald the doorbell, the phone's ring, the newspaper's thud on the stoop, the approach of a cat, the arrival of the letter carrier. For years, we had to shout on the phone over Chuckles' barks. He routinely slept, whenever the house emptied, on my best furniture, covering it with dog hair and turning his favorite spots a dull grey. For years, I tried to barricade the living room couch with books and magazines, but he nudged obstacles out of the way. When confronted, he turned away, feigning ignorance of the white fur clinging to chair cushions that still felt warm from his afternoon nap. Underneath those chair cushions, he'd hide lost mittens, bits of cookie he was too full to consume immediately, a stray sock.
Once when we were visiting Rehoboth Beach, we left Chuckles alone in my mother's house for an afternoon. We locked the doors, opened windows, and filled his dish with water. When we returned, a crowd had gathered under the second-story window. Chuckles, unable to open the doors, had pushed out of a window screen on a second- floor bedroom and was sitting on the edge of the roof, awaiting out return.
No wonder we're still mourning his death. He died May 11, a date my 8-year-old daughter said is National Pet Day.
Chuckles turned deaf and a bit arthritic in his old age, but he still loved his walks, his food, and the sound of his own barking. Even as an old dog, he would sprint through a field, springing for joy on his hind legs. But five days before his death, he gave up barking, eating, and going on walks. All that week I warned my family Chuckles was dying. But like the clown whose tears you only see up close, Chuckles kept up a good front. "He's getting better,'' my 12-year-old daughter said, "I know he is."
On his last day, he took a few steps outside, sat down, and looked at me. I picked him up and carried him home, and just like long ago, he was trembling.
Chuckles lies under a little knoll at the edge of the backyard, a knoll he used for surveying the scene for squirrels, groundhogs, and cats. His favorite bone and three large stones mark the stop. On these stones, my daughters have painted red hearts, his name, and the words, "We love him."
This story was first published in the York Daily Record, York, PA.
Like a lot of good things, Chuckles came into my life by chance.
Fifteen and a half years ago, I was standing at the top of of a 10-foot ladder hoping to patch a crack in a 14-foot ceiling. Outside, a dozen car horns blared. Through the window, I caught a glimpse of a dog cowering in the middle of the busy intersection, so I clambered down the ladder, the three flights of stairs, and out the door. There, tying up traffic, was a half-grown dog, so thin every rib was outlined. His brown and white fur grew in sparse patches. Mostly, I saw a skinny bit of pink flesh that barked.
When I scooped him off the pavement, he trembled. Of course, I told myself, I'll take him to the S.P.C.A. But first he needs to eat, to rest, and to stop trembling. He also needed to grow some hair. Later, I'd bring him to the animal shelter. Chuckles, whom I named for his particular combination of silliness and soulfulness, knew better.
He stayed for the rest of his long doggie life, never missing an opportunity to be in a family photo, to catch what dropped to the floor during a meal, and to chase all cats except our own whom he adored. Over time, he stopped trembling at loud voices and imperceptibly he became beautiful. People would stop to admire him, to ask if he was a Brittany Spaniel, or a Welsh Springer, to ask if I "showed" him, or took him hunting. I could only laugh at his transformation.
But there was more than good looks to Chuckles. Here was a dog of substance. He hated leashes, ruining many by gnashing them in two the minute he had the opportunity. Fortunately, he walked right beside us without a leash. After his experience in traffic, Chuckles never wanted to risk abandonment again. But we had to be alert for cats and be ready to grab his collar.
He was also talented. Chuckles barked at such a high pitch that visitors clutched their ears. We tolerated the noise. He barked to herald the doorbell, the phone's ring, the newspaper's thud on the stoop, the approach of a cat, the arrival of the letter carrier. For years, we had to shout on the phone over Chuckles' barks. He routinely slept, whenever the house emptied, on my best furniture, covering it with dog hair and turning his favorite spots a dull grey. For years, I tried to barricade the living room couch with books and magazines, but he nudged obstacles out of the way. When confronted, he turned away, feigning ignorance of the white fur clinging to chair cushions that still felt warm from his afternoon nap. Underneath those chair cushions, he'd hide lost mittens, bits of cookie he was too full to consume immediately, a stray sock.
Once when we were visiting Rehoboth Beach, we left Chuckles alone in my mother's house for an afternoon. We locked the doors, opened windows, and filled his dish with water. When we returned, a crowd had gathered under the second-story window. Chuckles, unable to open the doors, had pushed out of a window screen on a second- floor bedroom and was sitting on the edge of the roof, awaiting out return.
No wonder we're still mourning his death. He died May 11, a date my 8-year-old daughter said is National Pet Day.
Chuckles turned deaf and a bit arthritic in his old age, but he still loved his walks, his food, and the sound of his own barking. Even as an old dog, he would sprint through a field, springing for joy on his hind legs. But five days before his death, he gave up barking, eating, and going on walks. All that week I warned my family Chuckles was dying. But like the clown whose tears you only see up close, Chuckles kept up a good front. "He's getting better,'' my 12-year-old daughter said, "I know he is."
On his last day, he took a few steps outside, sat down, and looked at me. I picked him up and carried him home, and just like long ago, he was trembling.
Chuckles lies under a little knoll at the edge of the backyard, a knoll he used for surveying the scene for squirrels, groundhogs, and cats. His favorite bone and three large stones mark the stop. On these stones, my daughters have painted red hearts, his name, and the words, "We love him."
This story was first published in the York Daily Record, York, PA.