Essay
The Visit
02/02/10 11:26
My own steps slow with his, as Perry explores the grounds like a familiar guest. Do all Collies feel this comfortable here? Well-worn paths draw us to stones covering dusty bones of long dead heroes of fur and teeth, courage and loyalty. The wind stirs treetops and whispers to us. I turn towards the grassy hilltop and imagine a house embraced by porches, smothered in vines. If Terhune were on that hillside, in shade of aging oaks and faded imprint of a home, would he recall his own memories of great hearts, wise eyes, and unspoken love?
As daylight fades, I remember stories of Lad, most loved. I rest my hand gently on the aging head beside me and know the same spirit lies within skin, bone, and heart of my own dog.
Where summerhouse once caught the lakeside breeze, we pause. One puppy, impatient with our progress, runs upward towards the clapboard shelter of bygone days, where toes twitched in sleep and minds dreamt of future exploits. Perhaps he thinks someone is there to greet him, but finding no one, hurries back to me.
(Winner of the Essence of Sunnybank ColliesOnLine essay contest September 2002)
My Dog's Not Lassie
01/01/10 11:00
Perry came home with us. He was our “one and only” then. My memories of him are like scenes in a movie; Perry at home, Perry at shows, Perry traveling--little moments in time that accumulate into the story of our life together. Like when I brought a kitten home. Perry became obsessed. He would follow the kitten around the house, his nose within an inch of her at all times. He terrified her; mouthing her head, and stare at her for hours. I would yell at him, try to protect the kitten, worry that I would find it dead, her neck snapped by my kitten-obsessed dog. Like the kitten, I’d misread his intentions. He loved Towhee, he didn’t want to harm her. Eventually he wore Towhee down and won her over. He never lost his passion for cats, even the ones who hated dogs. They fascinated him, if he saw one he would run to it and stare at it until I had to drag him away. He was a kitty junkie, unable to hear or see anything else in their presence.
Perry hated to be left alone. He could handle 2 or 3 hours of loneliness, but if it stretched to 4, he would look for something to destroy. Indoors it was chairs, tools, ends of furniture; outside he’d chew hoses, garden appliances, even trees. One time he chewed and pulled up young fruit trees that my husband Joe had just planted. He always chewed what we touched, what we cared about. It was a compliment we did not appreciate. Some might interpret it as revenge or spite, but it was an act of devotion as much as neediness, similar to his love of Towhee; licking her soaking wet, until she could finally get away from him, the fur on her head matted down flat against her skull in a doggy saliva goo. It was as if Perry tried to absorb the essence of things.
Perry thought about things too much, especially when we were training for obedience. He
would weigh the options; trying to decide what would please me. Perry never wanted to be wrong, he was a perfectionist. He was sensitive to criticism. We had a lot in common.
We took long walks in a cemetery near our house. It was quiet and beautiful, with stands of old pines overlooking the river. One section was reserved for deceased pets. We would weave around the stones, and I’d stop to read what must have felt to the owners like wholly inadequate efforts to convey the grief. Some of the animals lived to be 12, 15, 18 years old. I wanted Perry to live forever.
We flew to Orlando, Florida to be on a game show for dogs called That’s My Dog. He relished every minute of it—the relay race where Joe and I called Perry between us; me stuffing his legs into a T-shirt, Joe cramming a sun visor on his head. Perry grinned foolishly and dashed between us for more. He played to the crowd in the ball-fetching contest. Grabbing a ball out of the basket, he deliberately dropped it, picked it up again, building suspense until he finally brought it to me. Then bounce another ball long after the buzzer ended the contest.
His magic trick was the coup de grace. With Perry’s eyes blindfolded by a white scarf I tied around his head, I held up a white sock and announced to the audience that he would find it. Joe set out a half dozen different colored knotted socks in front of the crowd. One by one Perry worked down the row until he confidently picked up the right one and brought it to me. The audience cheered while the judges gave him near perfect scores. In the obstacle contest he climbed the A-Frame, jumped, tunneled, paused, weaved with “this is so easy and fun” written all over his face. Perry was a star.
He loved company. He greeted children with a toy in his mouth and an invitation to throw it for him. Perry considered it his job to be an ambassador for the breed. Yet he never missed his canine roots, he had no desire to explore his dog-ness. He always preferred people. He had the kind of loyalty dogs get famous for. He never saved my life, or ran in front of a car to spare a child, or barked to alert us of fire. There never was a kid, a fire, or life-threatening situation. He would have, though.
The very first time he saw sheep, he went to work calmly and deliberately as though he’d done it all his life. He loved ducks almost as much as he loved cats. He’d lick their heads soppy wet if they let him. Judges sometimes misunderstood, thinking Perry meant to harm the ducks. They gave us warnings. If they only knew, he’d follow a duck to the ends of the earth, and at 11 years old effortlessly earned his Herding Started title.
Perry lost his hearing, he got stiff, old, and bone thin. He never, ever stopped being Perry. He could have been a movie star, gone to Hollywood, made a fortune. The references to Lassie were constant, clichéd, inaccurate. Perry was better. He was real.
(ColliesOnLine Essay Contest Winner)