Barking Vapors

My daughter, Kalene, got me started walking the Hovander Dog Park. It follows the dike of the Nooksack River as it flows through Ferndale. I have lived in Ferndale for 37 years and have visited the large Hovander farm off and on but never walked the dog area until her dog, Milton Barry, came into my life.

Today, my daughter and her husband live in another state and move across the US in the Army. I have no dogs in my house but occasionally I will walk the dog park for exercise and to watch the other dogs walking with their owners.

There is a large off-leash field where the dogs can play with other dogs and chase balls but today, I am choosing to walk the mile long graveled trail of the dike. This is where the walkers, joggers, and bikers stay to avoid accidentally stepping in dog poop.

It is a lovely sunny afternoon in August. The river is low, but I can hear the occasional ripple as it flows past me. I stare at the trail in front of me hearing gravel crunch under my feet when off to my right, I notice a blurriness in the brush and what looks like a small whirlwind. As I stop and stare, a small dog materializes and steps out in front of me. It is my first dog Corkie.

Corkie was a white terrier. She belonged to my Nanna when we lived with her in Anacortes up to my age of four years old.

“Corkie!  My first dog. I don’t remember you very well in my mind, but I have many baby pictures of the two of us together.”

“Yes, I was your first toy. It was my job to play with you and let you chew on my ears,” he said.

“What I do remember is that one day we came home, and you were gone. Mom put me in the car, and we drove up and down the streets of Anacortes as I called out the window, ‘Corkie.’ We never found you.”

“What you don’t know is that I was an old dog and was sick. Your Nana thought that it would be kindest to have me put down. That’s where I went. Don’t blame your mom. Pretending there was hope I would come home was her way of protecting you.”

Corkie continued with me a while longer and her shape, because I remember so little about her, became distorted and she morphed into a brown dachshund.

“Sam, Sam, the ladies man.” I snickered.

“Whaz up?” He asked with a piece of straw sticking from the side of his mouth.

Sam was a dog that dad brought home for some unknown reason. It was during my elementary school years.

“The two things I remember about you is that you would purposely seek out dead rotting animals and roll on them. We would have to wash you in the bathtub each time to let you back in the house. The other thing I remember is that you would get amorous with the legs of guests visiting out house.”

“What can I say? The chicks love the aphrodisiac smell of rotting animals and in the absence of chicks, I go for the legs.”

“I remember sitting on the front porch. You saw something across the street and bolted for it, not looking for cars. That was very traumatic for a young boy to watch.”

“Sorry buddy. The call of nature for a dachshund trumps the call of the master. It was a quick way to go.”

As he walked the trail in front of me, I could still smell the aroma of rotten flesh on his fur. Something he obviously enjoyed living with for eternity.

Slowly his body vanished in a vapor only to again appear as a white fur ball. It was a cockapoo.

“Tink, buddy.”

I bought Tinkerbell as a puppy when I was  in high school. She was a family dog who would lay in my lap while I watched TV. Tink was incredibly obedient. I could place a biscuit on her nose, tell her to hold it, leave the room and return a minute later finding her still holding it. She was just a fun dog for everyone.

“I’m sorry that I teased you so much. No self-respecting dog should be spun like a top on the hardwood floors. You were the best. Everyone loved you.”

I tried to show you how obedient I was with the biscuit trick. It did get old though.”

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you in the end. I let your life go on too long. You were old and sick, but I couldn’t put you down. I sat with you and cried the night before, and you lay with your chin on my lap. I had to ask the old man next door to take you to the vet. It was very traumatic.”

“It was a very good life I had with you. No regrets!”

My eyes were moist as I watched Tink fade and disappear.

Next, a whirlwind and a large gray and white tumbleweed of a dog ran from the brush. Her hair was matted and full of sticks. Her eyes were nearly covered to the point where she ran into me, not seeing me.

Her name was Lady Hairyhead Mopsalena. She was my sister’s English Sheepdog. Her second name was Mopsey Shutup because most nights she would bark and one of us would have to open the window and yell, “Mopsey, shut up!”

“Top of the morning to you, old chap,” she said, stumbling over her own feet.

“I see that you still don’t have the hair trimmed around your eyes. Watch out, there’s a tree up ahead. You were around when I was in my 20s. I remember you needing a lot of attention. I feel bad that I didn’t give you more.”

“No worries, Mate. Where we are now, I have all the attention I need. You may remember the movie, All Dogs Go To Heaven – it’s true! There are plenty of children to play with and we all run free.”

“That is great to know. Look me up when I get there.”

With that, she took a few more awkward leaps and disappeared into the brush toward the river.

As I watched the dogs and their owners out in the big field, I realized that for them, this was a daily event. It seemed that the adults all knew each other, and the dogs ran to meet their pals as soon as they leapt from the cars. It would be traumatic for everyone to miss a day at the dog park.

I saw a dog off by himself watching the others play. He was a husky-shepherd mix. He had black fur with white markings through the chest.

I stopped walking.

“Carrie, come here Care Bear!”

The dog’s ears picked up and she ran full speed toward me. Just like when she was a pup, she stood up placing her muddy front paws on my chest. I rubbed her neck and scratched her ears.

“My adopted grandfather, Swede, rescued you from the pound. He always had to have a dog. You were good to him.”

“He wasn’t stingy with the bacon in the morning. I missed him when he was gone.”

“I remember driving to Swede’s house the day after he died. You were lying on the ground in front of the back door. You were mourning. There was no one to take care of you and I didn’t really want a dog, but I dropped the tailgate on the pickup and invited you in.”

“Thank you for not taking me back to the pound.”

“I remember how protective you were of my baby Kalene. If I pretended to threaten her, you would take me to the ground. If someone who was visiting bent down to pick her up, you would gently take their wrist in your jaws and lead them away.”

“It was my job. Kalene was my girl to protect.”

“I found you on the front porch one morning. You had passed. Kalene was in kindergarten. She cried all afternoon that we lost you. I put you in the back of the truck and we took one last ride together.”

“That was very nice of you. I enjoyed my stay.”

“Thanks, Care Bear.”

Carrie turned and ran back out into the field with the other dogs and then was gone.

The further I walked on the trail the more it hurt. I began to think that walking the dog park was a terrible idea because I had one dog left to meet. And just like that, there he was. The last dog in my life. Mr. Milton Barry.

Milton was the reason I started going to the park in the first place. He was my daughter Kalene and son-in-law John’s dog. My granddog.

Milton was a mix of Dachshund and Maltese Schnauzer. He was a mama’s boy. He had a temper and would nip at children and adults equally. At the dog park, he would easily put a dog ten times his size in its place. He had a personality to be reckoned with but in the four years that the Barrys lived at my house, Milton was our house dog.

“Hello Milt.”

I bent down to pick him up, but he growled and threatened to take a nip at me.

“Boy, you still haven’t changed.”

“You haven’t changed either. Don’t you get it? Only Kalene gets to hold me. Where is my treat?”

“Look, you were my granddog and the last dog at my house. We all mourned when you were gone. I will most likely never have another dog.”

“Whine, whine. Okay, maybe one slight scratch behind my right ear but don’t show emotion. There are other dogs watching.”

“You little weasel. Come here.” I bent down and scratched his ear. “Okay, I don’t want to take up any more of your precious time. You can run along now.”

He turned toward the other dogs in the park but swung his head around and gave me a wink. Then he was gone. And that was all the dogs in my life.

Back at home, we have new neighbors next door. We were having a BBQ in the backyard for the high school kids from the church. I had spent considerable time frying hotdogs and burgers which were setting on a plate on the picnic table. From around the hedge, separating my property from the neighbors, two large dogs came running. I have never seen them before, but they jumped up on the table and each took a mouthful of meat. Then they ran off.

“What the heck was that?” I asked my wife.

So now I have two more dogs in my life. I call them Dumb and Dumber, and I enjoy them. When their owner lets them out, the first thing they do is trot over to my house for a treat. They are friendly, loving, and sometimes get in the house to make sure everyone is accounted for. It rounds out my house because now I am a dog, squirrel, cow, and bird person and they all want their daily treats.

They say that a dog is a man’s best friend but to have a dog means that you will also lose your best friend someday and it will hurt. Is it important to give a rescue dog a home? Is the friendship worth the hurt? I may someday get another but . . . oh, excuse me . . . Dumb and Dumber are yipping at my back door.

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