Happy Dog Stories

There are no happy dog stories.

I learned this lesson in a monologue study acting class. The instructor would take aim at some unsuspecting soul and make a simple request for him to share with the rest of the group a story about his favourite pet. Fair warning – this was actually a covert attempt to have you reflect on a personal relationship that conjures some of the strongest emotional ties you never thought you had. A box of tissue stands at the ready.

Dogs are life lessons with wet noses and dirty paws. Maybe a game of, “I’m gonna get you,” finds its way from the lesson book to the back yard, but filtered down to their root essence, dogs basically teach humans how to grow up. Lessons in growing up weave effortlessly into transitions in nature, cycles of life, and before you know it, you find yourself cresting over the hill and straight into the swinging scythe of death and dying.

But if there are no happy dog stories, there are stories nonetheless.

There’s the neutering dog story.
This is a delicate time of transition in the life of a virile, young pup. It was at 9 months of age, when Kobi was almost 90 pounds and still awkward in his “puppy uglies,” that I learned he had an enlarged heart and a heart murmur, and that should he survive this operation his life expectancy would be no more than 5 years. Lesson learned: Kobi lived to the age of 12 and silenced all his doubters, proving you should never measure yourself by someone else’s expectations.

The car ride story.
With his hind quarters resting on the rear dash of my small compact car, Kobi would rest his head on my left shoulder and ‘watch’ the road while I drove. One day he got car sick and threw-up. On the drivers seat. And on my neck. Vomit dribbling down my back. Totally gross. Lesson learned: always keep a spare shirt in the car when driving around with the dog. I imagine it was quite a sight to see me shirtless, chest pressed up against the steering wheel, driving home with a nauseated dog in the back seat.

The off-leash story.
Kobi was awarded top dog in his obedience class. He was very smart – but not in a way that impresses friends or family. Kobi was annoyingly smart. He was perfectly well behaved whenever we went for walks until I felt guilty enough to let the poor fella off leash for a little while. At precisely that moment, he would jump into the creek, wade over to the other side, then turn back to look at me in smug defiance; or, he’d scramble up a snowy mountain-side as dusk was fast approaching and there were no flashlights in the car – or high winter boots for that matter. It was during these times that I realized top-dog honours and a certificate of obedience were nothing more than prop pieces for one wily dog to flip me the bird in the face of controlled behaviour.

The magpie story.
Magpie would nest in the trees of our back yard and torment Kobi whenever he was out lounging on the deck. The feeling was quite mutual. These angry birds would line up along our white picket fence and squawk, dive-bomb, and generally harass Kobi to his breaking point. In turn, he would bolt toward the fence and pounce up on the pickets, inciting the birds to flail and fly a muck. One day, I came home to see Kobi had somehow caught one of these magpie and had it pinned to the ground between his paws. The bird, which I mistakenly thought was dead, was merely dazed and glazed in a blend of slobber and fresh grass. A quick call to the wildlife rescue center and I was advised to dispose of the bird as soon as possible. Umm, How? Simple: smack it’s head between a couple of 2×4′s and dump it in the garbage. About 20 minutes later, my older brother just happened to be stopping by the house, so I asked him if he could do me a quick favour and I handed him 2 pieces of wood. 15 minutes later, we both showed up at the wildlife rescue center with a saliva covered magpie in a small cardboard box. Lesson learned: I’m not so good at killing things with planks of wood.

The pancakes and syrup story.
Kobi was NOT allowed in the kitchen. He could rest his chin on the table and watch you eat dinner as the drool poured off his jowls and onto the floor. Repeat: Kobi was NOT allowed in the kitchen. He knew better. But he also knew who could be broken and who was going to look after him when Jim moved away to another city and left him behind. Kobi zeroed in on my mother who showed love through food and would inevitably spoil Kobi with such delectable treats as buttered pancakes with maple syrup, ice cream, birthday cake, and oatmeal cookies – to name a few. Lesson learned: wise monkey knows what tree to climb.

*NOT allow on furniture, Kobi would argue that if one paw was touching the ground then it didn’t count.

The big C story.
Kobi died in my arms on the way to the vet. Once it had been determined that he was full of tumors and in a palliative state, he was administered regular morphine shots from home to help ease the pain until we were ready to have him put down. It took me 2 days to arrange a flight and book time off work to make it back to Calgary to see him. That was selfish of me, but I wanted to say goodbye. I told the family to let Kobi know I was coming home and to hang on until I got there. He did, barely. He died about 20 minutes after I arrived at the house. But he waited, and I don’t think he would have done that for just anyone. Lesson learned: the best gift you can give to a departing soul is love. There is comfort in love. That looks fairly obvious in print, but the lesson resonates much clearer in practice.

So even if there are no happy dog stories, there is still joy (a happy-joy) in having shared your life with someone you love.  Kobi, you were a good boy.