By special request.
I remember when I first met my dog Ben.
He was a beagle puppy with a pack of other puppies in the bare dirt back yard of my uncle Ben.
Ben was my grandfather’s brother. My first name came from my grandfather and my middle name from my uncle.
I named the dog after Ben.
He (the puppy, not my uncle) had jumped higher than the others and I liked his enthusiasm.
I was four. You don’t put too much thought into picking out a dog when you’re four years old.
At first, Ben (the pup again although it also is true of my uncle) had the run of our farm chasing rabbits and jumping back from the big yellow tom farm cat. Tom (the cat, not my neighbor who also was a dear curmudgeon) terrified Ben, but little else did, including the skunk that sprayed him and left him smelling awful even after we bathed him several times.
Ben (the dog although also true of my uncle) was rather lazy. He loved nothing more than sitting under the old apple tree at the foot of somebody. He wasn’t particular (also true of my uncle) and he would travel from house to house for meals (again, true of my uncle, a World War II veteran who fought in North Africa, Sicily, Italy and France before returning home not quite right in the head. His wife, a particular woman, divorced him after he came home late — or early in the morning depending on your point of view — pissing in her flowers planted in front of the house one too many times.)
But though he often scrounged food at the neighbors’ — and where we lived neighbors were a bit of a walk for him — he always returned home for his meals as well. He was something of a character (also true of my uncle) and well-liked despite of or maybe because of his character flaws.
As he grew into an old hunting dog, he didn’t like the trouble of hunting if it meant getting up from in front of the wood stove (also true of my uncle).
I loved the smell of him. He smelled of the outdoors and he made me think of hunting prints although there was not much classy about him. He often listened to my troubles without comment except to lick my hand (the dog not my uncle who wasn’t much for licking — or listening to someone’s troubles for that matter) and he was a great companion (true of my uncle as well.).
When Ben (the dog, my uncle died later) passed away, I was living at home while going to college at the local branch campus. I cried over him and did not want him to be gone. And to be honest, he isn’t. I think of him all the time. I can remember the feel of his fur, the way he liked his ears rubbed, the smell of him and the feel of his tongue on my hands. Nothing is gone forever as long as it is loved.
Grief seems like a terrible thing. It isn’t. It is the passing storm with the rainfall of tears to wash away the sadness and leave behind the good memories shining like a rainbow behind it.
I think something that my uncle Ben said when he died is probably true about the passing of my dog Ben.
My older sister, a registered nurse, and my younger sister, then a respiratory therapist, both were working when Ben came in to the hospital for the last time.
He told them he had had a good life. And he was ready to go.
And he did.
That is my happy story this evening though it might not seem like one. Though my eyes are wet with tears remembering Ben, it’s the love I remember and not the sadness of his passing.
Your happy story can be about anything you want to share.
I believe my dog Ben awaits for me by the Pearly Gates. He’ll probably sit up excited when he sees me, come over to get his head patted, and then go curl up to go back to sleep. I know how he is.
thanks man. I just fed Boo about 1/2 pound of ground beef by hand. Then he took a huge drink. It’s a huge relief to have him eat. It means that I might still have a few day left with him. I can’t believe his heart is destroyed. It’s the last thing that I would predict would betray him.
I’d do anything for this dog, and the vet says there is nothing I can do.
If you haven’t had the privilege to know a Newfoundland first hand, go read this. There is something special about rescue dogs. And there is nothing like the character of a Newf.
Thanks Carnacki. I need happy stories.
I hope this one helped.
It’s one of those unremarkable little developments, what passes for “low-income housing” these days, little faux stucco 100K or so townhomes, in lumps of two, a Bradford pear in every 4 foot wide strip of “lawn,” no sidewalks, and when I last visited, the only ones who had any kind of plantings at all were the homes of “landscapers,” meaning young men, from Mexico usually, who make their living beautifying office parks.
This time, though, something had changed. Almost every mailbox had a little ruffle of begonias, petunias, around its base, almost every pear tree shared its tiny space with a geranium or two, an occasional hosta, hibiscus.
I remarked on this to my friend, whose own yardlet now sports a hesitant but promising little fringe of marigolds. “Well, yes, everybody has flowers now,” he said. “Since we got our Garden.”
He pointed me to a “unit” a few doors away, where I beheld what appeared to be an incipient miniature version of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, at least my vision of them. Lining the two-car concrete “driveway” were stately corridors of roses. Serious roses. Queen Elizabeth, Peace & Love, Tropicana, Blue Girl, Sunsprite, Hot Cocoa, I lost count. Beyond the precise scalloped brick rose enclosures floated blue clouds of plumbago, rioting petunias, impatiens, saucy salmon-colored geraniums, neon magenta painted daisies, I lost count again. Against the porch, 3 cheap white fan trellises had bettered their station by allowing themselves to be entwined with pink jasmine, miraculously still blooming, boastfully beating the roses at the game of who could make the thick humid air breatheable, and between them, hanging baskets of something I don’t remember, pink and purple and lavender, and above that, on the white porch railing, wooden planters, hand-made and hand painted, containing something purple and of all things, delphiniums.
To one side a fat old dowager of a hydrangea frowned at the sun as my friend told me the story. Just 6 months ago, a couple moved in. Latin Americans. (This little development happens to be my favorite kind of American neighborhood, almost every house contains people from a different country.) Even before the danger of frost had passed, they began planting. Cheap leftover bare-root roses from last season, the ones the garden centers mark down to $2 or $3 before throwing them out to make way for new merchandise. Then every week, nearly every day it would be something new. A little edging, a few blooms here, a yucca there, a basket – every day they are out here, spray, water mulch, trim, they just put that birdbath there, did you see the St. Francis? Bird seed in it, they have a Buddha on the other side, and oh, let me show you the back, no they won’t mind, but before we got to the back, from the house next door emerged a lady who frowned at the frowning hydrangea, went to her own hose, and watered it, speaking to it softly in a Jamaican accent, she smiled at us, and went back in.
After we had marvelled at “the back,”(which suffice it to say, was everything you’d expect and more, including elaborate handmade rose trellises, lined up exactly, with view windows, so that if you stood just right, you would see, presumably the sun on the day of the solstice in true Maya fashion, but on ordinary days, pink plastic flamingoes in a shady glade in the back of the diminuitive “grounds.”) another neighbor called out a greeting to my friend. From the Ukraine, he whispered, and waved and smiled as she proceeded to water the “Garden’s” roses that bordered her yardling before she turned the spray on her own begonias.
A father and son, out for a stroll, stopped to look, to smell, and then the father took out his handkerchief, and speaking softly to his son in Farsi, lovingly cleaned pigeon poo off the crown of the little Buddha whose arms held seeds, nuts, dried fruit chunks for the birds and squirrels. An elderly white woman slowly crossed the narrow street, and with difficulty, leaned on her cane and bent down to pinch off a defunct petunia by the mailbox.
Even when its custodians could not be there, the Garden is almost constantly tended by neighbors, many of whom did not even know the couple at all, or each other. And in the process, they are coming to know each other, and plant their own gardens.
“Look,” said my friend as we reluctantly left the Garden. “Have you ever seen a red, blue, and yellow bird all together at once?”
And there they were, perched on the shoulders and knees of the recently de-pooped Buddha, munching away, while on the other side of the driveway, a squirrel perched complacently on St. Francis’ head, while a family of mourning doves cooed over the buffet tray in his outstretched hand.
Shades of Willie Morris, Carnacki. A small touch of “Old Home Week”.
I really had the honor to know well (our family was mostly a cat family, and that was mainly my sister’s fault) were my best friend’s family’s pet Chihuahuas, Minx and her daughter Pleshette (my friend named her after Suzanne P., of course — that was during the original run of “The Bob Newhart Show”). They were not your typical yappy Chihuahuas, either — they were much too dignified for that.
Oh, and on the other end of the spectrum was my aunt’s Samoyed, Misty…a beautiful white bundle of joy. We absolutely loved each other to pieces.
I’ve never really experienced what it’s like to say goodbye to an animal for the last time…and not sure I want to…
When I was younger, our house was practically a zoo. We never had dogs, but had damn near everything else. Turtles, a cat, parakeets, finches, a ferret, hamsters, fish (lots of fish), an iguana, geckos, frogs, mice…well, you get the idea.
The first parakeet we ever had we named (creatively enough) Tweeter. Our cat’s name was Star. Star and Tweeter had a very interesting relationship. Star was very accustomed to sharing the house with all these other animals, so she had very much adopted a ‘live and let live’ approach. I was amazed at her complete disregard for all the tasty little morsels that were swimming, flying, and running around our house.
We’d often let Tweeter out of his cage to fly around the house. Being a daring type, Tweeter would occasionally tease Star. They had an interesting cat-and-mouse (ok, cat-and-bird) game, where Star would chase Tweeter, catch him in her front paws, lick him a couple times, and then let him go. Kind of like tag, but Star was always ‘it’.
Sometimes Star would be in a very lazy mood. Usually this would occur while she was sitting in an open window, absorbing some rays. If Tweeter wasn’t getting enough attention, he would fly over, land on Star, and start chirping at her, much to the delight and humor of anyone watching. She’d stare at him for a few seconds, yawn, and attempt to go back to sleep.
These are my dogs. Three of them are no longer living but all of them are with me still.
I’ve always thought it was interesting that its the big dogs who are so sweet and calm and the little ones are so aggressive.
When I was in high school and my family lived in Florida, we sort of accidentally inherited a tiny little bundle of energy named Beau (actually his papers said his name was Sir Beauregard De O’Hare). He was a pure-bred pomeranian. The American Kennel Club says pomeranians are “cocky, commanding, and animated.” That about sums it up.
My dad was doing well in business at the time, so we had a home with a swimming pool and a condo on the beach. The swimming pool had “snakes” that could be turned on the swivel in the pool and clean it. I remember Beau going crazy barking at whatever he thought was in the pool when they were turned on. And at the beach, he would charge and bark at waves as they were receeding and then get chased into submission when they were breaking. But neither experience ever stopped him from the next round. It was really hilarious to watch.
One day Beau ran away. We were all heartbroken and did all of the usual things to look for him. Finally one day a woman called and said she had found him. When we confirmed that it was Beau, she said, “Oh, I’m happy we found you but so sad for us. My grandkids just recently moved in with us because their parents are in the middle of an ugly divorce. All that has been so hard on them, but the dog has brought some joy into their lives.” My mom was torn, but decided to let them keep him and we never saw Beau again.
Dogs take care of us in all kinds of remarkable ways.
Yagan and Luna were the first Rottweilers I had. I fell in love with Rotties after meeting this huge one in a sublet with whom I had to share the house with. Baron was kind of aggressive and every time I had to go into the house he would growl at me. Once I was in the house he would be really nice to me.
So before moving to Argentina I bought two puppies. We lived for a year and a half in Bariloche, a small town in the southern Andes. It was a pleasure to see them running up and down the mountains.
After a year and a half, we all returned to the US we had to hitchhike to the border with Chile then take a train north to Santiago, and finally catch a plane here. Once in Miami, we had to make a connection to Milwaukee (the airline company had to change planes because of the size of the cages) From there we went to Madison.
After a while, Luna got pregnant. It was the first time I had dogs, and now I was expecting a shit load of puppies. Well, Luna laboured for quite a while, and all three puppies were stillborn.
I was so bummed. It was late night, so we went to sleep. After about an hour, we heard this high pitch bark. We both jumped out of bed, and immediately checked the room to try to find a puppy. We could not find any, but we still heard this tiny being calling. Luna had made her nest in the closet. We had her move, but still nothing. Suddenly she turned around, and I noticed something strange. I looked closely and I saw a little tiny head coming out of her vagina. Immediately called an emergency animal hospital, and they told me to put some butter in my fingers, make my way into the vagina and wrap them around the puppy’s shoulder and pull gently. Did as told, and I pulled this beautiful tiny puppy. Placed it by Luna, and she began to clean him.
It was super late night, and we were falling asleep. Yet, we decided to wait for a while longer. Luna started turning around and licking herself. When she turned around, once again I noticed something. Surely enough, there was something there. When I looked closer, there was another puppy. However this one was coming backwards.
This time I didn’t waist time. I grabbed her little tail, and gently pushed. She came out perfectly, and Luna began to clean her ever so delicately. She was breathing just fine. After a little while, they both started milking.
We had all four for about six months until we found them a good home. The house was so much fun. Luna was a great mother, and never let them out of her sight for the first 2 months. Yagan was a great dad too. I remember that the puppies would try to get to his food. One of them snuck right in between his legs and tried to get to the bowl. Yagan was growling loudly but did nothing. He did allow the tiny ones to dig into his food.
Luna lived 8 years and Yagan 14. It has been about 5 years that Yagan passed away, but I can still see them running up and down these mountain, ridding in the back of my old truck, or just laying by me. Heck, those two brats will always be with me. Their memory will never fade.
I’ve lost three cats over the years. I miss them every day. But that’s because each one added so much joy to my life, so much happiness.
Moonshadow, my first, was a dog in a cat’s body. Not too bright and terminally loyal, he was a sweetie.
Dilemma was a stray I tried to adopt. He was a dear and already dying when I took him in. The best I could do was see that he died warm and happy and clean. He was purring when he went.
Spot. Spot was splendid, fat and gentle and always there when I needed a kitty hug, or just a nudge. He sat next to me while I wrote for sixteen years and something of him is in all of my novels and stories. He’s very much missed.
They all brought me joy. So do the five who share my life now, Isabelle, Jordan, Nutmeg, Ashbless, and Leith. Pets are the friends who are there for us no matter what. I think it’s safe to say that Buster will be missed by everyone on this blog. I’ve met a few Newfs in person, and every one was a dear.
Hang in there, Booman. Hugs.
You’re my happy story right now. Thank you.
Circumstances have never allowed me to have a dog or cat. But I did have a big turtle while I was growing up. Clark, was actually quite responsive for a turtle. He would get very excited when I entered the room. Expecting to be fed, he would stand on his two back legs against the glass of his tank and scrape with his front legs. We took him on family vacations, in a basin in the back seat. Clark was actually pretty cool. For a turtle.
We have a long-haired black and tan dachshund. Rambo is the most busy dog I have ever known. He has to part of every activity in the house! Rambo is three years old and shares our home with Nichol, a five year old cat we adopted from the Humane Society.
These two bring such life and love into our home each day. Nichol like to sleep on a chair in my home office and Rambo spends his day “patrolling” the backyard! It is a sight to see, needless to say LOL! They provide plenty of love (they will come to you as if they sense you are not having a good day)and we just love them with all our hearts.
Thanks, Carnacki, for giving us the opportunity to share our happy stories!