| The Replacement Dog |
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In April of that year, Otter, the beloved chocolate lab had been killed by a car. In June, Heidi, the adopted German shepherd was diagnosed with cancer. The reality was soon that Raven, the magnificent but ever so shy black shepherd would be, for the first time in her life, alone. I had always believed in having more than one dog. There is no greater expense, they have each other for company, are better behaved and live longer. It’s also more fun. So that summer, I made my way to the A.D.O.P.T. pet shelter in Naperville to find another dog for Raven – a replacement dog. I was shown two dogs that morning – Hayward, a pleasant, congenial yellow lab and a bizarre little shepherd. With oversized paws and an exceptionally long tongue, a frenetic look and hyper-kinetic energy, the dog was unnerving. Even the name, Ursula, I disliked. But wanting to make sure this was the right time, I waited. How different my life would have been if I had chosen that first day, for when I returned Hayward had been adopted. That left Ursula. While I listened to Camille Stelter, one of the volunteers, try to convince me to adopt her, out of the corner of my eye I could see Ursula racing around the enclosed area like a teen-age driver with a Corvette. Thinking I could end the conversation and move on, I made the mistake of asking Ms. Stelter to give me just one reason why I should adopt this creature. “Because no one else wants her,” she answered. I was dead. So I reluctantly loaded her into the jeep and started home. Ursula positioned herself with head on the dividing arm rest, gazing up at me with these huge brown eyes and a look of peaceful contentment. Maybe this will work, I thought. I, of course, was completely wrong. It would not be the last time. She was incorrigible and uncontrollable. She aggressively went after other dogs, people, bikes, cars, pickup trucks and even a train. She charged the television if an animal appeared and any man who entered the house carrying anything in his hands would be attacked. It confirmed my belief she had been abused. On walks, she would race off into the woods or fields, returning only when tired, that tongue hanging to one side, with a look of joyous accomplishment, as if waiting for me to congratulate her. She tore apart the garbage, destroyed furniture, and ate my shoes and new suit. Although I never showed it, there were times she even intimidated me. My life was being destroyed by 50 pounds of dementia! Twice I called Ms. Stelter to return her. She patiently listened to my complaints and then gently reminded me why I had taken her. Both times I relented. Perhaps it was because I had been adopted and knew the feeling of being unwanted and undervalued. Maybe it was because I was determined not to fail. Most likely, though, despite everything, I found her to be both entertaining and oddly endearing. I had never liked walking a dog on a leash. To me, the dog becomes nothing more than a trinket on an owner’s elongated charm bracelet and it inhibits the dog from being – well, a dog. So while our twice-a-day treks were sometimes akin to a high wire act without a net, they were always interesting and at times amazing. The first time I watched Ursula chase a rabbit left me stunned. With shocking speed, she was closing the gap when the rabbit made a ninety degree cut to the right. I smiled, knowing she would go flying by. Instead, she shot straight into the air, twisted to see which way the rabbit had veered, turned in the right direction and hit the ground, still at full speed. I stood there mouth agape. I had never seen any dog, any animal do that. Despite never weighing much more than fifty-five pounds (it was years before I learned she was not a German but an Australian shepherd) Ursula had no fear of anyone or anything. Three times she wound up in life and death struggles with raccoons. Each time I stood there helpless as the battle spilled into the water, each time the raccoon pulled her under and each time I was sure she had been drowned. Each time she emerged the victor. With her personality, I dreaded taking her to either the vet or to be groomed. Fearing the worse, she not only was well-behaved, she was so cooperative and friendly, she became a favorite at both places. Once again, she had left me confused. She never got lost. I came to understand that if she ran under the fence in an industrial area, I could continue walking knowing she would find another way out and be waiting for me. I once found her straddling a support beam extending over the middle of the foundation of an unfinished building. One slip meant a thirty foot drop into rebar and cement. I froze in terror. Ursula turned around and walked back across the beam like an Olympic gymnast. In the summer, she liked to swim while I lobbed stones to her which she caught and spit out. In the winter, it was snowballs, catching them with soaring grace. After the veterinarian wrapped her leg in a “dog-proof bandage” because of a deep cut, I watched her rapt concentration as she gnawed the cast until it came undone. Twice more the cast was reapplied and twice more it came off. The vet gave up. While other dogs were in constant need of attention and petting, Ursula was more subtle. Instead, she always put herself in a position where she knew where I was. Whether it was sitting across from me in the living room, following me to bed each night, sitting outside the shower or trotting behind me while I rode the lawn mower, tossing tennis balls back to her, she needed to know. Most amusing was when I left her in the jeep. I would return to find her sitting bolt upright right behind the steering wheel, completely absorbed in my return. I loved the look on people’s faces. I had long acknowledged how smart Ursula was, but I was to learn she was also complex. Shortly after Raven unexpectedly died, my daughter stopped over to show me Alex, a new puppy that I would eventually “steal” from her. Too late, I realized that it wasn’t my daughter but her fiancé who was carrying in this new dog. He had never met Ursula. A strange man not only holding something, but a dog! I rushed to stop the impending disaster but as I rounded the corner it was I who stopped. Not only had Ursula immediately granted entry to Alex but also my future son-in-law. Before or after, he became the only man to ever be so welcomed and the only other man she obeyed. I will never know how or why. Alex and then Lucy revealed another layer. While there was never any doubt as to who was in charge, she allowed Alex to push and pull, to bully and badger her, all with a look of patient tolerance. She became both his playmate and mentor. When I brought in Lucy, another adoptee, she came into the house with the insane delusion that she was the alpha dog. There followed a period of “attitude adjustment” by Ursula to make sure that Lucy understood there was only one lead dog and she wasn’t it. Afterwards, Ursula not only accepted Lucy but became this tender, maternal figure, as if to make up for the discipline she had meted out. I wondered if I would ever understand her. With all that, the thing that was most compelling was her face. Those extraordinary eyes told me with a single glance what she was thinking or feeling and in turn that she understood my moods and my emotions. She was there on all those ordinary days. She was there on those days of happiness and success. She was there on those days of sadness and disappointment and in the last great personal folly of my life, heartbreak. Through the best and worse she was there, always knowing when to be animated and when to wait patiently. Years before, I had put in an enclosed fence and dog door but I continued our twice daily trips. When I said I had to leave to take the dogs out, it was really she I was anxious to see. Waiting at the door with that expression of happiness and excitement, playfully, teasingly, pawing at my feet as I tried to change clothes, she made these the moments I looked forward to the most. No matter how much I cared about Alex and Lucy, it was always Ursula. The dog that no one wanted became the epitome of what a dog should be. Fierce, determined, fearless, willful, protective, and independent. Gentle, patient, compassionate, kind and sensitive. Each described her but left to a single word it would be pride. The tremendous pride with which she always carried herself and the pride I had in her. This dog that I tried to return not once but twice, that had come into my life like a full-force tornado became the best friend I had ever had and I was absolutely crazy about her. On December 4th, after more than fifteen years, Ursula, the replacement dog died. It is spring now and I don’t know if there will come a day that I don’t think about her or this feeling of emptiness and loss will fade. What I do know is that the words ‘replacement dog’ overwhelms me with emotion and shame. The shame that I could have ever thought of her or any dog that way, for each is so wonderfully unique. I have learned many things from dogs. In their worlds, there are no lies, deceit, or betrayal. No dishonesty, excuse or pretense. Just acceptance or rejection. A simple black and while rule in a world of gray. From them, from Ursula, I finally understood the true meaning of loyalty and friendship and that death is not to be just accepted but faced with courage and integrity. A dog gives you the very best they have, everyday of their lives. Not just love and companionship because these words do not begin to define the depth of the relationship but the greatest gift of all--the knowledge that no matter what the rest of the world may think of us, there is someone, something that has complete faith and belief in everything we do. We are only human beings, consumed by the ordinary, the mundane, the trivial, and can never match a dog’s consistency. I believe that’s all right. It’s all right, as long as in those last few months we put aside our personal lives, the frustration, the fatigue, and be guided by a simple principle. To keep trying, to never stop, never give up, to not quit until they want to quit. I think if we do that, then the balance sheet will be even. Alex is 14 now, almost blind and finds his way around more by memory and feel than sight, so bringing in another dog would be unfair and confusing. But if Lucy and I find ourselves alone, I will begin to look for another dog. Only this time I will not be looking for the pure bred or most attractive or well-behaved. I’ll look for that dog that has that hint of rebellion in its eyes, the dog that is a bit off-center, perhaps even that dog that nobody else wants. Even at my age, the odds are that it will end badly. Yet, I’ve learned that that pain will have been more than atoned for in advance by the years of fun and friendship, the years of love and trust, the years of quiet moments. By all those years of sharing. It was the last great lesson a replacement dog had to teach. |
