Born to Bark (45 page)

When we were back in the city again. I was looking forward to a three-day (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday) dog show. Flint was not in competition, but Wizard was, and I was planning to take both dogs out to the show Friday afternoon. Flint loved to socialize at dog shows, and all of my friends from the dog club would be there for me to socialize with as well.

That Thursday night Flint did not try to climb onto the bed but lay on one of the floor pillows, whimpering and shaking. He had eaten his dinner heartily, and had seemed to be all right early in the evening. Concerned, I carefully ran my hands over his body, prodding and pushing gently to see if a specific place was sore. He didn’t seem to be in real pain, but to be feeling some kind of general discomfort. I thought that he might just be suffering from some sort of muscle pain from overexerting himself after some vigorous play with our next door neighbor’s little girl, Clara,
that afternoon. I gave him a half an aspirin and some water and promised to take him to the veterinarian in the morning.

Wizard actually seemed to be more concerned than I was. He stood close to Flint and whined a bit, looking at me and then back to my gray dog. Finally, he walked over to the corner where some clothing was lying on the floor (because the clothes hamper was over full as usual). He rooted around and eventually pulled out one of my sweatshirts. He dragged it over to Flint and, by tugging and pushing with his paws, arranged it like a blanket over him. Flint watched him but otherwise he didn’t move or try to shake it off. Then Wiz lay down, with his body touching Flint as if to prov
ide some of his own biological warmth for his friend.
He stayed there for the whole night and never came to bed with me, either.

In the morning Flint appeared to be a lot better, although he was moving a bit slowly. He ate his breakfast—which I considered to be a good sign. Nonetheless, I still wanted to take him to the vet, just to be sure that there was no serious problem.

We went out to my car, and Flint hopped up onto the front passenger seat as he always did when Joan was not with us. He then stretched out on the seat. As we drove I looked out at the bright sunshine that looked like it was coating the world with a yellow butterscotch glow, and I assured him, “You and Wiz will get a really good walk this afternoon in that park near the dog show. We have sunshine predicted for the whole weekend.” Flint’s only response was a single whimper, which could have meant anything.

I pulled up in front of the veterinarian’s office. I noticed that Flint did not pop up in anticipation of leaving the car the way that he always did before. When I went around to his side and opened the door, he seemed to be unconscious and unresponsive. I felt a surge of panic. I quickly lifted him in my arms and raced into the vet’s office. His receptionist looked up at me and I barked, “Kay, please get Dr. Moore right away!”

She jumped up, threw open the door to the examining room, and gestured for me to go in. A moment later the vet appeared. He ran his hands over Flint’s unmoving body, then he grabbed a stethoscope. A minute or two later he dropped his hands to his sides, looked at me, and said simply, “I’m sorry.”

“He was fine this morning,” I blubbered.

“He was getting old, and he’s gone now,” was all that he said.

I looked at that old gray grizzled face and noticed tear tracks running down his muzzle. I had no doubt in my mind at that moment that he had been quietly weeping during our short ride here. I certainly also knew that there were matching tear tracks running down my face.

I stood outside the vet’s office. I was in shock. I looked down at the leash and collar in my hand—a leash attached to nothing and an empty collar. I remember that what had been soft sweet sunshine on the way here now cast a hard yellow light that made the world look as if it had suddenly turned to cold unyielding brass.

I have no recollection of the ride home. I just remember opening the door to the house and having Joannie look up at me with distress in her eyes and ask “What’s wrong?”

“Flint …” I was finding it hard to breathe, hard to talk. “Flint … My Flint … He won’t be back.”

Joan rushed over and put her arms around me. Joan might have really wanted to dance in the street at the news that Flint was gone, having lived in such a state of cold war with him for so long. She might have made a cold or cutting comment to express her relief that a being that had stressed her so had died. But she was my Joannie, and she loved me miles above the level of her distress with my dog. So she quietly held me and repeated over and over, “I know how much you loved him.”

Eventually, I got control of myself. I was still clutching Flint’s leash and collar, and my fingers were stiff as I dropped them on the table. I went into the bathroom and washed my face and tried some deep breathing to get back to normal.

When I returned to the living room I called Wizard over to me. The touch of his soft fur was comforting. I then hooked a leash onto his collar and picked up the small satchel that contained the various bits of equipment and supplies that I used for dog shows.

“Where are you going?” Joan asked with concern.

“I have a dog show to go to,” I said, and was surprised at how hoarse my voice was.

“Do you think that that is wise? I mean, being at an obedience competition is just going to remind you so much of him and it may hurt worse.”

I gave Joan a hug and said, “You know I love you, but I need to be with people who not only knew him but feel the way that I do about him.”

She gave a thin, sad smile and said, “If it does get difficult, just come home early. I do know how much you loved him.” She leaned her head against mine and whispered softly, “And you should know how much I love you.”

A bit less than an hour later I arrived at the show. Wizard had sat the whole time on the passenger seat, which he used to share with Flint. We didn’t talk, but I often reached over to stroke his fine soft fur. When we entered the arena, Shirley and both Barbaras were sitting next to the obedience ring and, as I walked toward them, Shirley bolted from her chair and came to me.

“What’s wrong? You look like a truck ran over you.”

I told her that Flint was gone, and was surprised that I could do it without my voice breaking and without releasing the surge of emotion that I couldn’t hide from Joannie a short time ago. Both Barbaras got up and crowded close. They asked what had happened and I told them.

Barbara Merkley then quietly said, “He must have loved you very much to go that quickly and to not put you in the position of making that final choice for him,” then she gave me a hug.

Someone had pulled up a chair for me and someone else brought me a cup of coffee. We sat quietly talking. Everyone had a Flint story to tell and all were funny accounts of his random and oddly thought-out behavior. As various people came over to say hello and learned about his passing they added their own personal observations about him.

Every dog who has shared my life has had its own character with its strengths and foibles. Each had a story and each added its experiences to my way of thinking and my personal psychological make-up. Before Flint, however, the influence of each dog had been confined to the area within the walls of my house and the people living there. Dogs are not suns that radiate their light over vast distances, but rather candles that illuminate the small spaces in which we live—the spaces in which we feel. When they are gone, only those who lived in their limited light recognize that the
world has become a bit darker. It was, therefore, a great comfort to me to see that many people had noted Flint’s presence, even if just in little observations or amusing scraps of memory. I don’t recall if I actually competed with Wiz that day, but I felt somewhat healed and in control by the time that I returned home.

Later that night I had a dream. In it Flint is lying beside the gates of Heaven and an angel comes out to ask him why he didn’t come in. In a voice that I don’t remember giving to him ever before my gray dog answers,
“Can’t I just stay out here awhile? I’ll be good and I won’t even bark. You see, I’m waiting for someone that I miss very much. If I went in alone it wouldn’t be Heaven for me.”

I woke from that dream to find tears on my face, and when I went to wipe them off, Wizard, who had been lying beside me, sat up and began to lick the wetness from my face. In my mind I heard him talking to me in that quiet voice that I had long ago given to him,
“It will be all right. I am here for you. Rest easy—before he went away Flint left me instructions on what to do.”

Over the course of my life I have come to believe that God has created many types of angels—and some of them bark.

I have walked out into the field behind our new house on the farm. This is the house that Joan designed and served as the general contractor for. It has been a long time since Flint roamed this field on the hunt. Wizard was my comfort for 7 years after Flint left me, and other dogs joined him, or followed. There was never another terrier, since I had promised Joannie that, but there was my big, elegant, black, flat-coated retriever, Odin—the dog that Joan loved above all others. There was another Cavalier King Charles spaniel, this one named Banshee, who shared my life for a
while and who loved plush toys even more than Wiz did.

Right now I am looking at my Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever, Dancer, and my beagle, Darby. Dancer is scanning the field attentively, while Darby has his nose to the ground, the way that beagles always do. Suddenly Darby startles a gray field rat from cover. The rat skitters between the two dogs and heads for the edge of the field where blackberry bushes can provide a safe hiding place. Both of the dogs stand and watch the rat for a moment, then glance up at me, making no effort to give chase.

I am forced to laugh. I tell the dogs, “Flint would have never passed up that opportunity to hunt or at least to chase.”

Darby looks at me and in his hound voice says,
“Flint was different, wasn’t he, Dad?”

Darby is the only dog that has ever called me “Dad.” He has a typical hound nature, soft, sociable, and as difficult to train as
Flint was—not because he is as independent and innovative as Flint was, but rather because events going on inside his sensitive nose are far more important than the lessons I may try to teach him. Dancer is much more trainable. He loves to work and he calls me “Boss.”