Black Dogs

A personal study once led me to conclude that black dogs are the best. This update makes a case for including other colors.

 In 1958 my great uncle Otto found us Rusty, an unkempt brown cocker spaniel who spent his formative years chained to a tree in a distant front yard. I was about four years old, but I can remember Rusty being tied to a steel support column in our basement, where he affirmed my parents' belief that he got his name by leaving rust-colored stains on the tile floor, the living room carpet, or anywhere else he had a chance to pee. He did not understand “Stay!” and ran away every chance he got. 

My dad was not an athletic man, and the fastest I ever saw him move was running after Rusty up our driveway at full throttle into our neighbor’s backyard graduation party one early June afternoon. He muttered a number of things when he brought Rusty back to our house, literally at the end of his rope. We had Rusty for less than two weeks. 

Our next dog was Rebel. It was a big name for a toy poodle who looked his shaggy best just before a periodic topiary haircut turned him into a living French evergreen. He was neurotic but loving, a total lap dog we bought as a puppy. A puzzled aunt once commented, “What’s wrong with his little pink tongue?” when Reb sat throwing her kisses from across the room, licking her face from afar. He turned gray and died at the age of ten, just as I turned twenty. He was my first dog-bro.

Yankee (do you see the creative pattern here?) was acquired at no charge from a farmer whose black Lab and Collie got together and had love puppies. He was a dust-covered ball of long black hair that chased tolerant but annoyed horses around their pasture and was thrilled to come home and be my friend for four short years. He slept outside the door of my room, ate furniture, aluminum chain link fence filler strips, and giant rawhide bones. My frightened grandmother held him at bay with her cane until the day I suggested she cautiously hand him a Milkbone. That was the beginning of his weight-gaining period. She had the same effect on me. It was her way of showing love.  

Yankee was an undisciplined runner and not much of a bodyguard. Sadly, he took a tumble down a flight of outdoor wooden stairs and injured his spine. 

After a month of medication to rest his paralyzed back legs, I had to make one of the hardest trips of my life—wearing very dark sunglasses. 

I came home and wrote the following poem.

No way to make him understand

The legs that numb behind him drag

Up to the feet of master-man

His eyes are sad, his tail wags.

 

How do you tell a four-year-old

Who loves but never learned to talk

That life is over, all is told

A final meal, a final walk.

 

And choking now gives way to tears

Decision made, how long I wait

His final moments feel like years

And leave me here to contemplate.

 

Some hastened words, fluorescent glow

"Inject, dispose, cremate, decay"

A signature, a check, and go

Back home to put the toys away.

 

Our next dog came after a long hiatus and with the advent of kids. Jett was black too. Jet black. A sad-eyed orphan found on the streets of Waukegan, he was a complete but extremely well-behaved mess who cleaned up into a handsome young man-dog. He spent eleven years with us, filling every moment of our family life with a presence that lived on in happy reminders and left us wishing for another friend this good. He took his last breaths while I laid beside him on the floor and comforted him. He seemingly waited for our daughter to rush home from college to say goodbye and for everyone to go to bed as if it was then okay to go. I carried him to the vet the next day, carefully wrapped in a little brown blanket. Another of the most painful memories of my life. 

Jett had a “cousin” named Mo. He was a large black Lab who visited us with his “Mom” and Dunkin Donuts on weekends. You felt safe when he was around because he looked like a panther but would submit to lesser dogs, and was no protection at all. He was a good boy who asked little and gave much. My wife accompanied her sister the night he left us in a room filled with love and tears.

On a lighter note… I eventually found a dog I did not love. He lived next door to the house we eventually moved away from, and was a true sociopath, like his owner. Unlike his tan, fuzzy next-door neighbor across the street who looks skyward and happily chases airplanes, Buster chased ducks, killed raccoons, and dragged a dead baby skunk into his house. He was a hunting dog living in the suburbs. He ate my pond fish, dug holes in our yard, chewed up our aluminum downspouts, and stared crazily at us through our living room window. He was insane. He was not a black dog. 

But then our son bought a dachshund puppy while he was in the Peace Corps in Guatemala. The dog’s name is Griffey (after a favorite baseball player), and we first met him via Skype. He cost 1000 quetzals, which sounds like a lot of money. In Guatemala, dogs don’t get much respect. They are utilitarian for the most part, serving as guard dogs. Griffey looked like a burrito when my son held him up for viewing, and was completely cute. He speaks Spanish and is brown. He changed my mind. When we vacationed in Guatemala we of course stayed with our son. That meant sharing flea-infested quarters with Griffey, who wanted nothing more than to snuggle up next to us while we slept but was literally covered with crawling, blood-sucking insects. The poor little guy was repeatedly sent away from our beds to a patch of concrete floor until he quit trying. He remained in Guatemala and went on to father six pups with another dachshund down the road. They are adorable.

And this brings us to the latest members of our family. His first is named Toby. Our daughter went with us to the local shelter called Orphans of the Storm while on a break from school. We intended to “just look.” As Melissa strolled ahead of us past a cage with a brown and white Jack Russell Terrier/Dachshund mix, the little guy practically threw himself on his back for a belly rub and won her heart. We rushed back on a lunch hour the next day to make sure nobody else adopted him. We didn't realize that everyone in the world except us knows about the Jack Russell's high-energy reputation and there was no danger of him going anywhere quickly. His adoption papers stated "Can't Keep" as his reason for being at Orphans. He’s been with us for about ten years now. He is a constant challenge. Smart, high energy, and a completely alpha male, he makes us laugh, keeps us on our toes, and is so territorial that not even birds flying overhead go unannounced. I guess he's Jett's younger brother.

And that would mean that Lennon is Toby's nephew. This handsome young Golden Retriever is living in Illinois, much too far away but frequently showing up in cute photos and videos on our phones. He has an amazingly human personality and a sweet disposition. Named after John Lennon by his Beatles super-fan Mom, he sheds enough to keep the family warm in winter. He recently graduated from his first obedience class.

And surprise! Suddenly Lennon has a little brother named George. We can only hope that four Beatles does not lead to four dogs. They are insanely cute together. Lennon acts more like George's Mom than his brother. He is beyond tolerant, and look at them! What a great pair, and have both grown to ninety pounds. They are the source of endless cute dog pictures.

Next came Matti, the Little-Big-Dog who has visited us multiple times. He now resides in Mexico. The cutest little ball of fur ever, he plays with Toby while at our house, leading him on chases from one room to the next and eventually hiding in small, safe spaces. He even took a stroll across the pool cover, barely bending the plastic surface at only four pounds. His Dad cuts his hair, especially when it covers his eyes or attracts spiky seeds after long walks with his Mom.

Finally, Mo's younger "brother" has found a place in Wisconsin, a place of many more storms than you would think unless you're afraid of thunder and know better. Bandit is a black and white two-year-old Border Collie mix who loves rabbits and squirrels and sometimes snoozes on his back. He likes belly rubs and kisses. He is super smart. He also enjoys peanut butter dog cookies.

So given recent developments, I have to say that all dogs are best. And it really isn’t about color or even the animal. I really believe that dogs are inherently good creatures. Owners create bad dogs and bad behavior. It’s not the dog’s fault. 

 😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

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