Had you asked my father his
opinion of animals – specifically pets
– he would have certainly responded disapprovingly. Having been raised and growing up in a household
sans pets, his lifestyle did not leave room for animal stains in carpets, the
constant washing of drool off of once clear windows, tufts of discarded fur
clogging vacuums, nor muddy paws somehow catching that recently dry-cleaned
suit…
Of course, none of this mattered
to me. From a young age, there was one
thing that I wanted regardless of the aforementioned and it was the one thing
that I could not have: my dog. I, among others in this family, am well known
for hard-headedness and combined with the stubborn petulance of childhood, I
determined that I deserved a dog.
Although I do not recall how I got this fanatical idea in my head – be
it from those lucky kids down the street with their brand new puppy, Uncle
Danny’s beautiful Jody, my sister Cheryl’s spaniels, to Homeward Bound (one of my favorite childhood movies about three
lost pets) – as long as I can remember, I begged for a dog. Not only did I ask, I begged; not only did I
beg, I wrote stories about ‘my dog’ (specifically one called “Cally and Lacy”) that
if I look hard enough, I’ll find the only copy ever published by a five-year-old
Ms. Caitlin Sawatsky; not only did I write stories, I wrote letters to Santa
Clause – still hoping he checked his snail mail. Years passed, and my parents realized that my
affliction would not easily find remedy.
Thankfully my mother had been a
lifelong dog and pet lover – from birds to poodles, my mother had bred them,
raised them, groomed them, and loved them.
I found an advocate in her and although she was not entirely ecstatic
with the idea herself, she was not the unmoving boulder my father had proven to
be. Finally it seemed that I had made
some progress.
The search began. I was six.
I do not recall too many details and if I tried, multiple members of my
family would see to it that they correct my errors in memory. I do remember driving to the mountains to
meet some Airedales, which we soon learned were not a responsible choice for a
sub-Urban sprawl setting – we did not want neighborhood cats and children
falling victim to these beasts. Another
memory of mine includes a quick trip for cat food to Whitie’s Pets – a local
pet shop and Advertising client of my dad’s Ad Agency. As I tended to do, I scampered away from my
parents (which they generally did not find as amusing as I did) to the back of
the building where I knew the puppies and kittens to be. I learned recently John, the owner of
Whitie’s, had responded to my parents’ dog inquiries which was another reason
for our visit. Otherwise, this trip was
serendipitous: one of the employees opened up the cage of this shy grey puppy;
he had pointy ears, black spots, sable coloring and a beautiful white
mane. He did not seem little enough to
be considered a puppy, but my meager stature blurred my perspective. Other kids gathered, as animals have that
sort of bewitching power over young hearts, but this guy came to me. Granted, I would have melted over any
animal’s immediate approval but I picked this puppy up (proportionately too
large for my arms), and started screaming for my parents – as if anyone has
ever known me to be reserved and constrained.
That day lives in my wandering
mind as one of the happiest of my childhood: I brought home my first dog. Blue, as he came to be known, sat in my lap
in the back seat of our Ford Explorer (a detail that if I’m wrong I’ll certainly
receive notice). Upon entering the
house, my father called out to my brother, engrossed in video games or a
television program, “Aaron – come meet the new member of the family!” I do not remember my brother’s opinion on
having a pet dog – he had a cat, notoriously called Balls, Black Nuts, Eunuch,
and the like. Surprised, and likely
fascinated, he saw this shy puppy on a purple leash enter into our house, our
lives and hastily into our hearts for the first time on a pleasant day in
February of 1996.
To our surprise, this shy and
reserved creature quickly warmed to his surroundings probably understanding on
a basic level that this was home. There
have probably been hundreds of different occasions within the last sixteen
years taken by mocking family members to remind me how I broke my Blue’s leg
and I shall take this opportunity to set the record straight. I had yet to discern my living, breathing
puppy from one of the hundreds of stuffed toys I had acquired. I’d like to think of myself as imaginative
and creative, while simultaneously practical and generous: I built Blue a large
pillow castle – a castle which could not support his weight and sent him
rolling to the floor to land hard, which he responded screaming with pain. For months, I remember Blue in his large
cast, relearning how to walk, and forever somewhat more timid around me. Even into my twenties, thinking on the
incident I am wrought with guilt.
Before and after said
leg-breaking incident, this dog pranced – which became an integral part of his
identity, because my mother decided to include “Prancer” into his name, a
naming process which did not come easily to us.
It seems more important to discern the perfect name for a dog; one that
will remain unchanged and one that is forever a special code between pet owner
and pet. A pet naming process which we
certainly took more seriously than we did when naming cats (i.e. Eunuch, Kitty,
Black Nuts, Little Kitty, etc.). Mind
you, “Prancer” Blue became a solid basis for this family’s firm belief that our
boy was actually gay, something that can be discussed at a later date: I do not
think my [denial plagued] mother would approve of that inclusion – to this day,
she is the only family member unwilling to accept her gay dog. (By the way, Blue was gay – from “Prancer
Blue,” and his purple leash, to his snotty rejection to breed with a willing
mate, to those affections for my brother-in-law…most of us have come to accept this as fact.)
Apparently my father does not
remember that Blue was named for his beautiful eyes. He was a Blue Merle Shetland Sheepdog and
half of his left eye was a pale blue, the color of the sky. He was the most energetic creature – he
played soccer, he worked feverishly as guard dog to the front door and
frantically to the swimming pool – he would circle that pool until his paws
bled, but would never jump or fall in.
You could not steal any scraps that he happened to commandeer, ones
which found their way into his bite – his temper for people-food was lethal. He howled at the melodies escaping the house
phone’s answering machine: in fact, my mother used to call the house when Aaron
was asleep, and leave messages to Blue insisting that he awaken our sleeper. He would howl to the sound of it (along with
my mother’s taste in music). For some
time, he’d spend most of his walk time on his hind legs barking at passing cars,
clarifying his authority. Also a very
smart dog, he was a master at hide-and-seek.
Tremendously obedient, he could never fail at fetch; realizing this, I
would throw whatever ball or object of his affection across the house, quickly
hide, and he would always smell me out. We
realized just how accommodating he was when he welcomed our second (and
recently our third) dog into the family: he shared, never fought, and always
managed to remain patient and loyal – unfortunately our alpha-Female found it
difficult to offer the same kindness.
There are so many incredible
things this dog was, and is, to this family.
For one, he turned my father into a dog lover – unnatural to his
brothers and sisters. He took to his
vacuuming, stain-spraying, and window washing – it may have been a chore, but
he never begrudged this dog. Blue saw me
through the best years of my childhood, my teenage years, and watched me turn
twenty-one. He saw our beloved Eunuch
pass. He met most of Aaron’s and my
childhood friends, and all of my siblings’ children – licked the faces of my
oldest nephew Jacob on down to infant Kyle – and all four between. He was a licker: he incessantly licked my
mother’s feet, to Aaron’s and my chagrin; he licked our old cat, and we soon
found out said cat was suffering disease.
He patiently followed and licked my father, and we soon found out said
father was also seriously ill.
I will forever think fondly of my
first dog –my first dog: A beautiful, graceful, energetic athlete
boiling over with spirit. I have so many
stories and anecdotes (obviously plagued by Sawatsky hyperbole) I could share,
but I did not intend to write a novel! – it would come easily when speaking on
our furry best friends.
As many have noted, it is hard to
watch one of your best friends find their final resting place; thankfully he
has found peace, and no amount of time will cause me to forget these memories,
nor that unique love Blue inspired. I
will always love Blue: the perfect pet, for a natural animal lover. Sixteen years is a long time to have a close
friend – many people come and go in that time, many have reminded me within the
last few days. Because his life
coalesced so well with all of ours over these years I think we tried to
convince ourselves that Blue would be with us forever; try as he sure did, that
was one promise that could not be kept. He
was always here, waiting at the garage door when we came home, and scratching
at whatever door he decided should open for him until those final days where we
had to carry him from room to room, beleaguered with the maladies accrued by
old age. Dogs truly are a perfect
companion for humankind; at any age, and for any generation these demonstrative
creatures teach even the resistant to learn to accept and nourish a different
kind of love.
