Every time I see a dog in a movie, I think the same thing: I want that dog. I see Skip or Lucy or Shiloh and for a moment I can't even think about the movie's plot. I can only think about the dog. I want to hold it, pet it, take it for walks, and tell it what a good dog it is. I want to love it, and I want it to love me. I have an empty space inside myself that can only be filled by a dog.
Not a cat. I have had cats and I was fond of them, fonder than they ever were of me. But what I want is unconditional love, and therefore I want a dog. I want to make its life a joy. I want to scratch behind its ears, and on its belly when it rolls over. I want to gently extend its tail so the dog can tell it's a fine tail indeed. I want to give it a shampoo, and sneak it bites from the table, and let it exchange the news with other dogs we meet on the street. I want it to bark at the doorbell, be joyous to see my loved ones, shake hands, and look concerned if I seem depressed. If I throw a ball I want the dog to bring back the ball and ask me to throw it again.
If you've read John D. McDonald's Travis McGee books, you'll remember Meyer, the hairy economist, who lived on a neighboring houseboat. He went to dinner with some new boat-owners at the Marina, and when he got back McGee asked him what they were like.
"They were bores," Meyer said. "Do you know what a bore is?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me, Meyer."
"A bore, Travis, is someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with companionship."
For me, that's the problem with cats. If they follow me all over the house, it's not because they want to play, it's because they think something edible might turn up, or that I will entertain them. If these prospects seem remote, a cat will simply stay where it is, idly regard me as I leave the room, lick itself a little, and go back to sleep.
Blackie and me
I had cats named Orange Cat and Sports Fan. They were swell cats and all that, but they could take me or leave me. After we got married, Chaz confided that she did not enjoy the cats jumping on the table during dinner and staring intently at her plate.
"They won't grab anything unless you leave the table," I said.
"That isn't the point," she said.
I realized that one of the peculiarities of women is that they don't want their dinner anywhere near inquisitive little paws that have been busy in the litter box. Men aren't like that so much.
I never met a dog that didn't beg at the table. If there is a dog that doesn't, it has had all the dog scared out of it. But a dog is not a sneak thief like a cat. It doesn't snatch and run. Only if presented with an irresistible opportunity. It is a dinner companion. It is delighted that you are eating, thinks it is a jolly good idea, and wants to be sure it's as delicious as you deserve. You are under a powerful psychological compulsion to give it a taste, particularly when it goes into convulsions of gratitude. Dogs remember every favor you ever do for them, and store those events in a memory bank titled, Why My Human is a God.
I can hardly pass a dog on the street without wanting to pet it. If you first let them slowly smell your hand, they'll usually let you. Some guys will admire a babe's dog so they can chat her up. With me, it's strictly a matter of getting to know the dog. Quality time with a dog calms me and makes me feel content. On my way to writing about this, I came across an article from Salon that explained this phenomenon. Friendliness between Man and Dog releases a chemical into both the human and canine blood streams, which is why they both like it so much. The chemical is named oxytocin. You're already ahead of me: Yes, reader, that is the chemical associated with the emotion called Elevation.
My dad and Blackie
I had two dogs when I was a boy, Blackie and Ming. They had those names because the Dominican sisters told us dogs didn't have souls, and so it would be a sin against the Holy Ghost, I think it was, to give them a saint's name. This sent me racing to the encyclopedia, because I had never heard of a Saint Roger, although probably it would seem strange to name a dog after yourself. You wouldn't want your mom shouting through the screen door for the whole neighborhood to hear: "Roger, get your nose out of that garbage and get back in the house!" Luckily, there was a Saint Roger Niger of Beeleigh Abbey, so the question didn't arise. He was consecrated Bishop of London in 1229, so that was good. Blackie was half beagle and half spaniel. Ming was a Pekingese. But not a toy Pekingese, I hasten to add. He was a good-sized dog, earnestly dedicated to chasing things, chewing things, and barking at everything that could not be chased or chewed. You know how you associate certain memories with books? I can never look at Oscar Lewis's Children of Sanchez without observing that Ming chewed a good half-inch off the spine.
On Ming I lavished the attention that Blackie was denied. The tragedy of Blackie was that he was not allowed in the house. My father wouldn't allow it. This was not because he disliked Blackie. "Boy," he said, "you picked a bad time to bring a dog home. We've just Installed Wall-to-Wall Carpeting."
Jackie Yates and her dog Snooker
Somehow you could hear that the phrase was capitalized, right down to the "I" in "Installed." Wall-to-Wall Carpets were a big deal in the late 1940s, along with picture windows, always referred to as Big Picture Windows. You can see we were up to date at our house. But it is the nature of a dog to take an interest in carpets, and the threat to Wall-to-Wall Carpeting was particularly alarming, because If Anything Happened to It We'd Have to Tear the Whole Thing Up.
So Blackie lived in our back yard, and for a blessed summer we were a dog and his boy, running all over the neighborhood--for dogs and boys ran free in those days. He went to baseball games with me, and chased after my bike to Harry Rusk's market, and we went to the park. He knew all my friends. Blackie had an active circle of his own friends, including his brother Pepper, who lived next door at Karen Weaver's house, and his pal Snookers, a dachshund who lived one door down on Maple Street with Jackie Yates.
Karen Weaver, who owned Blackie's brother Pepper
Then autumn leaves began to fall. Soon it was winter, with early snow on the ground. I was back in school. Pepper and Snookers went to live inside. As a shelter, Blackie was given my old playhouse in the back yard, with a dog house inside and blankets on the floor. "He'll grow his winter coat," my dad said. But Blackie spent long days and nights cold and lonely, and I was acutely aware of this. Blackie would hear the sound of the school bus and start barking for me, and I would run out to the back yard to comfort him, for he would be sobbing. "I'm sorry, Blackie boy. I'm sorry." My heart was breaking, but I couldn't stay out there forever. When I went indoors and stood over the hot air register to thaw out, I felt torn up inside. I had betrayed him. But I could understand that my father had a point. Maybe that's why "Shiloh" hit me so hard.
I showed "Shiloh" one year at Ebertfest, and our guest was the great actor Scott Wilson, who plays the reclusive squirrel-hunter who is so mean to Shiloh. After the movie, we invited kids from the audience up on the stage. A little girl timidly asked Scott, "Mister, why are you so mean?"
Scott could have replied by explaining how he was only an actor and it was only a role. He showed what a perfect instinct he has. He said, "Honey, I just don't know. But I learned my lesson."
A few weeks into Blackie's exile, Jackie Yates' father, a nice man, mentioned to my father that Blackie howled half the night under their bedroom window. I knew this was the truth, because his lonely cries kept me awake. Sometimes I would open the storm window and call out "It's okay, Blackie boy." But I knew it wasn't okay, and my voice only inspired more laments. I tried peeking out from behind my curtain. Sometimes in the moonlight Blackie would be standing outside his little house, gazing reproachfully at my window. Through the bedroom door at night, I heard snatches of conversation from the living room: never stops barking...the boy...the dog...Roger loves that dog...I know, I know...Bob Yates...keeps me awake, too...
It was announced that my Cousin Bernardine in Stonington had invited me for a visit. That meant my first airplane ride, in an Ozark Airlines DC-3 to Decatur. When I returned, we sat in the car at the airport and my mother said, "Your father has something he wants to tell you," and I knew what it was and my heart cried: Blackie! Blackie had run away from home. Ten blocks from 410 E. Washington Street, he ran out in front of a car driven by Enos Renner, husband of my mom's best friend Frances. The Renners called her after reading his dog tag.
Boarding the flight to Decatur
I sat in the car and knew this was a lie. Something broke inside of me. What was Blackie doing ten blocks away from home? Why had he conveniently been struck by a car driven by a witness we already knew? At home I fell on my bed and wept, and knew that Blackie had not been killed, not by running under Enos Renner's wheels anyway, and he might be crying for me at that moment at the Dog Pound. Or he might be dead.
That is the Blackie story. Ming died of battle injuries. He jumped from my bed to snap at a fly, fell wrong, and broke his back. His hind legs were paralyzed. My friend Hal Holmes suggested maybe we could make him a little cart to haul himself around, but we both knew that wouldn't work.
I would have been about 20 then. So I have been 45 years without a dog. It never seemed like it would be fair to the dog. I was always going out of town on trips, I got home late, meals would be missed, there was no one to walk it, and on and on. These days it just plain doesn't make sense. Chaz has her hands full taking care of me. That's the way it is. It just doesn't work out that I can have a dog. But there's still an empty space inside of me, about the size of Blackie.
¶
A dog can be a real help in your work¶
The closing scenes of "My Dog Skip."¶
Scott Wilson as the mean man in "Shiloh."¶
This is a little bit off topic, but do you think that the auto biopic will ever be a genre of film? You would be a great candidate to make the first one. These stories are great.
Beautiful post, Roger; I know just what you mean. I was raised in a San Francisco apartment that doesn't allow dogs, but I go to college on the East Coast. Sometimes someone'll say to me that they're "from San Francisco", and when I ask for detail, they'll admit that they're actually from the East Bay, or Atherton, etc.
This annoys me greatly, especially if it transpires that they grew up owning a dog, or even more than one! I'm from the City and County of San Francisco, I tell them, and I paid for that glory with a dogless youth. And no, "well, no one's heard of Tiburon" isn't an excuse; how hard is it to say that you're from the Bay Area or "near San Francisco"? No effort at all.
And I still want a dog.
When I was young, I had a dog named Elsa. She was a collie and when my parents brought her home for the first time, I thought this beautiful little puppy with the bright yellow and white mane resembled the lioness from Born Free, my favourite movie at the time. The name stuck. I was four years old. She lived a good long life. I was 17 when she died and I felt that I had lost a sibling. After all, she had been with me most of my life. I have not owned (or been owned by) a dog since. Almost a quarter century later, I still think of her and miss her.
Roger, your words have touched me deeply. Thank you.
Oh, great. I'm thrilled to see a new Ebert's Journal in my RSS feed, and now I'm a gelatinous mess. I can take all sorts of human misery, but dogs dissolve me.
I wish you a dog, Roger Ebert, some way or how.
Roger,
I am sure this will not be the first or last response chiding you for your unfair characterization of felines -regardless that your post was primarily about your want of a canine and not a treatise on which species makes a better pet.
But let me say this in defense of felines and those, as I, who prefer them to canines.
Cats have personalities individual to each animal, unlike canines which all seem to come from the same box and with the same set of instructions. This makes cats much more interesting as a companion because they are not prone to cookie-cutter behavior and require a different mind set to appreciate.
Here's something that showed up in my email a couple of years ago that I think sums up the issue quite nicely:
The Dog's Diary
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
The Cat's Diary
Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed
hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the
rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep
up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an
attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.
Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their
feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it
clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made
condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight.
I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event.
However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that
my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what
this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my
tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try
this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and
snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released,
and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.
The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the
guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move.
My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated
cell, so he is safe.
For now...
As you have already been told a thousand times, you are the best, Roger. Take yourself to your local animal shelter and rescue some old mutt who's destined for the decompression chamber - name him St. Roger.
Ebert: The cat's memoir strikes me as completely accurate. Also wonderfully funny.
But in fairness to the dog: 7 a.m., fetched master slippers, my favorite thing; 10 a.m., helped blind man cross the street, my favorite thing; noon, rescued child from pond, my favorite thing; 1:30 p.m., raised alarm about barn fire, led animals to safety, my favorite thing; 3 p.m., chased away burgler, my favorite thing; 6 p.m., cheered up everyone at old folks' home, my favorite thing; 9 p.m., saw my human god was depressed because of being blind, child almost drowning, barn burning, home broken into, parents having Alzheimers. Cheered up my god, my favorite thing.
Wonderful article and great pictures! And the Wall to Wall Carpeting rung true because that's why we never got a dog even though I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago. My daughter lives in Western Massachusetts and she and her boyfriend got a Yellow Labrador Retriever a few months ago....I told her in no uncertain terms that I would not dog sit.....the next week I dog sat.....and fell head over heels in love with that beautiful lab....over Christmas she and her boyfriend went to California....I said no way could I watch the dog for ten days.....Christmas Day she was here and stayed the whole time...I am making up a little for not haviing a dog in my youth but they do wind their way into your heart and while she was here over Christmas just having her lay in front of the fire with us was so comforting it made the holidays the best ever....anyway I know I am a pushover for the lab so I know how you feel about wanting to pet every dog you see.
You wouldn't want your mom shouting through the screen door for the whole neighborhood to hear: "Roger, get your nose out of that garbage and get back in the house!"
Yes, or "Roger, stop licking your *random body part*".
Also, straying from the point slightly, did you know that you can steal the story and characters from any film as long as your version's cast is composed primarily of animals? Scarpaw. Citizen Canine. The Dogfather. La Doggy Vita.
Ebert: To Pee or not to Pee. The Good, the Bad, and the Pug. Dog With the Wind.
Stray dog-thoughts:
Have you ever read James Thurber's dog pieces? When you read one, you feel you've owned that dog.
I couldn't watch that clip from My Dog Skip. It's too sad and beautiful. (And thanks for showing it at Ebertfest a few years back.)
In terms of dogs and maintenance, consider pugs. We have two of them and all they want is three walks (of marvelously brief duration) and food. And you can skip the walks if you train them to use an old towel. (Ask our puppy Oscar, who has disdained the Illinois winter in favor of a terrycloth litterbox.) In terms of disposition, they are embarrassingly loyal, affectionate, and playful--but also prodigious nappers, encouraging happy laziness in anyone who cares to join them.
There's a nice PBS dog doc that offers the theory that we didn't actually domesticate dogs, but that they chose us. It seems that certain feral dogs had less fear of humans than others, and would venture closer to us (and our middens) until they just made themselves t'home. Either humans aren't that bad--or dogs are that good.
It is a cruel joke that dogs are instilled with all the personality, character, and love of a human with 1/6 the life-span.
I used to have dogs, but the last one i had to kill. I didn't put him to sleep, he didn't pass away, didn't wander off and i didn't let the vet or government do it.
I can't abide lies or lying. I agree with Conrad and Coppola's feelings about the "stench of lies". That's why i took responsibility for my dog and didn't shirk that duty, didn't "let" someone else do my dirty work.
I killed my dog and it wasn't a pretty experience, but i also killed that little hole inside of me, that needy hole.
I am free of need, free of guilt and that's the way to be for me.
I cried reading about Blackie. I can feel the pain you must have felt all those years ago, the sad thoughts and guilt and pain. I know how it doesn't take much to conjur up those feelings again, no matter how long ago something painful happens. To think of Blackie lonely and cold in the backyard. You were young and things were beyond your control and you had to follow the adults' rules. But I hope you found solace in the good times there were for Blackie - the racing around the neighborhood in the summer and such.
Sorry to digress, but I generally avoid movies specifically about animals. Sometimes because of the cruelty, or the exploitive use of animals, or for the resulting 'popularity' of them, which often causes so much cruelty (thinking of clown fish and dalmations here). Or sometimes for the inevitable movie death of star of the picture ... I can't bear it. And I can't bear watching cruelty to animals in movies, even knowing that they didn't really get hurt - if the movie was shot in the US. Legislation for humane treatment of animals used in filming is non-existent in many locales. For example, in a behind the scenes doc about BC & the Sundance Kid, LeRoy talks about the dangerous trip wires used with horses in movies shot in Mexico. These are illegal to use in the US. Many times the horses are killed during the filming of the scenes shot in Mexico because of those trip wires. (Though none were killed in the making of the Newman/Redford movie, according to LeRoy.)
P.S. I always always look forward to your blog postings. Your writing is sublime and your digging around through treasured memories and sharing them here with us gives me such great pleasure.
I'm dogless too. I had a cat for 20 years or so, and I gather he was a rather unusual cat. He was actually good company, in his catlike way, when he was in the mood. The saddest part of his old age was that he didn't behave like himself anymore, just lay around sleeping and letting me pet him.
We had a dog when I was a kid, back in the days when you weren't required by law to keep your dog on a leash when outside your fenced back yard. She'd patrol the neighborhood, and everyone knew her.
I still miss her, but I don't think I'll be getting another dog, for exactly the reasons you mention. A dog's nature is to be part of a group, and I don't think it would be fair to ask one to put up with my routine just because I like petting them when I'm available.
Roger,
Upfront: I am a cat person. I like dogs but prefer cats. To be sure, my family had a dog while I grew up; a hyper-active wolfhound/nikita mix that ate my retainer. Eventually, my parents tired of the constant destructiion and gave her to a family with a spralling farm.
While I agree with most of your assessment of feline behavior and motivations, my cat Bandit was different. She was special. Like Blackie, Bandit was an outdoor pet... but on those cold, midwestern winter nights, I would sneak her into the house to keep her warm. Really, it was for me. Her companionship was doglike with her loyalty.
I remember going away to the West Coast for college but whenever I came home for break, Bandit would jump on my chest while I was napping and catch a few zzz's of her own. That is the most wonderful memory I have of her... one I will carry with me forever. Its been more than 13 years since she passed away at age 16, yet that yearning for her companionship is still palpable. I will never get another cat because there can be only one Bandit.
Another great post!
Cheers!
Chris Ortman
Haha! This is brilliant!
As I write this, a wild kitten is asleep in my lap. His name is Zooey, out of that book ‘Franny and Zooey’ of J.D.Salinger. He was born in my garden three months ago. It cannot sleep if a person is not in the room. It will find the one room that is occupied and sleep in it. If you are inside the quilt at night, it will try and get in. And it will bury its face in any snug opening between your arm and your stomach.
But I know what you mean.
Cats are solitary. And Zooey will probably leave when it grows up. But have you seen a cat stalk? They are the most elegant movers; each step is deliberate and precise. Oh and when they wake up, they arch their stomachs like a bow and the most bizarre current of motion spreads into their bodies, escaping from their tail. What a way to stretch!
You must remember that scene in ‘Before Sunset’ where Celine and Jesse walk up to her apartment in Paris. As they approach it, Celine finds her cat in the street, picks it up and they climb the double-helix staircase of the building. During the entire scene, which lasted for about 20 seconds, the only sounds are of their footsteps and the light purring of the cat, content in her arms, looking out at the world. It was just beautiful!
And cats don’t lick! I think.
Haha! This is brilliant!
As I write this, a wild kitten is asleep in my lap. His name is Zooey, out of that book ‘Franny and Zooey’ of J.D.Salinger. He was born in my garden three months ago. It cannot sleep if a person is not in the room. It will find the one room that is occupied and sleep in it. If you are inside the quilt at night, it will try and get in. And it will bury its face in any snug opening between your arm and your stomach.
But I know what you mean.
Cats are solitary. And Zooey will probably leave when it grows up. But have you seen a cat stalk? They are the most elegant movers; each step is deliberate and precise. Oh and when they wake up, they arch their stomachs like a bow and the most bizarre current of motion spreads into their bodies, escaping from their tail. What a way to stretch!
You must remember that scene in ‘Before Sunset’ where Celine and Jesse walk up to her apartment in Paris. As they approach it, Celine finds her cat in the street, picks it up and they climb the double-helix staircase of the building. During the entire scene, which lasted for about 20 seconds, the only sounds are of their footsteps and the light purring of the cat, content in her arms, looking out at the world. It was just beautiful!
And cats don’t lick! I think.
Sheesh, between this and Emerson's recent postings about the passing of his dog, you two are making me more misty-eyed than any film critics ought to. Oh well, guess that's what separates this site from the rest of them.
I find your fondness for dogs touching, but I wonder if you've never been too fond of cats because you just never had the 'right' one, at least for you. I've had many cats, and quite a few of them have been 'right' for me. There was Precious, who I got when I was two. He was living in the parking lot of the place where my parents worked, and my mother took an instant liking to him. One day, instead of leaving the cat out in the cold, she opened the passenger door of her car to see if he would come in. He jumped in, curled up on the passenger seat, and lived a nice, healthy life until he died a few years ago. The day my mother brought him home, we had company, and he sat on everyone's lap. Purring like you wouldn't believe. Just happy to be there. Last February, a feral (but still sweet) cat I've acquired gave birth to five kittens in my bedroom closet. We gave all but two away, and I don't know if I've ever met two animals more clingy: cat, dog, or otherwise. The little girl, in particular, is my shadow, whether there is food in her dish or not.
Yes, of course part of the reasons cats love you is because you give them food. But I think we're deluding ourselves if we think our animals love us unconditionally. We give them food, they give us companionship. It's the way it's been since whenever people kept animals for companions, and it's no different for cats or dogs, I think.
I understand your sadness at the loss of your dog, Blackie. This past September, a tumor my dog had in her mouth (that I didn't even know about, and she'd been to the vet a few months before) ruptured. There was blood from one end of my house to the other. There was blood up and down her paws. I've never seen an animal so sick in all my life. I wrapped her in a blanket and took her to the vet, sobbing the entire way. Not just because I loved the dog, but because it killed me seeing an animal, any animal, in so much pain. (why is an animal in pain so much more heartbreaking than a person in pain?)
Around this time, my cat Loni that I had for 14 years got noticeably sicker. You say cats don't genuinely love, but you also never met Loni. We also got her from the parking lot where my parents work--- only she was a real wild child. She'd climb up trees and kill squirrels. So quick you wouldn't believe it. She wouldn't come near any of us for years. By the end of her life, she was one of the nicest animals--- in any species, I'd ever known. The moment I was on the couch to watch a movie or television, she was right there, on my lap. She purred so loud you could hear her from across the room. And she was the same with strangers. She loved everyone, except other animals. She was a people person. She also is the only cat who would consistently watch movies with me--- unless it was Kubrick. In which case she was nowhere to be found.
Anyway, I was naturally shattered after putting the dog down, and in spite of the fact that Loni was looking sicker and sicker, I kind of tuned it out. I couldn't take the thought of putting down another animal so soon after the dog. Finally, after the cat started making horrible, soul piercing noises, I scheduled an appointment for the next day. My dad came home from work to pick her up, to find her dead in the basement. She was the first, and hopefully only, thing I've ever killed in my life. And she is buried in my backyard now, a constant reminder that inaction is the most heinous thing a person can possibly do.
Ebert: It's not at all that I dislike cats. Did I remember to brag that Sports Fan was a poster boy for the Purina Cat Chow calendar?
Sheesh, between this and Emerson's recent postings about the passing of his dog, you two are making me more misty-eyed than any film critics ought to. Oh well, guess that's what separates this site from the rest of them.
I find your fondness for dogs touching, but I wonder if you've never been too fond of cats because you just never had the 'right' one, at least for you. I've had many cats, and quite a few of them have been 'right' for me. There was Precious, who I got when I was two. He was living in the parking lot of the place where my parents worked, and my mother took an instant liking to him. One day, instead of leaving the cat out in the cold, she opened the passenger door of her car to see if he would come in. He jumped in, curled up on the passenger seat, and lived a nice, healthy life until he died a few years ago. The day my mother brought him home, we had company, and he sat on everyone's lap. Purring like you wouldn't believe. Just happy to be there. Last February, a feral (but still sweet) cat I've acquired gave birth to five kittens in my bedroom closet. We gave all but two away, and I don't know if I've ever met two animals more clingy: cat, dog, or otherwise. The little girl, in particular, is my shadow, whether there is food in her dish or not.
Yes, of course part of the reasons cats love you is because you give them food. But I think we're deluding ourselves if we think our animals love us unconditionally. We give them food, they give us companionship. It's the way it's been since whenever people kept animals for companions, and it's no different for cats or dogs, I think.
I understand your sadness at the loss of your dog, Blackie. This past September, a tumor my dog had in her mouth (that I didn't even know about, and she'd been to the vet a few months before) ruptured. There was blood from one end of my house to the other. There was blood up and down her paws. I've never seen an animal so sick in all my life. I wrapped her in a blanket and took her to the vet, sobbing the entire way. Not just because I loved the dog, but because it killed me seeing an animal, any animal, in so much pain. (why is an animal in pain so much more heartbreaking than a person in pain?)
Around this time, my cat Loni that I had for 14 years got noticeably sicker. You say cats don't genuinely love, but you also never met Loni. We also got her from the parking lot where my parents work--- only she was a real wild child. She'd climb up trees and kill squirrels. So quick you wouldn't believe it. She wouldn't come near any of us for years. By the end of her life, she was one of the nicest animals--- in any species, I'd ever known. The moment I was on the couch to watch a movie or television, she was right there, on my lap. She purred so loud you could hear her from across the room. And she was the same with strangers. She loved everyone, except other animals. She was a people person. She also is the only cat who would consistently watch movies with me--- unless it was Kubrick. In which case she was nowhere to be found.
Anyway, I was naturally shattered after putting the dog down, and in spite of the fact that Loni was looking sicker and sicker, I kind of tuned it out. I couldn't take the thought of putting down another animal so soon after the dog. Finally, after the cat started making horrible, soul piercing noises, I scheduled an appointment for the next day. My dad came home from work to pick her up, to find her dead in the basement. She was the first, and hopefully only, thing I've ever killed in my life. And she is buried in my backyard now, a constant reminder that inaction is the most heinous thing a person can possibly do.
I can talk about almost anything... about evolution, creationism, politics, but darnit, I have a hard time talking about losing a dog. It affects me more, emotionally, than even losing some relatives, I hate to admit.
I am lucky enough to have 2 dogs now, a Newfoundland and a Great Pyrenees. Big dogs, with big souls!
My parents have a summer house on the Aegean coast in Turkey, and, having retired, they spend about eight months of the year there. There are a lot of stray dogs (and cats - my cat Shmi was dropped, some thirteen years ago, on our doorstep by her mother, at which point she summarily entered the house, got on the sofa, and fell asleep, purring - which is the very position my little angel is in right this very second), and my parents take care of all them. There were two who became very attached to my mum and dad, and they did to the dogs. They called one Princess, the other Spot. When it would be the time for them to go back to Ankara, my mum would be in tears, unable to leave them behind for the winter. But, like you, it's just never been a viable option for them to take two dogs (they were inseparable) back to an apartment in the city.
Anyway, when my parents arrived at the house for the summer last March, they were greeted by two incredibly happy dogs - only something was wrong. Princess was OK, but Spot had, ironically, spots all over her face, and missing fur, and all that stuff. The vet said she had scabies and gave her some medicine, but she never got better. I visited my folks once a month last summer, and Spot had got worse on each visit.
Then last August, I woke up one morning to go for a run, left the house, and right there in front of the gate, saw Spot laying there. Princess was on her side just looking at her. For a very brief moment, I remember thinking "she is just asleep." She wasn't. We buried her in the backyard.
> Why had he conveniently been struck by a
> car driven by a witness we already knew?
The Third Dog. Cue the zither.
Cats do have different personalities, and my cat, Ollie, seems to have a lot of dog qualities in him -- enjoying watching movies with me, sleeping on the bed, getting treats from the kitchen, following me around the house (even stalking me) for my company and not for edible treats.... He also gets very upset when I sit here reading blogs for too long, so I make sure to be a companion and not a bore afterwards.
Oh, I didn't mean to say that I thought you disliked cats in any way, so sorry if it came off that I was calling you a meany. You just described cats as selfish...I just think dogs are equally selfish in their own way! For instance, my dog Missy, who was normally a sweetheart, became Canine Demonica if you so much as looked at her bone. Though I think we can agree that, in terms of selfishness, dogs and cats have nothing on people
And no, you had forgotten to mention that little tidbit about Sports Fan. But I'm glad I know it! Surely you have a copy of the ad... (*hint*)
A few years ago the timing was right to add a dog to the family. We finally had a yard, the children were older and more responsible, and we needed unbridled joy in the home—as we coped with the devastating effects of my mother in-law’s Alzheimer’s Disease.
We adopted Brighton, a friendly pitbull/lab puppy, at the local SPCA. Training him was hard work, but a welcome distraction. In the course of his training, he destroyed beloved stuffed animals, shoes, and tried to eat our dining room furniture. I (and I am a Type A nervous wreck) learned to let go—these things were small stuff compared to having a loyal and trusting friend in the family. It was amazing to see how training and bonding with our dog had increased the confidence of my husband and daughters. A dog does help keep you in the moment. Seeing the good he brought to the family, we rescued another dog.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, we had an unusually beautiful day, perfect for playing catch outside with the dogs. For reasons we’ll never understand, Brighton died of heart failure while playing. It seemed like all the losses of our life compounded with his death. Although we had Brighton for less than two years, he was a catalyst for change in the family. There is some comfort in knowing that we had loved and taken care of him the best we could. We have since adopted another dog—one that probably would have been euthanized.
I am sorry for your loss. You will receive a lot of posts for this blog. Sharing these stories is cathartic. It is also testament to the ability of our pets to lift our spirits and inspire our better instincts.
Lastly and a bit randomly, why is it nearly impossible to watch the death of a dog in a movie? I don't care what the films artistic merits are, if the dog dies, I can't bring myself to watching it again.
Thank you Mr. Ebert. Another lovely piece. You truly have the gift for reaching out to express the feelings we all have at times.
some people don't like cats because they're too much like us.
1. they do what they want when they want.
B. they expect us to do what they want us to do.
III. they don't give a damn about anyone else until there is disagreement.
With apologies to Chaz, who probably has her hands full, but why can't you "share" a dog with a neighbor who commutes to work and might need someone to "dog sit" during the day. Or at the very least, call one of those places that has "companion" dogs. You certainly qualify for a canine visit.
A true dog lover such as you shouldn't remain dogless. I remember your review of "My Dog Skip", which was more about your dog Blackie than about the movie. Had me in tears.
My dogs Oscar and Lucy send their best.
Ebert: Coincidence, or named after "Oscar and Lucinda?"
Great read Roger. I grew up with a Vizsla/Lab mix named Buck. For the first 6 years of his life he slept in between my feet when I was a young boy. When the family got a Golden Retriever and my parents got back together we had to make a large kennel for them outside to live in. To this day I remember crying at night that Buck and I had such sleeping arrangements and now he was stuck out in the Wisconsin winters without me. Together Buck and Casey had 8 puppies who were a childhood treasure to raise. Letting them go to other owners was very hard. Dog ownership is so bittersweet because of the lifetime differences. He was one of a kind, although everybody's dog is, because of his loyalty. After Casey the retriever died he was once again alone outside. During the hot summers he would amazingly break out of his kennel by bending the cage in order to go sit under a tree and enjoy the breeze. I would come home from high school and there he'd be sitting in the front yard waiting for me. He never once broke out and left the yard. Last year before leaving for college it was time to put him down. He was 14, had bad hips, and was drifting toward dementia. That last day with him was unbearable, knowing that after I left that afternoon he'd be gone forever. One last trip down to the river was it and I'll always remember it with tears. That fall my parents got a black lab named Badge. My dad didn't want to "replace" Buck so soon, but when he drove by the litter on the side of the street he couldn't help himself. Now we have another wonderful relationship with our lab, who in so many ways, reminds me of Buck. Whenever I need a good crying session I listen to a poem that Jimmy Stewart read to Johnny Carson.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUNJjIwlHk8
So is Blackie your Rosebud? :)
Ebert: In a very real way. Also my loss of innocence.
A beautiful post.
What a sad place our world would be without dogs.
I take my cat on a walk a few times a week. Put her on a leash just like a dog and walk her around my apartment complex. I love to watch her explore, sneaking from stairwell to stairwell and stalking through the tall grass in the lot next door. She gets a distant look in her eyes when we go out in the night and she stares into the line of trees beyond, and I know that she is connecting with her instincts in some way that is thrilling for her. When she wants to go out she lets me know by standing at the door and meowing, and when it is over (we usually walk a half hour or so) she seems so content for the rest of the night, sitting in my lap and purring. It is a bonding experience for the both of us. I know that in some ways it would be more exciting to walk a dog. You certainly move a lot faster and cover more ground. But I think that whatever kind of animal you have, it helps if you give them the benefit of the doubt and are willing to try to imagine the special ways they see the world.
I had a dog named Schatze, and then a Blackie and then another Blackie.
Ebert: The great Ray Pride of Movie City News posts at last! I knew a great deli named Schatze's in Toronto.
I had a Blackie too. Mine was a guinea pig.
In kindergarten, the nuns decided that they would conduct a lesson in reproduction. My pet Blackie was brought in to reproduce with the classroom's female pet guinea pig. They set up housekeeping, so to speak, and had a litter.
At the end of the experiment, after teaching us about the importance of the family unit, the nuns announced that the offspring would be raffled off. I was not able to cope with this, and had bad things to say to the nuns about their family values. My remarks earned me a hostile call to my mother.
I've also had several dogs for whom I would have taken a bullet. One was a gift for my sixth birthday, and died the day that I left for college.
I am reminded of a comedian I saw once who spoke of the difference between dogs and cats. I'm paraphrasing here, but the meaning is clear.
When you bring a new dog home, he/she will think, "Oh boy oh boy!! Look at all these new playmates! I hope they like me! I'm gonna thank everyone for letting me live in their home! This is going to be so much fun, I think I'm gonna bust!! Hooray!!!"
When you bring a new cat home, he will wander around the place, and then think, "Meh...I could live here..."
Dear Roger,
One way or another, you need to adopt or acquire a dog. I doesn't matter if your parents lied and got rid of your dog. The love you gave Blackie made a difference in his life whether it ended tragically or not. So, why not honor Blackie and fill that empty space by loving another dog that is in need.
Wonderful post. My parents were firmly anti-pet when I was a kid, until some neighbors moved to another country, and asked us to hold on to their dog, a half-terrier, half-poodle (who looked all-terrier) named Gomie. We got him when he was about 6, and had him for another 6 years. He ran away for a few hours one day seemed fine, though I noticed he had a small bump on his thigh. I forgot about it. A few days later, he started licking the bump, and biting at it. We took him to the vet, who gave him a lamp-shade and said it was fine. Within two days, he stopped eating, could barely move, and was wailing out in pain. When we took him to the vet, all he could do was inject him with something, but it was too late. Gomie died. I was devastated, and got a lot of those infuriating 'well, it's just a dog' attempted consolation from people (I was 16).
I couldn't face the thought of another dog, but my mother missed having another being in the house, and, against the will of me and my sisters, went to a shelter, and we picked up a gorgeous dog whom we named Jake (I've been unable to find the name of his breed in English, but translated from Hebrew, he's a 'mixed Canaanite'). We've had him for 6 years come April. And I still sometimes marvel at how lucky I am to have such an amazing dog.
Thanks for the post, I liked going down that particular path of memory...
Oh, Roger, this was just too much for me. I have been dog happy all my life, and blessed with several great dogs. In my 70th year, I have a rescue named Stella who was 3 months in the slammer and most happy to get out.
But did you know, there are some 2,000 Dogs With Blogs? Stella is 1,057 of http://www.dogswithblogs.com.au/ and its a great group of dogs, a cat or two, who talk about their daily lives, how they get along with their people and often, do good charitable work, like helping with money the dogs of Victoria who are the victims of the terrible fires, or help our local shelters when they are so overpopulated as they are now. When the job ends and your house goes, often the dog has to go live at the shelter. There are some wonderful dogs to be had at your local shelter . I would wish one for you.
Jo in MN
I too had a dog as a kid that stayed outside in the cold New England winters. Scotchie, a golden retriever, lived in a pen that was partly under our porch and partly in the back yard. The back yard part wasn't very big. Some days after school I would go out back, into the pen, kneel down and hug and pet Scotchie for half an hour. Like you, it would torture me to have to go inside and leave Scotchie out in the cold. It still tortures me to this day.
That was 40 years ago. 12 years ago I got Louie, a white terrier-ish mutt, who has been my faithful boon companion. (We also now have Elliot, a black terrier-ish mutt, age 5.) When Louie goes, it will be terrible for me. But at least Elliot and Louie sleep in our warm house in Southern California, spoiled rotten by their owners.
Roger, here's another dog story, one that I wrote upon losing my favorite dog.
In Memory of Maggie, My Old Dog
By Chet Day
One hot afternoon in the summer of 1998 before I became self-employed, I stepped outside the building where I worked at the time to get some fresh but humid air in my lungs after a long stretch of being hunched over a computer keyboard.
Curled up in a nasty, dirty ball of old white fur at one side of the double doors of the back end of the building was one of the sorriest-looking dogs I'd seen in my 51 years on this planet.
I have lousy vision, but I didn't even have to squint through my coke-bottle lenses to see more fleas hopping on that old dog than kids at Disney World. I suspect the fleas were having a better time, too, because they didn't have to stand in line for a ride or for something to eat.
I have to confess something before getting further into this story.
Although our house is always full of pets, I'm not the world's greatest animal lover.
Yes, I tend to get attached to them when they end up living with us, but I usually go out of my way to not add to our always over-crowded shelter for homeless critters.
On the other hand, my wife Ellen is an animal magnet who attracts stray cats and dogs the way raw meat attracts sharks. For her, we can always find room and food for one more guest.
Before we had kids, at one point in our marriage, Ellen fed, counseled, and cared for eleven different stray cats, three of whom eventually made the cut and ended up as in-house pets, one of which we still have. Her name is Daisy and she's neurotic, but that's another story.
So, anyway, there I am, squatting in front of this smelly old pile of white fur, trying to decide if I should poke through the fleas to see if anything was still living in this bag of bones.
I'm thinking at the time, "Chet, if it's alive you're going to have to take it home to Ellen. And if you do that, you're going to have two stray dogs at CasaDay as well as two live-in stray cats as well as the neighborhood felines and canines that park outside the house all day and half the night. Do you really want to complicate your life even more?"
I sighed, gave into the inevitable, and poked the pile of fur.
Lo and behold, from somewhere inside the mess a body and face uncurled, with dark black eyes clouded with cataracts. Old white terrier ears perked up, and an old dog cocked her head and melted my heart.
Thus did I meet Maggie, and I immediately named her Old Dog.
Inquiring around the building, I learned Old Dog had been hanging around for days and that a couple of people had been feeding her and giving her water. Everyone believed her to be between owners. "You better take her home," someone advised, "before she disappears. Stray dogs have a way of disappearing around this neighborhood."
I understand that's a problem in parts of China, too, where dog is considered a delicacy. Tastes like chicken, I'm told, though I don't know this to be a fact. But that's another story too.
Anyway, realizing I was letting myself in for yet another animal adventure that I could probably just as well do without, I bundled Old Dog in my arms and carried her to my car.
Hauling that mutt, I looked like Pig Pen with dirt and fleas falling off me all over the place.
I mean, seriously, if we'd had access to her records, we would have discovered that Old Dog had been given her last bath in 1993.
So I brought Old Dog home and after setting fire to the car to clean out the fleas and germs, I carried her to the back yard and plopped her down by the hose.
She kind of grinned, though it wasn't a pretty sight, what with all the missing teeth and yellow stumps and bad breath.
I gave Old Dog three shampooings and rinses in a row.
I had to scoop a mound of dead fleas out of the way to work on her paws, but I finally got her cleaned up and more-or-less presentable.
She'd been on such a bad diet for so long her fur felt like brillo pads.
Even cleaned up, Old Dog didn't have much going for her.
She could barely walk, she was just about blind from cataracts, and she was deaf as a dumpster. If you weren't standing right in front of her, you just couldn't get her attention unless you clapped your hands as hard as you could. Then she'd eventually turn around, though sometimes it took seven or eight minutes.
My wife took to Old Dog like ham trimmings take to red beans and rice, and she promptly informed me her name would be Maggie.
As those married for more than 25 years are apt to do, we argued about names for four days before I finally capitulated.
And that's how Old Dog became Maggie.
We really didn't think Maggie would survive more than a couple of days. She was starving, she was half blind, she was almost totally deaf, and her back legs gave way under her more often than not, and she'd fall over and then pick herself back up.
But we put her on a healthy diet with plenty of love, super green drinks, probiotics, and digestive enzymes, and, happily, over the next couple of weeks she came back to life. The vet figured she was anywhere from 12 to 16 years of age.
Well, Maggie turned out to be some kind of dog. Even though she slept 22 or 23 out of every 24 hours, when she was awake, she was a joy to behold.
I remember taking her outside to do her business during cold winter mornings. She'd perk up those old terrier ears of hers and then she'd suddenly flash on a memory of her youth, and those back legs would start pumping, both kicking backward at the same time, and she'd race the length of the driveway before stopping to rest.
It sounds nuts, but Maggie was so graceful during those bursts of speed she reminded me of Secretariat, the most beautiful racing horse in my memory palace.
I remember how she'd drive the cats crazy, how she loved to sneak into the kitchen to eat neurotic Daisy's food all the time. It drove Daisy so batty she took to peeing on the bookcases for awhile, but that's another story too.
I remember how Maggie always wanted to sleep on one part of the couch if any of us were down in the den watching the idiot box. On rare occasions she'd get up and stretch and walk over and crawl into my lap. Petting Maggie was like stroking a porcupine. Even adding a good oil with plenty of essential fatty acids to her diet, we never did soften her dehydrated fur.
I remember how Maggie would clatter with old terrier feet on the kitchen floor when she felt good, and how she'd kind of drag herself up the stairs, suffering in silence, when she was having a bad spell.
Maggie could sneeze like a champion, and my sons nicknamed her Sonic Sneeze, and we called her that sometimes when my wife wasn't listening.
I remember how she'd do everything but leap over the car to get in with us if we were going somewhere.
Gosh, I can remember almost everything about Maggie's year with us, and that amazes me since now that I'm hunkered down in middle age half the time I can't even recall my zip code.
But today, most vividly, I remember two Fridays ago when I came home to learn Maggie had been hit by a car when she was sniffing in the street in front of our house.
Two Fridays ago I found Maggie where my wife had put her in the backyard.
There she was, still as cold stone, and still one of the sorriest-looking dogs I had ever seen.
She was dead, and I broke down and bawled like a baby.
I couldn't touch her at that point.
I had to walk around the house a couple of times, choking off tears and letting tears flow.
I eventually made it to the garage and pulled out the shovels and went to the woods behind our house and dug her a good grave, with hard, square edges, just as symmetrical as could be.
I wrapped my old dog in a couple of nice bath towels and put her in a cardboard box, and lowered her in the hole, and covered the hole with earth and leaves.
I stood over her grave and cried some more and finally managed to speak my heart to her when I said, "Gosh, you were a good old dog, and I'm going to miss you a lot."
Then I closed off my tears before going into the house to try to do the things we all must do when death comes to visit.
It's been a couple of weeks now, and I still miss Maggie a lot, and I know I always will.
Oh sure, talking about her helps layer over some of the grief, and meditating and accepting her death helps some, and writing about her helps some. But, you know, so far the only consolation that really helps is that I expect to meet Maggie again when I pass on.
On that happy day she'll gallop toward me, her back feet kicking at the same time like Secretariat in his prime, and Maggie, an old dog no more, will leap into my arms, almost knocking me over with the joy of our reunion.
What a grand old time we'll have on that day.
Ebert: Lovely. Thanks.
It sounds like you love dogs. My parents refused to get pets of any kind because of the cost. Also, I was mostly scared of dogs in my childhood. The reason for this was because of Juno and Fritz. Juno was the big, mean, German Shepherd that lived on the north side of our house. Mr. Rice at least had the good sense to keep him fenced in the backyard, so I never got attacked by him. I don't know what type of dog Fritz was, but he was the big, mean, and highly aggressive dog who lived on the south side of our house. Unfortunately, Mr. Swickard did not have Mr. Rice's common sense, and let him run free throughout the neighborhood. There was not a kid in my neighborhood who was not attacked by Fritz, including me. Once, when Juno got loose, the two of them got into a vicious fight. It took my dad, Mr. Rice, and a few other neighbors to get them apart. Of course, Mr. Swickard was to busy watching T. V. to come out and do anything about it. I have a feeling that Juno would have killed Fritz if the fight weren't stopped, because he was the larger of the two. They have both been dead for a long time, but the memory of the two dogs still lingers in the neighborhood.
I take my cat on a walk a few times a week. Put her on a leash just like a dog and walk her around my apartment complex. I love to watch her explore, sneaking from stairwell to stairwell and stalking through the tall grass in the lot next door. She gets a distant look in her eyes when we go out in the night and she stares into the line of trees beyond, and I know that she is connecting with her instincts in some way that is thrilling for her. When she wants to go out she lets me know by standing at the door and meowing, and when it is over (we usually walk a half hour or so) she seems so content for the rest of the night, sitting in my lap and purring. It is a bonding experience for the both of us. I know that in some ways it would be more exciting to walk a dog. You certainly move a lot faster and cover more ground. But I think that whatever kind of animal you have, it helps if you give them the benefit of the doubt and are willing to try to imagine the special ways they see the world.
We can get a competition out of this. Barkin' in the Rain. Schnauzer's List. Raging Bulldog. Dr. Chihuahua: Or How I Learned to Stop Barking and Love my Master. Rebel Without Claws. Raiders of the Lost Bark. Dirty Hairy (although that could be the original).
I will leave you now, as I am going barking mad. Ha. This is comedy gold. Well, bronze anyway.
My dog is named Dinah. She's better than all dogs, ever, my Dinah.
She doesn't know it. She doesn't know how good she is, what a good dog she is. All she knows is that her life's ambition is to stick her entire snout in my mouth. Mostly she tries this while I am sleeping.
Sometimes, it works.
No being I have ever encountered has tried to crawl inside me in such a fashion, even my husband.
Hi Roger.
The only thing that I find slightly disconcerting about dogs is that the 'unconditional' aspect of their love for their owners seems to be that way mostly out of some innate, profound form of dependence, of deep need. I've seen dogs get smacked in the face by their owners, shouted at in horribly angry and demeaning tones of voice, and humiliated in all sorts of ways (I might be anthropomorphizing somewhat, but I still don't think that roughly yanking a dog around on a leash to 'discipline' it could possibly make it feel very good), and what has always struck me is how the dog just bounces back immediately, tongue lolling out merrily, eyes bright and forgiving, confused and maybe hurt in some distant undefinable way but still right there for the owner, no matter what, even if what's to follow is more abuse.
I know that most dog owners are lovely and kind to their dogs, don't get me wrong, I guess I'm just saying that dogs seem to almost have no choice but to love their owners, and that as a result it is easier to exploit a dog's love. Cats seem to decide for themselves whether they will trust and love their owners - the obvious need for food and water is still there, but a loving relationship with a cat is based more on mutual respect and developing trust and closeness over time.
My cat's name is Number Six. He is currently sitting next to me with one paw resting lightly on my forearm. He follows me around my apartment to be close to me, not because he thinks that I have a can of tuna hidden up my sleeve - he knows where his food is and if he's hungry he goes to his bowl. He greets me at the door every day when I return home, he sits on the bathroom floor when I sit in the bath reading a book (a daily occurrence), he finds a way to sit close to me wherever I am in the apartment.
There was a scary time a couple of years ago when I found a lump on his side - after consulting with a veterinarian, it was decided that the lump should be removed, and so I took him into the vet's one evening and left him there overnight. I walked home with a lump of my own burning in my throat. My apartment was so terribly empty without him.
The next day I called to check up on him - when the receptionist picked up the phone I heard the most awful wailing in the distance. It sounded like a baby trapped in a well. A baby with a megaphone strapped to its head, that is - I could barely hear the receptionist telling me to please come quickly.
Long story short, it was Number Six, creating havoc in the recovery area of the veterinary clinic. When I arrived to pick him up I found his cage mysteriously draped with a gaudy beach towel - apparently he'd been lashing out with his paws at passersby, and had succeeded in badly scratching two of the nurses on staff. The moment I opened the door to the clinic I could hear him howling.
When I approached the cage he became very quiet. There were three nurses behind me with the most ridiculously long rubbery-looking gloves - 'Use these, he's freaking out!' they whispered fiercely, "Don't even try to get him out of there without using these!"
But I didn't need the gloves. I removed the towel, opened the cage and reached out to put my hand gently on Number Six's face (something I've been doing since he was a kitten, it seems to calm him). He made a tiny little sound and then limped (he was still feeling the sedation somewhat) over to me, crawled painfully up on to my shoulder, and lay there, heart beating furiously against my chest.
And that says everything, to me. It blew me away at the time, and it still does.
Cat or dog, unconditional love is possible. The nature of a dog's needs probably make the bond stronger between dogs and their owners, but I don't know. It's apples and oranges. (And I know that you weren't attacking cats, Roger, and the worst thing that I can imagine is this particular journal entry sparking some silly and embarrassing 'What makes a better pet - cat or dog?' sort of debate. I just wanted to say something about Number Six, I think, as he's one of the very best things in my life.)
Anyway, thank you for continuing with your journal, it's been a source of profound pleasure for me for many months now. And this marks my first entry into one of your conversations. Thanks for listening.
In Newfoundland there is an organization called Beagle Paws. Their mandate is to find homes for beagles who have been mistreated by their owners. This is common in Newfoundland, where the beagle has always been associated with hunting and given the same care you'd give your rifle, but no more.
Our seven year old son Andrew wanted a dog. I didn't.
Seven year olds get what they want. We adopted Scarlett six months ago. Andrew renamed her Charlotte because it rhymed and it was now our dog.
Charlotte is two things: affection and energy. My wife Julie is a pet person, and welcomes Charlotte. Andrew recently wrote a list called The Top Ten Worst Things What Happened To Me, and number one was: "If Charlotte Died". Number two was: "If Mom and Dad Died", but he quickly pointed out that 1 and 2 were a tie.
Charlotte loves me. She loves me. She follows me, she is in my face, I fully expect my death to be caused by tripping in her. She sleeps between Julie and me, where I wake to her breath or her anus inches from my face. We walk very long walks through winter woods, alone. I give her apple cores.
Last week, Charlotte ate a tube of Crimson red gouache paint and has been painting the snow in our yard incrementally (actually, excrementally) ever since. She escapes our yard and I have to find her. She ate my 20 year old copy of Gravity's Rainbow just when I finally was going to finish the damn thing. Next week, our den will be hardwood. The wall-to-wall carpet did not survive.
I call her LD to friends: Last Dog. I tell them the jury is out, but it's not really. But I have to pretend it is.
I too hard a dog as a child that I was very fond of that I seem unable to replace. It was the the kind that followed you everywhere, and was loved by my pals and friends also with their dogs. We had many names for the dog, officially it wasBen, but more often addressed by Peewee, Herman, Hermie, or any other derivatives of.
I came home from school one night to find my mother sobbing, she said "I hit Herman, he's dead". We had just moved into a new area of town and in my innocence I figured Herman was some local man who my mother had run down. This didn't bother me too much so I went and visited a friend for the evening none the wiser about my poor beloved dog.
The next day we went on a family holiday for 2 weeks, I still hadn't noticed that someone was absent. That night I suggested to Mum that I take the dinner scraps out to the dog, who gave me the most puzzled look I have seen in my life. After what seemed like forever she replied "...we havent got a dog...", at which point the wall came down.
I am still unsure as to whether my mind somehow subconciously blocked out the news that my dog had died, or if I was just a really daft kid. A little from column A a little from column B I suspect?
Ebert: Yeah, those pesky local men. Probably had a few.
Your story made me think of a point about how there is an acute difference between a dog's owner and his "human".
I live with my sister and brother in law in a 4 bedroom house, and they own two dogs: a toy beagle and an English bull-terrier well over 6 years old. The bull and I are particularly close, and one of my favorite activities upon arriving home from work is to greet him with a great big hug while referring to him as my puppy.
One day my brother in law saw this, and made it a point to tell me how incorrect the term was: The dog is neither mine, nor a puppy.
How else can I respond to someone who just doesn't get it? "Yes," I said, "but he's my puppy."
Ebert: Given his command of figurative speech, I wouldn't start him right out with Yeats.
What a wonderful story. My son has autism and will be three in March. I often worry about what his life will be like. One of the things I worry about the most is whether he will ever find love. After reading this, I couldn't help picturing him running outside with a dog happily nipping at his feet. A companion that would love him unconditionally. And it made me smile.
I don't have too much to say (unlike your other posters), but I wanted to tell you this made me cry. Hard. I have a dog, but he is thousands of miles away at my home in Maine. I think about his cute little face everyday. I remember hearing once: A dog sees that you give him food, shelter, treats, and love, and he thinks "Wow! Humans are so generous and giving! They must be gods!" Meanwhile, a cat sees that you give him food, shelter, treats, and love, and he thinks "Wow! Humans give me everything I desire. *I* must be a god!"
Ebert: And a bird thinks, "Is this a cage, or what?"
My dear Roger,
Here you go again. Another blog written with such honesty,and from your heart. I await your blogs with such anticipation,as if I am receiving a birthday, or a Christmas present.Each blog wrapped in your carefully chosen subject matter,and presented in wonderous prose.
But this time, you have overstepped the bounds.You have reduced me,a crusty old ex-cop,and paramedic, who has seen it all; to a blubbering old softy. I read, your blog,looked over my left shoulder to our picture of Luther,our fourteen year old shepherd/hound(deceased) mix.Luther has been gone for two years.He got old,had a couple of strokes,and my wife and I took him to the vet,had him injected.I held him safely in my arms,his big head resting over my arms.His tail slowly wagged,and then he just fell asleep,as I cried softly,with huge tears,while feeling his life ebb. I talked to him lovingly,telling him I loved him with all my heart.My wife cried,as did Susanne the vet.
Tears are welling as I write you today,on this subject,but all is well. As, our newer dog Indie who is six,a huge Chesepeake Retriever,who hates to swim,lays on the floor on my right side,and just raised her head up a wee bit to say hello to Buddy,our almost two year old mischievous cat,who is full of personality and mystery.
Both Indie and Buddy came from rescue shelters,and both have been wonderful additions into our family. Indie came to live with us first,and then along came Buddy,as a kitten.
They have grown to adore one another,and even play at differant times each day.
Indie is my walking partner, and she loves to 'prance' with her head high as she walks beside me,down the streets of our little town in the Annapolis Valley,in Nova Scotia. Indie loves to walk on leash,and knows once we reach the park, in the middle of town,she will be set free, for a glorious run.She runs away from me,then turns and dashes back,but stopping here and there to get the scent from the ground,or a tree,or whatever.
Your photos,and videos were very touching Roger,and, as we are the same age (well I am younger at sixty four haha)your black and white photos, reminded me of living in a Toronto suburb in the fifties.
I have similar photos of my dog Jay, a black lab,and friends with their dogs.Wonderful,carefree summer days,with 'hikes' to the Don Valley,and summer baseball under the lights at night, at Talbot Park,right next to our house.
A ten minute walk on Saturdays,to the show, at the old Bayview Playhouse, with the candy store next to it,where a nickel bought a plentiful bag of candy.
Pardon me, as I have digressed. But, Roger, many thanks for your story today,about Blackie. You have given me cause to think back to happier and simpler years,and you have caused me to feel so completely lucky today,to have our wonderful,pets.
They really do become such an intricate part of our lives,and even when they cause a bit of damage,or have a little accident on the floor,one realizes they make our lives better,and help make us better people.
Sometimes when one of our kids call home, I answer the phone, and the daughter on the other end just says "meow"; and I answer "woof woof"!!
Many thanks,
Gary
Ebert: Most people today can't imagine a neighborhood where the kids and dogs run free, the windows are open all summer long, the front door isn't locked, and people sit on their front porches smoking and listening to the ball game. Yet, in living memory...
I never cried so hard over a death as I did when my dog died.
Ugh. Upon reflection I'm realizing that my earlier comment was exactly the sort of thing I was trying to avoid, and even gently mocked in my concluding sentences - a knee-jerk, clumsy and unnecessary defense of cats (or more specifically, my cat) and their/his capacity to love unconditionally.
Apologies to dogs and their owners everywhere if I made it sound like dogs are helplessly programmed to love their owners, no matter the circumstances, as that's obviously not the case at all.
Ebert said: "I can only think about the dog. I want to hold it, pet it, take it for walks, and tell it what a good dog it is. I want to love it, and I want it to love me. I have an empty space inside myself that can only be filled by a dog."
I felt the same way, but it was about the slumdogs in 'Slumdog Millionaire' (well, without the petting part). Those poor kids. I wished that I could give them a home!
Your dog stories really elevate me.
Strange thing to say in company that isn't privy to your favorite themes, eh?
Slightly off topic:
Are the following phrases on your radar yet?
Consumer Product Safety Commission
Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act of 2008 (CPSIA)
As someone who loves classic literature/movies, this should worry you, to put it mildly. In the name of keeping our children safe from lead, the federal government passes sweeping legislation more or less banning children's poducts that aren't certified lead-free, including...
Most recently, THE COMMISSION advised that all children's books published before 1985 (that's right--*1984* or before) should be discarded. Erase a little history, anyone?
The initial deadline for compliance was February 10, but of course for legislation passed just last fall this amounts to massive folly, and plenty of folks, from thrift store owners to the American Library Association itself, are on a "wait and see" basis concerning how this will be enforced before they go throwing out mountains of irreplaceable literature. Yeah, right here in the USA.
Why isn't this bigger news? How does one go about getting everyone's attention these days? Why do we always get suckered into handing over freedom in the name of our own safety? Hello, is there anyone out there?
Ebert: Kids have started eating old books?
We had to put our beloved greyhound Havoc to sleep in September and even after all these months, I miss him. He was with us almost 10 years, rescued by one of those greyhound rescue societies after not doing well on the tracks. He was my first baby and didn't seem to mind too much when the two human kids came along. Whenever the baby was bothering him, he'd just get up and leave. I think he resented the loss of "his" couch when our first child was born (the couch went in favor of a crib) more than toddlers pulling his tail.
You're right, Roger. I didn't know it until my mid-twenties, 'cause the occasional dog we had growing up didn't elicit strong emotions in me, but I do have a dog-shaped hole in my heart and Havoc filled it perfectly. God, I miss him still.
Mr. E - you, along with other readers of your blog who may have experienced the same situation, can sooth your tortured souls over poor Blackie's plight in the lonely and cold yard by making a donation to PETA's Angels for Animals program. For making a $260 donation via their website you can provide a "back yard dog" with a wooden house filled with straw and equipped with a flap over the door to keep the wind out. I purchased one in the name of my entire family for Christmas (nobody needs another GD material thing so I make donations in their names instead). I recently heard from PETA and only 72 dog houses have been purchased across the country this (brutal) winter, and I imagine the need is much greater than that. Just a idea you may want to share with your readers. Peace.
For the funnier side of people's reaction with dogs, check out this video by the band We Are Scientists. One of the more entertaining music videos I've seen in a while. Enjoy!
When my dog died I sang a rendition of Dylan's "Knocking on Heaven's door".
Momma put my dog in the ground
Cos I can't pet him anymore
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feel he's barkin' at Heaven's door
Momma take this leash off of me
Cos' I can't walk him anymore
It's getting dark to dark to see
Feel he's scratchin' on Heaven's door
Dear Roger,
After my husband and I got married the first thing we wanted to have was not children but a dog. We lived in an apartment that did not allow dogs, so we had to settle for visiting local pet shops and asking to pet the dogs. We researched dogs and decided our future dog would be a Boston Terrier and it’s name would be Murphy.
My husband, Paul, enlisted in the Coast Guard so it would be several more years before we would acquire our dream dog. That time came finally when we were stationed in New Orleans and lived in an apartment that allowed pets. On a Sunday afternoon, I noticed an ad in the local paper, Boston Terriers for sale, $275. I called and the lady informed she was located near Baton Rouge and she had one dog left. We jumped in our car and sped off for Denham Springs, LA.
Murphy was everything we could hope for but was there ever a puppy not to die for? We paid the lady and we were off. Murphy laid shaking the whole time in my lap on the way back. What followed was pure new parent exuberance, many photos, dog toys, bedding, poo, pee, newspapers and veterinarian visits. Soon Murphy was house broken and we settled in our ordinary routine. A year later I gave birth to our first daughter, we brought her home and introduced her to Murphy. He sniffed, she wiggled, it was a totally uneventful, until we got the camera out. There isn’t a baby picture taken of Alexandria in our house that Murphy wasn’t in. On the bed, on the floor, on the couch, Murph is there. He was obsessive.
Every new house or apartment, Murphy would run ahead of us and sniff to make sure everything was okay.
As Alexandria grew, Murphy realized he had a new playmate. He loved putting his toy within her grasp and then pulling it away. Overtime, Alexandria’s grasp got stronger, she was able to chase him and they soon were inseparable.
When we brought Morgan, our second daughter, home Murphy knew the routine. Lay the toy on baby, pull toy away, sit under highchair, sniff diapers and let child pull tail, ears and squeeze neck until his eyes start to bulge.
With the end of Paul’s Coast Guard career in sight we decided to move back home and buy a house and a new dog. The girls were getting older and paying less attention to Murphy and he was starting to show his age. We thought a new puppy would keep him company and make the inevitable more bearable. The former seemed to work but not the latter. Bogie was adorable and before long Murphy and he were playing and sleeping together. Murphy started moving around more and he seemed to enjoy Bogie, though at times Bogie bugged the hell out of him.
The decline started about a year later. First it was an eye, accidents in the house and then he just stopped playing. His last Christmas, he didn’t even want to open his gifts. One day I noticed he started shaking violently; he fell over and totally released his bladder. He recovered and we just tucked the incident in the back of our minds. A week later, while Paul was at work it happened again. I called him at work and he said “I think it’s time.” I broke down. He said maybe we could wait. I said “No, you are right.” We both knew the time was right. I called and I made the appointment, a surreal experience to be sure. We told the kids, they nodded, and they knew the time was right, too. We walked around with heavy hearts that week. We took pictures, fed Murphy more food than he should have ever had, so many hugs and kisses.
The night before I lay in bed, reading and trying not to think about what we were going to do. I felt the bed shake, my husband was sobbing. The morning came; we went through the motion of getting the kids off to school. My oldest begged to come with us but we knew that would not work out. Finally, I grabbed Murphy’s favorite towel, yes he had a favorite towel, we packed up the van and we were off. To anyone in the waiting room at the veterinarian’s office, there was no doubt why we were there. I have never been offered so many tissues in my life. The vet said it was his heart, it sounded awful. He advised us that it was the right time. He explained how the shot would not hurt and it would be like he was going under for surgery, his heart would then stop. We said goodbye, laid our hand on him and vet administered the shot. Murphy fell to his side, I whispered “goodbye”. It was goodbye to fourteen years of our lives. Goodbye to Mom feeding Murphy so much food he threw up, of the kids and Murphy jumping around in the plastic kiddie pool, goodbye to Murphy crying in front of the Christmas tree waiting for his gifts, and goodbye to his soft snoring that would lull even the most caffeinated person to sleep. I know Murphy was just a dog, but when I look back at family photos, I smile at the sight of him and miss him more than my aunt whose name I can’t remember or the cousin I know I’ll never see again.
Ebert: One of the countless reasons I love "Gates of Heaven" so much is that the owners of the dead pets loved them so much.
from my book
Sept. 12, 2001 --I sat, my eyes transfixed to the television, 24
hours into the beginning of God knows what. I was still into
the "give me more information" phase of crisis. It was then I
heard the door open, then the familiar footsteps. Rosco has
come to pay me a visit.
Well, not me specifically, first of course, he had to go to the
kitchen where he checks out what there is to eat. That's what
he does in all of the houses in our neighborhood. He comes in
and eats whatever we feed him. The neighborhood welcomes
him for one simple reason. Rosco is a very lovable dog.
Rosco waddled into the living room. (when you
have 6 houses feeding you, you don't walk
you waddle). He then plopped down in front
of my feet. Almost as reflex, I started to do what Rosco loves, rubbing him behind the ear with my big toe. I kept
staring at the television as I did it. As they were showing the
second plane crashing into the towers for the zillionth time I
glanced down at Rosco. He was looking at me with these big
brown eyes, and he had this huge grin on his face. He was so
grateful to me for rubbing his ear. It was then I realized, he has
no idea.He has no idea that someone 15,000 miles away just decided to
pick a fight with us. He has no idea that the country he lives in
has changed, possibly forever. He has no idea about hijackers,
military responses, financial repercussions, firefighters, holy
wars, cancelled baseball games, heartbreaking stories, airline
security, post traumatic shock he has no idea.
Rosco then laid his head on his front paws. I sat back and
looked at the TV again. There was a picture of a rescue dog
and his handler climbing through the rubble. The idea then
struck me what's that dog thinking?
He's looking at a huge mountain of rubble. He HAS to know
that something has gone horribly wrong.
They say that a chimpanzee's DNA is 98% similar to that of a
human's. But I'm convinced that dogs are our soul brothers.
We have trained dogs to do so much. Racing greyhounds. St.
Bernards in the Alps. Drug sniffers at airports. Frisbee catchers
in the park. Seeing eye and hearing ear dogs. It's as if they
were put here to be our companions, our helpers, our calm in
the eye of a storm, unaffected by whatever befalls their bigger
two-legged protectors. They look to us for love, food and
home. They give back so much love and caring.
After awhile it was time for Rosco to continue his daily
rounds, he got back up on all four paws, shook off the sleep,
asked for a bone and out the door. And there I was again alone
with CNN. Someone once wrote that "ignorance is bliss" and
maybe the key to Rosco's happiness is not understanding anything
beyond his neighborhood. Sometimes I wish I could be a
dog.'
Ebert: Dogs know when something has gone wrong with us. If he had waddled in a minute seconds after the news flash, he would have picked up on your vibes and comforted you. That dogs don't much relate to the TV news is one of their blessings.
One of my saddest childhood memories was about my dog Boomer dying. He was named after a TV Show dog in the 80s, but was infinitely more lovable. He was the first dog I had so loving. I would pretend to be standing asleep at times, and every time he would pawing my legs as if he were worried about me. He was just a puppy.
One day my mom backing out her car in our driveway didn't see Boomer running underneath. She and I heard a crunch, I ran into my room sobbing. When she found out as well, we both embraced bawling our eyes out.
I've never forgetten the way Boomer looks and feels to me to this day. His image is burned into my mind forever.
George Carlin was right. When you buy a dog, you're purchasing a small tragedy.
Ebert: George Carlin may be this blog's the most-quoted figure of the 20th century. Hitler is more mentioned, but not quoted, I am relieved to say.
I can never forget this line from a "Long Kiss Goodnight". I have it stored safely away within my brain, waiting for the precise moment I can spring it on someone.
Nathan: Alice, please. Your dog, Alice. It and my appetite are mutually exclusive.
Alice: Well, what's wrong with the dog?
Nathan: Simple. He's been licking his asshole for the last three straight hours. I submit to you that there is nothing there worth more than an hour's attention. I should think that whatever he is attempting to dislodge is either gone for good, or there to stay. Wouldn't you agree?
I only had one dog as a child, and thank goodness. His name was Tonga. I loved our pet but it was my father you see. He was raised in a very rural farming community in South America and could only look on animals as, well animals, just mindless working dogs. Maybe that was the safest way for a young fellow to view animals. To never get emotionally attached. He told me a story about the time he had to kill one of his own dogs. He was bitten by a snake, became very ill and went kinda crazy. He was dieing, that's for sure, and even if there was such a thing as a vet, there was no saving him. So he hanged him. A dog's weight on it's own isn't enough to do the job (he discovered) so he had to help. Can you imagine? He told that story in an emotionless way but it must have been terrible for him. A young teenager and a dog will almost always become companions, yet here he was forced by circumstance to do a very adult thing. Oh my, the things pets will teach us about ourselves.
"But in fairness to the dog: 7 a.m., fetched master slippers, my favorite thing; 10 a.m., helped blind man cross the street, my favorite thing; noon, rescued child from pond, my favorite thing; 1:30 p.m., raised alarm about barn fire, led animals to safety, my favorite thing; 3 p.m., chased away burgler, my favorite thing; 6 p.m., cheered up everyone at old folks' home, my favorite thing; 9 p.m., saw my human god was depressed because of being blind, child almost drowning, barn burning, home broken into, parents having Alzheimers. Cheered up my god, my favorite thing."
Granted, and all true and not without a certain implied nobility (anthromorphically speaking). Bottom line is, if the dog's already gonna do it, why should the cat get involved? Besides, cats are just more concerned about their personal appearance - hence their inate aversion to bodies of water, soot, and injury from thugs. And many studies show that cat's are every bit as theraputic as dogs (but don't ask me to cite any).
Ebert: Cats improve our mental health by giving us the opportunity to feel needed and useful. With Orange Cat and Sports Fan, I was on to their game but I was happy to serve.
I've always been a cat guy, but that might be because my life has been filled with annoying dogs: annoying little yappers that won't leave you alone. Cats are relaxing, which is what I want when I come home from work.
If I were to ever own a dog, I'd want one with a more serene outlook on life, one who is wise beyond his years, one who will nod slightly as I read Yeats out loud by the fireplace, one with good taste in films.
Someone should set up a 'dating service' where prospective owners can list the qualities that they're looking for in a pet.
I'm told dogs seek out what they see as the alpha male or generally in charge. Cats seek out mommy. I've always loved cats but only one has loved me. I've had others but only one has given me a chance. I'm always upset when I see movies where filmmakers see dogs and cats the way you do. Where's the kitty love?
When I read you post, Roger, I didn't think I had any dog stories.
Dogs have owners; cats have staff.
Despite this sentiment with which I agree completely, I'm a cat person. When I was 11, we got a cat. The first night, we kept him and his litter box in the bathroom. My sister checked on him - walked in and turned on the light. He woke up, stood up, stretched the way cats do, and fell over on his side. From that moment he was Clumsy.
Clumsy was the offspring of barn cats. Half wild, and appropriately vicious with teeth and claws. He'd wander off, sometimes for 2 or 3 days at a time. My mother heard that if you spread butter on a cat's paws, he'll come back. She did this, put Clumsy out, and he spent 15 minutes licking all the butter off his paws, then disappeared for another couple of days.
We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3 storey walk up at the time. This was in Germany, where instead of door knobs, they have door levers. One day the neighbour who lived under us came home, and found Clumsy outside his door, jumping up and trying to grab on to the lever to open the door.
Eventually Clumsy's absences grew longer, and while he never wandered far, he eventually went completely feral. We hadn't seen him in months, and we gave him up for dead in a cat fight. Then one night I was standing with some friends talking, and out of the darkness this cat came running up, making these abrupt little meows that I can only think of as a cat version of barking happily - it was really bizarre. I bellowed "Clumsy!", ran toward the cat, and hardly had to bend over to pick him up as he jumped into my arms and purred and purred.
Clumsy still woudln't come home. A few weeks later we saw Clumsy. One leg appeared broken. He wouldn't let me near him, and when I tried to catch him to take him to a vet, he could still run faster than on three legs than I could.
Eventually he disappeared altogether.
I do have a couple of dog stories however. My sister-in-law married late, and her new husband brought with him a golden-lab and Grand Pyrenees mix. He'd picked up Mr. C from a shelter, where he'd been staying after being rescued from his previous owner. By the time I met Mr. C, he was over 11 years old, suffered from hip displasia and was in frequent pain.
Despite this, he was a gentle and quiet soul, although he would rouse himself at the name Squirrel. He was endlessly patient with my three children; the older two would pet him endlessly; the (then) toddler would poke his ears, try to poke his eyes, try to ride him (which we prevented, to save Mr. C the pain). He never once so much as showed the least irritation or impatience.
When my sister-in-law and brother-in-law put Mr. C down last year, my wife and I took care to prepare our children; we had them bring Mr. C out for one last visit and they got to say good-bye to him. I don't think any of my children were broken up or traumatized by his loss, but they needed to understand that Mr. C wasn't coming back.
Citizen Kanine. Casabarka. Dogfather. The Bark of Zorro. Greyhound, the Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Dogs. Gangs of New Yorkshire Terrier.
Born in a dogless environment,and for the larger chunk of life averse to the "species" ...dogs deserve a nicer tag even if people don't....married to a sheer dog addict....I have outlived about half a dozen of them and the latest who styles himself Bonnie shares a part of my existence....I have to finally concede that dogs have souls and what you referred as the "gulf of mutual incomprehension" has bridges across...
PBS "Nature" - Why We Love Cats and Dogs
"Some people are cat people, some are dog people. But regardless of which camp they fall into, most people are simply crazy about their pets. The connections people form with their cats and dogs are often the longest, strongest relationships in their lives. They are our soul mates, our best friends, sometimes even our surrogate children. What makes these creatures such key members of our families?
Perhaps it’s because our furry friends have long provided us with comfort, camaraderie, and unconditional love. Cats and dogs are our unending source of kisses, cuddles, slobber, claws, and laughs. Watch as NATURE shares the stories of pet owners and their beloved animals. From a very special dog named Jerry, to a cat that saved a man’s life, Why We Love Cats and Dogs presents a portrait of some of the most powerful and remarkable connections we experience as humans — the unbreakable bonds with our pets."
http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/why-we-love-cats-and-dogs/introduction/4538/
And if you miss it Roger, you can watch it for free online.
I could write a post and tell you all about why I love cats.. but this is just so much easier. :)
In the movies, a character can be evil, kill humans and what not, and the audience can still kind of like the guy. Like a good James Bond villian for example.
In the movies, if a character kills a dog, that's it. Done deal. He has crossed the line.
The audience must now actively root for this character's death.
He is beyond redemption.
Take care Roger.
Roger Ebert wrote:
"Every time I see a dog in a movie, I think the same thing: I want that dog. I see Skip or Lucy or Shiloh and for a moment I can't even think about the movie's plot. I can only think about the dog. I want to hold it, pet it, take it for walks, and tell it what a good dog it is. I want to love it, and I want it to love me. I have an empty space inside myself that can only be filled by a dog."
Did you have those feelings for Sparky the Wonder Dog? Did you ever take him for a walk and tell him that he was a good dog? Did he ever love you?
Ebert: Sparky and Spot were one-man dogs. Aroma the Educated Skunk just didn't give a damn.
Roger,
I will forgive the clear baiting of cat lovers, though I think the comments suggest that a great many people feel that they receive devotion and unconditional love from their feline companions (myself included.) This is something we all long for, no matter our preferences for dogs or cats. That said, I believe in your review of Marley & Me your entire premise was about how happy you were that you did NOT have that dog. Rightly so, I think, but this does seem counter to the premise of this ode to the dog article. You certainly did not want that dog, so your yearning for a canine companion does seem to have limits. :)
Ebert: I take it you have seen "Marley and Me?"
When I was three my parents and I moved into a new house, a house which came with a cat, Rusty (he refused to leave when the old owners sold the place). Rusty was always stubbornly independent, always carried himself with dignity. He had toys, but he refused to play with them if anybody was around; we only knew he played at all because the toys had a way of disappearing, and on rare occasion we would catch him batting a ball around the floor (as soon as he saw us enter the room he would stop playing and indignantly walk away). He was also the most patient of cats; he did not allow himself to be carried by adults, but made an exception for me. I would wrap my tiny arms around his belly and carry him all through the house, his hind feet dragging on the floor. He never struggled, just let me take him where I intended. Thinking back, he almost strikes me as a Clint Eastwood among cats, a crusty, stubborn, and fiercely independent creature who, buried somewhere deep, had a soft spot in his heart for the one person who posed no threat of any kind to him. We adopted a new kitten when I was nine, and shortly thereafter Rusty, who was now rather old, left his old home for good (I like to think he found a new, comfortable life for his final years, but I fear he died cold and alone). A few months later the new kitten, Dunston, was hit by a car and died.
When I was three we also got a dog, Dusty. He was already an adult (about four years old) and had been trained to assist the elderly. When we got him he immediately adapted his training to protect me. Dad learned early on that if he needed to spank me, he would have to take me someplace away from Dusty; otherwise Dusty would attack him. He was the kindest dog one could imagine, a friend to all who I never heard bark except when he needed back in the house. When he saw danger for me, however, his eyes flashed red. He died when I was 16. By that time he'd had a stroke and could barely walk. He was mostly deaf and blind, and rather senile. It was devastating for me, now a young adult, to see my old protector fall apart. In the end I was the one taking care of him. When we had him put to sleep, he first licked the hand of the veterinarian administering the fatal shot, then lay his head on my arm and looked into my eyes until his last breath.
Finally there was my cat Phoenix, who we adopted when I was ten. He was about as opposite Rusty as can be imagined, a cat who always wore his heart on his sleeve, who could not have been more affectionate (to me anyway; he was terrified of all others). He would stand outside my door meowing every morning until I got up to pet him. He was not allowed in my room (my parents discovered that I had a severe cat allergy), but we would conspire to sneak him in whenever possible; if Mom were to come in, he would quickly find a place to hide until the coast was clear. It was his love that helped me through those difficult, painful teenage years; through my first break-up, my frustration with school, parents, and life, and the crippling depression many teens feel. At my darkest hour, I still had Phoenix to nuzzle me, lick my forehead, and make me feel needed. I eventually moved off to college and became a man. I moved home after graduation, and continued to live in the area. I would visit him when I could, but those visits became increasingly difficult as other distractions (work, women, and assorted vices) entered my life. I was shocked when I received a call from my dad in October of 2007 telling me that Phoenix had died. I still think about him every day, and in those late hours, when depression and desperation may take hold, I imagine him curled up in my lap, purring with the simple pleasure of being comfortable and loved.
Thank you, Mr. Ebert, for sparking my reminiscence.
That Blackie was a beautiful dog, Roger, and I will comfort myself with the thought that some family who loved dogs more than carpets couldn't resist him and gave him the beautiful life he deserved. His predicament was not your fault, and it's obvious that you would have changed the situation if you could have. I've had dogs throughout my life, and never felt I did quite right by any of them. The timing was off - I was just starting college and couldn't keep it in the dorm, I was working and had to leave it alone for long periods, I had to go out of the country for several months. You know the list.
I did keep one Yorkie for 15 years. Just when he was a senior citizen, I was so exhausted after work I realized I couldn't take care of him, and gave him up to a shelter. It was an agonizing decision, and it was a no-kill shelter, but this was just before the Internet and rescues and fosters and good homes. I wasn't connected then. This was at the beginning of a long bout of one illness after another, a cascade failure, as it were; and I really had no other choice. But I still feel guilty about it.
Now I am on disability. My family thought a dog would be good for me, and I am home all day. My therapist suggested I make my dog a service dog. We are fortunate where I live to have not one but two facilities that help handicapped people train their own service dogs. The upside is much reduced cost, and much greater bonding.
Now my little dog goes everywhere with me. He is trained to go on a pad in case I am not well enough to walk him. He lies on my lap during chemotherapy. He has literally kept me alive more than once, and literally keeps me sane. Because of hearing loss, I depend on him to let me know when the phone rings in the next room, or when someone is at the door. I am training him now to pick things up when I drop them (common due to neuropathy) - another useful job. Dogs love to feel useful.
I feel for your Blackie, just as I feel for the Yorkie that I could not keep. It is easier for me to feel empathy for you than to forgive myself. I suggest you look into getting a service dog. Not just for the blind anymore, they can be trained to any number of specialties: anything from detecting seizures to opening doors to alerting you to phones and doorbells to letting you lean on them during a sudden bout of dizziness. The list is as long as anything a dog can be trained to do. One man in my class has trained his dog to listen for the man's name being called in, say, a doctor's office, and then to show him who called him. Service dogs come in all sizes and breeds and mixes of breeds. Instead of being just one more burden for Chaz, a service dog can be a geniune help to you, and the comfort they supply is immeasureable.
And now I have friends through my training classes, through breed mailing lists, through Meetup groups for dog playdates - most of these found via the Internet. Should the worst happen to me and I have to leave this wonderful friend behind, well... now I am connected, and I am determined to do right by him.
Ebert: When my Aunt Mary was in a nursing home, the highlight of her week was the visiting dog. "You can tell he likes me more than the others."
I wrote this once on Mr. Jim Emerson's blog...
I see a cat in my cognitive playground that was known to me and I still know, as it has ensnared my heart and mind, even in his death. Why did I just call him "it" earlier? His name was Sox or Socks (none of my family ever spelled it out) and he was a free-loving thing...family member...in the greatest of the greatest sense of "Gates of Heaven" fashion. This was before Clinton ever thought about having a pet dubbed after foot attire. This goes much deeper. He looked like a bobcat; however he was far from the wild-tempered and dungeon-clawed felines that gracefully prowl the wilderness.
Instead, he shuffled. He made the ebb have its flow. He was a furry James Dean in his younger years, the comic strip Garfield in middle-age, and Orson Welles in "Chimes at Midnight" in his latter days. How I miss him so. Such a vivid memory I have, yet so brittle. Such colorful dreams I have, yet so black and white. What a bond I had with friends in high school and in college, yet so frail compared to growing up with Sox or Socks. Sometimes you need to look into another species' being to realize the true meaning of your humanity.
He never spoke any words that I understood or performed any actions that I misunderstood. He smiled with a squint of his eyes. He only scratched me with his claws when he was stretching-such an involuntary and innocent act, however, my flaw of anger and the sensation of pain made me swat at him that one and only time. Giovanni Ribsi's character in "Saving Private Ryan," when talking about a past moment (a lost moment, but so evident) says, "I don't know why I did that." Let me repeat: How I miss him so.
My young brain saw his jaws like a lion's that had been amplified by the enhancement oil steroid users take-however; he could not be more authentic. His claws reminded me of Freddy Krueger's finger knives-however, he was gentle as the mice he would catch and play with on the lawn. His belly was as big as my mind's image of Santa Claus'. He was my buddy. And for much of his seasoned time, I enjoyed his companionship as I hope he enjoyed mine. Maybe we bridged the gap between human and feline and raised the standard up another notch.
I knew eventually that he had to depart, damn those commercial flights. It was like the George Carlin theory of getting a "small tragedy" when you have a pet. That's so true. Yet, it goes further, digs deeper: Do we not sense tragedies to come with our parents or other, older loved ones. Makes me want to go: Come on, death, why do you have to be so gung-ho all the time? Slow down, you'll win eventually.
Being the outdoor cat that he was, Sox or Socks rose up like Vito Corleone in "The Godfather." I kid you not. He ruled our block with an iron but just fist. Never once did I see him pick a fight with other cats, but only defend staked turf against dogs and people (even losing a toe in the process, AKA, “They hit ‘em with five shots and he’s still alive!”). As gentle as he was towards his FAMILY, whether it be feline or human, he could turn on a fanged dime if the cause was right. His mother was named Shoes, believe it or not. Strange but fitting. Sox or Socks struck me as a buddy who would have laughed at such irony if he had understood what irony meant. His aunt, Shoes' sister, was named Blue. She was snow white. Why was she called “Blue” then? Look closer and you would have seen a gold eye and a blue eye staring back at you.
As much as I loved Shoes, I had more of an attachment to Blue. The aunt feline had given birth to stillborns when I was very young. Just so happened, I was the one that witnessed such an occurrence. Watching television, I heard her shrieking howl. Unbeknownst to my young self, certain precautions had to be taken for animal births. I had no idea how to handle Blue’s sudden parental condition. She had, as I remember, four kittens. They all died. After that, Blue was never the same. It sounds odd or melodramatic. It just sounds true to me. Later, Shoes had Sox or Socks and life continued.
Every night we let him in, when he chose to wander back to his homestead. He represented freedom with a choice of being savage or civil and he chose the middle lane. Did he remember his mother, Shoes, in the days of his cancer which heralded in his doom? Would Blue ever cross his mind from time to time? A fight over this or that? Yet, the wild of a Mississippi neighborhood grew on him like a suit of medieval armor. He never was declawed. He never was "fixed." Who knows how many bobcat-like gladiators are out there now in 2008 on that Mississippi Delta block? As I visit back to my stomping grounds, with my thankfully still-alive parents, I look out the window from time to time and I see cats with slightly orange and brown fur. On occasion, I will even go out (whether cold or hot) and try to call them over and see if my buddy still lingers. And if I hear the right “meow,” I can convince myself that he does.
(not written on the blog)
From my experience, I have noticed: most children want to bring up the dead (whether a pet or a human) and most adults want to change the subject. How hard it is to see yourself as letting go of that past, but as I find myself growing older...well...
Dear Mr. Ebert:
I read your webpages every day and all of your reviews. I love your writing. And this essay on dogs was just absolutely lovely and touching and wonderful. I feel the same as you. Thank you for reminding me what it is about dogs that give me so much joy.
I don't know why, but dog deaths, especially cinematic ones, make me blubber in a way that human deaths almost never do. There's something so unbelievably direct about a dog's emotions and their relationship to us.
"My Dog Skip" and "Marley and Me" made me sob. Not cry, but sob. "Marley" in particular was not a very good film, but it didn't matter. I got attached to that dog and genuinely hoped I would not see him die, even though I was told before I saw the film that I would.
I struggle to put the emotions I have towards dogs into words. Dog-lovers know that words are not necessary. As for the rest of the world, I am reminded of Louis Armstrong's quote that I first heard from you (I believe it was on Siskel and Ebert in reference to a joke in a movie that not everyone gets) "There's some people that if they don't know, you can't tell 'em."
Re: the last line of your review for the "Friday the 13th" remake -
Your use of the phrase "cockeyed optometrist" is kind of silly, but I like it. Caught me off guard.
Re: your latest blog entry -
You made my day. (In all seriousness.)
My dog lived his whole life with the name Hamlet. Ironically he was full of joy --- the least somber, most optometristic dog that I ever met, may he rest in peace.
Ebert: It's a typo, but intriguing.
Roger-
By far my favorite entry to date. I'm right there with you. When I was four, my parents took me to the local animal shelter and gave me the responsibility and honor of selecting the canine companion who would be the family dog. There, in the presence of my entire family (which also includes two older brothers), I chose a friendly German Shepard/Collie mix. We named her "Heidi". For the next six years she brought us warmth, love , understanding, companionship and - on more than one occasion- protection from strangers who might dare to wander too close to the property.
Tragically, my now ex-stepfather was entirely clueless as to the do's and don'ts of what to feed dogs. One afternoon after a session of Heidi giving us her doe-eyed "May I have some of that?" look during a lunch of roasted chicken, he decided to give her the leftover bones to eat.
Naturally, Heidi was only to happy to accept what was handed to her. She managed to swallow the bones and mere hours later, with a mournful howl, she collapsed outside. Upon taking her to the vet, it was discovered that those bones had damaged her stomach and she had to be put down. The only positive I can take out of that day is that I did not witness her being fed the bones or her collapse, though the entire neighborhood heard her cries.
We were all heartbroken, but I in particular was completely devastated. As mentioned above, I'm the youngest. I was ten when this happened. Heidi had been my constant companion and dearest, most loyal friend from the time I was in kindergarten.
Since then, I have never owned another dog and am now a cat person. I'm in my late 30' and have been host to a few felines, most notably my current furry roommate Jason, whom I have been owned by for almost five marvelous years. I love the little guy. He is playful, funny, very affectionate and I'm delighted that he chose to adopt me.
However, there will always be a unique place reserved in my heart for that lovely lady with the wagging tail, dark ears and beautiful, soulful brown eyes who treated me like a pup of her own and made my childhood that much richer. Nothing will ever touch that. I personally do believe in Heaven. If it's at all the paradise we've been promised, Heidi will be waiting for me with that joyful bark and playful bounce, tail wagging as we race through infinite fields on a summer day without end, while beside us Jason pounces gleefully after dragonflies, forever on the prowl.
Ebert: Kids have started eating old books?
Re: You obviously see the absurdity of the situation. Unfortunately, it isn't a joke. Start peeling this onion and you'll be surprised at what you find. Here's the ALA's take on the Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act:
http://www.ala.org/ala/aboutala/offices/wo/woissues/governmentinfo/cpsia/cpsia.cfm
(This was before the newest information concerning the 1985 cutoff date.)
I am not a conspiracy theory sort of person; but the news frightens me more now than it did in the last eight years--both what I'm being told and what it seems like I'm NOT being told.
For instance, there are so many rumors swirling around the passage of the stimulus bill--how the final bloated draft was presented less than 24 hours before it passed, not allowing adaquate time for review ("Hurry! Hurry! We have a crisis! JOBS are on the line!"). Alarmism can be used by one side to bring about truly alarming results; when the alarmists on the other side start yelling, the reply is: "Stop trying to frighten people."
Living in Chicago, the very epicenter of political change, it was impossible not to be a little caught up in the warmth during election and inauguration time. But now I'm not so sure. My current feeling is: Bush was not un-American; he was just one side of America, and that without balance. Obama, though, might use the FAILED POLICIES OF THE LAST EIGHT YEARS (sound familiar?) to take us somewhere truly un-American. All in the name of peace and safety. Mind you, the CPSIA was passed at the very end of Bush's presidency; just like the economic crisis came when it did--things that set the stage for massive CHANGE, but not necessarily change for the better.
Please look into the CPSIA. Anything that takes control of the children's products industry (toys, boks, clothes, etc), in the name of whatever kind of safety, is to be greatly feared.
Ebert: Doesn't seem to me this comes from Obama but is simply another federal agency running wild.
Again, I do not wish to hi-jack this thread with something off-topic. I said so on my last entry but the expressed wish was omitted when the entry was posted.
You could still enjoy a wonderful dog with some expense. You could get a trained Bichon or toy Poodle, and have some one come walk it twice a day.
With that support it really wouldn't be too much trouble and it would bring so much joy to your life. If you got a puppy and had it trained from 8 weeks with a professional trainer, I think it could be trained to use a kitty litter box in addition to walks. Dogs can be trained to obey hand commands as well as voice commands.
For someone with the resources, one can get a well trained dog this way. Plus a trainer could train the owners after training the dog. Dogs want to please and are eager to obey a consistent owner. Your dog can be trained not to beg at the table, not to bark or jump up on visitors and to do other things you need for your circumstances. They can be trained not to bark at random things, like dogs walking past the house.
While going to an animal shelter can bring a good dog, since they are screened by the staff, people with special circumstances can work with top breeders and trainers to get a wonderful dog for their needs.
Craigslist is full of people who walk dogs once, twice or three times a day. A friend put herself through the School of the Art Institute partly by walking dogs in Hyde Park.
Bichons and toy Poodles are wonderful dogs because they have been bred as lap dogs, to be very engaging, interactive, to play and entertain. Barak Obama might have dismissed their kind as Girly Dogs, but they are affectionate, attentive, eager to please, entertaining and smart. They want to do what ever you want to do, go where you want to go, and adjust to your moods. They don't criticize, condemn or complain. They don't shed or cause allergies and don't eat a lot. They can sit on your lap while you read, watch TV or work at the computer and don't take over.
What more could you want?
Don't give up on having a dog! Please seek out top breeders and trainers for Bichons and toy Poodles. I had a the sweetest smartest Bichon from a breeder in Chicago. Ask around for help.
Roger, it's was your heart as much as your thumb that first drew me to your reviews and criticism years ago. It's your heart that keeps me coming back to these online journal entries. I'm so grateful during this time when you have become limited physically in some ways that your ability to communicate with people has actually grown in others, thanks to technology. I still hear your warm and friendly voice in my head whenever I read your latest reviews and journal entries, and it's comforting.
Our family had two dogs when I was growing up, one when I was about eight and one when I was eighteen. I guess that during the ten-year interim my parents had forgotten that they didn't really like having a dog, because both of them ended up back at the pound before long; the first after a couple of weeks, the second after a couple of months. I was heartbroken both times. Me as an eight year old, hurrying home from school to see my new best friend "Where's Snoopy?" - "A man came and got him today." - "Why?" - "He had to go." - "Oh." End of story.
They dealt with cats a little better. Cats are lower maintenance, they're normally quieter than most dogs, and maybe my parents just weren't dog people. I like cats. After we moved when I was eighteen but still living at home I eventually got a cat, and I really liked him. In spite of cats' often-maligned reputation he treated me much better than the people in my life at the time.
I had to go overseas for a couple of years when I was twenty, and leave my cat behind. It was a lonely couple of years, since my family wasn't big on letter writing, but I knew that when I got home I could see my cat again. It sounds pathetic, I know, but I carried his photo in my wallet, since girls were off limits for me during that time and I didn't have anybody special waiting back home. After the two years were over I finally got to go back to the States. "Hey, where's my cat?" - "That cat died. It was pretty sick." - "Oh." End of story.
Now I have a sixteen year old son of my own who has never had a pet because of our circumstances, and because of a mother who shares Chaz's apparent attitude towards cats, but extends it to all furry, four-legged friends. I really don't know if it's a good thing that he will miss the inevitable heartbreak of loving and losing an animal companion, or a much worse thing that he'll never know the joy of sharing his youth with one. I don't think that I could deal with the loss again too well myself. Just reading your journal entry and reliving my own memories has got me pretty teary right now.
PLEASE tell me you're writing a memoir. I've always loved your reviews, even for movies I'd never watch, because of the power of your observational and writing skills. It would be wonderful to read a memoir of you growing up, going to the U of I, hitting the big city and the "big time". Even if it were filtered or fictionalized, I'd plunk down for the hard-cover edition, just to read a book length tale from you.
Ebert: Some of these entries are like that...
Dogs hold a fairly prominent place in my psyche, as well. I still want to see Marley and Me when it comes out on DVD. The book was amazing.
Here's a picture of my dog, now: http://photos-d.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v148/240/24/563522299/n563522299_129527_7590.jpg
I wrote my own meditation, as it were, on what dogs mean to me. That can be found here: http://www.centerwest.org/academics/write/past/2008/pdf/bragg.pdf
You know, one of the things that we come to understand in life, those of us who do pass beyond our juvenile years of utter self-absorption, as you have, is that if we must always ask ourselves if we can care for the beings we take into our fold. You hear about old men or women living in a house with ten dogs or sixty cats, and people tend to represent that as an extreme example of compassion. I see such things, however, as an extreme example of selfishness. Animals need their share of space and, for dogs especially, their share of our attention. It's a shame that you weren't able to have a dog these last so many years, but in my opinion you did the right thing there.
You could always have volunteered at a human society or some such thing, as I once did, to get a quick doggie fix.
So, two questions, and beg pardon if they've already been asked/answered about fifty comments ago:
First, how come Ming got to stay in the house, but not Blackie?
Second, did you ever find out what really happened to Blackie?
Ebert: I never found out about Blackie. The rug was 10 years old when Ming came along.
Amen to Michael Mirasol for quoting George Carlin: "When you buy a dog, you're purchasing a small tragedy."
I have a hole inside me the size of Dawson, and of Chelsea, and Sidney, and McKenzi, and Sandy, and Heidi, and Liza. But one way of looking at it, I'm bigger because of these dogs.
After school, I'm going to swing by the grandparents' to see their dachshund Oscar and give him some good pats.
I envy you your love of dogs. I came from a NO PETS household as a kid, so I never had a dog. I have a daughter now, and she has a cat, but do not think that means I have a cat. You are dead on that they are entirely self serving. Dogs stay by dead owners, or bark for help. Has a cat ever once gone out of it's way to help a person? If you were hurt and immobile all the cat would think is 'There goes dinner'. Egyptians worshipped these things? India is closer with cows...
Anyway, nice stories and for goodness sake go get a dog. You have to have neighbors and they have to have kids, they could watch him while you're away. You have a lot to offer!
Wow, you really need a dog, Roger . . . may I call you Roger? The Blackie and Ming stories are very touching, but when you write to say you finally have a dog is when I'll probably be moved to tears (moments of elevation, you know). Thanks for sharing your stories . . . I too remember the days when kids and dogs ran free and doors were unlocked. I hope you can work out a way to fill that empty space.
Roger,
Kathleen (and probably others) is SO right! You should get a dog. I mean it. It's simple enough: People who love dogs should have dogs. You should get one from the shelter. It'd be good for the dog and good for you. I love dogs, too. Christ, I miss my dog, now gone 13 years. Your post made me mist up so badly. When my kids are just a little older (they're 3 and 2 now) we're getting a dog. That'd be good for me, too.
Dave
A friend of mine once said that he preferred cats to dogs because cats are intelligent.
Now I know what a dog's answer to that would be - "I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is".
It always seems that dogs are lost while the children are away from home.
Speaking of Rosebuds and the loss of innocence, a good friend of mine just saw Citizen Kane and declared it the world's most overrated movie. "Great directing, good acting, great cinematography, and I can see that it broke new ground, but man does the story suck." I told him it was the story of a man, and that the structure was great.
Anyways he was not convinced. Am I going to assume that anything you might say in reply will be on your commentary of the film?
Dangit, Roger, you've got me all teared up.
When I was a boy, I had an English Springer Spaniel named Zinger. He was an outdoor dog, too, not because of wall-to-wall carpeting but because of his continued insistence on treating any and all objects within reach as chew toys. We had a spacious backyard that bordered a small forest, though, and I made sure to spend a lot of time with him. And he got to sleep in the garage during the winter. He could bark up a storm when it was suppertime and I fetched his bowl inside, and any possum, tortoise or other woodland creature that wandered into the yard could be sure of a fierce welcome. But he was always very sweet with people, and loved to stick his head through the space under the armrest on our deck chairs and put it in your lap, confident that your hand would find its way behind his ears before long.
I loved taking him on walks, or the other way around when he was big and I was still little. Every sight, sound and smell was a cause for ebullience and a massive tug on the leash in that direction. His favorite part, or at least my impression of his favorite part, was running downhill through a small overgrown grassy area between the church and home. He really put on the speed, his whole body flapping in time with his ears.
I was a pretty lonely, broody kid, the kind they'd call emo today (although my hair never looked that stupid, and the only time I cut myself was when I foolishly forgot the number one rule of knife safety: always hold the blade away from the body). There were times I'd come home from school feeling like the lowest, most pathetic creature on the planet. But when I saw his waggy tail and happy eyes, I couldn't help but feel a little better. And he always knew when I needed some cheering up. We'd sit on the deck for hours sometimes, just me scratching his head and pouring out all the troubles of my confused, heartaching teenage world on him. He wouldn't say a word, but I knew he was thinking, "I know, I'm sorry it's hard, but I love you, I believe in you, and I'll always be your friend."
When I was fifteen, we moved to a new house. The yard was smaller, the climate was hotter, and the neighborhood was a more "modern" subdivision with less character, and Zinger seemed to take this as a cue to retire. He was still always friendly, always happy, but he rested more, and the heat led my mom to let him sleep in the laundry room on summer afternoons. (He didn't care for our new pool, particularly after he fell in while rolling on the ground, scratching a particularly persistent itch on his back.) I knew he was getting old, but I didn't think about what that meant; I didn't want to. But after about a year, he stopped eating his food one week, and we knew what that meant. The trip to the vet was the worst afternoon of my life. I buried my head first in his belly, and then in my father's chest, crying out all the anger and frustration at the unfairness of the world that would put my best friend in such pain, and have the only way to make it go away be to make him go with it. I couldn't stay in the room while it happened. I hope he understood, and forgave me.
That was my first broken heart. A month or so later, a beautiful and vivacious girl named Amanda gave me my second, and it was all the worse for reminding me that this time, Zinger wouldn't be waiting when I got home to take it away.
That was ten years ago. I've known other dogs since, but none quite like him. He was mine, and I still miss him very much. But I remember the look on his face, the feel of his nose on my cheek, and the silent words that I believe he still carries for me, waiting for the time when we can run downhill together forever and a day.
"I love you. I believe in you. And I'll always be your friend."
Dear Mr. Ebert,
you should listen to an old song by the Pet Shop Boys, if nobody suggested it before in the comments to this Blog entry. It´s called "I want a dog", and it fits your subject totally.
I had a dog too growing up, but he died. Here is what happened, told somewhat Cormac McCarthy-style:
I had a Chihuahua as a kid. Named Duke, he was. Killed by a truck in 1994. Made flat on th’ road like a grape under God's thumb. We left him there flat on th’ road. We thought of him when we drove down Highway 82, passing th’ spot of his killing as we went to eat barbecue.
We first found him flat on th’ road on a dusty summer dusk. My dear maw shook her head and turned to my silent paw and said "Paw. Duke been kilt." Then we all said a kind word in praise to th’ Lord, and left it be.
Oh Roger,
You made me remember Morgan, my only dog ever. I bought him in my 30s, and he was a scruffy little Yorkie runt puppy. I had him for about 3 years and then I went off to grad school and just couldn't take him. Dear friends gave him a home, and he lived with them until he died. Apparently, he was the favorite of the neighborhood. Today I have 2 cats who are quite affectionate and sometimes follow me just because I'm going somewhere in the house. They fight over who sits on my [warm] lap and purr at me for no reason at times.
But I remember Morgan, dancing with delight when I returned home at the end of the day, his paws clicking as he ran across my kitchen floor; putting his head on my leg at night; licking my tears away when a man I loved didn't love me back; playing a game we played when I was in the tub, running from room to room at my command and then barking when I gave him some bubbles from the bath to play with. I remember the puppy who licked my hand and face and played with me.
Right now, I have big tears remembering a little 5 lb dog who loved me all the time and who worshiped me. You're right--it's their favorite thing to do--to worship us. He always made me want to be a better person, one worthy of his love that had no boundaries. He was never too tired to love me, never in a "bad mood" that made him sulk. He was simply a little dog, and I didn't know until today that he also lies buried in my heart. Thanks as always. I hope that somehow, you get a dog some day.
I should add that we had Zinger cremated and, a few years later, I went back to the forest behind our old house and spread his ashes there, where he was always happiest. Rest in piece, old buddy.
Look into the eyes of a pit, loving, tender, dirty little thing. One glass of wine left, he becomes still as the night, knows it's almost over, nestles in warm and close, I drink and sing and he sleeps and waits for tomorrow.
My dog has a cat. My dog, who I waited for for 30 years (from the time I left home and my family dog) is across the country from me now while I work a contract job in NY and she is in Oregon. I moved to Oregon to have a house where I could keep a dog because of all the reasons you mentioned - it wouldn't be fair. I had no space, no time and so forth. So I worked hard and I bought my house with a big side yard and got my dog and promptly ruptured my achilles tendon, which took me off my feet for a good 3 months. It was great bonding time but also hard on a young pup who needed training which I could not give. To this day (smart as she is) she still doesn't stay.
When she was a year old we gave her a kitten and both have bonded to each other. My dog is a Cardigan Welsh Corgi, low to the ground, and when she lays down she splays her rear legs behind her, almost in a flying position. The cat does the same. Sometimes I walk into a room and find them both laying down the same way, looking out over the spotted wall-to-wall carpet (because I could not get to the door!)and wonder about what goes on in their fenine/caline minds.
I spent a long time finding my dog, researching the right breed and found her and the perfect breeder (see c-myste.com). I have made mistakes with my new dog and have realized there is no perfect time or scenario for raising a dog. But she loves me and I love her and I will make the time to do what I can for her. The corgi people - and I'm sure all breeders and dog people say - that some dogs touch you to your heart and they are your heart dogs. They will never leave you.
Thank you Roger, for your sharing.
I was going to make a reference to Gates of Heaven, but you've already commented, "One of the countless reasons I love 'Gates of Heaven' so much is that the owners of the dead pets loved them so much."
I remember seeing it at Ebertfest (the print scratchy but intact--with Morris in attendance--what a treat) before it had a DVD release. There was a nice sense of irony to the proceedings--until the pet headstones montage. Morris just let us read the epitaphs, one after another. You're right: They loved their pets. You can laugh at them, blinking in the sun, their '70s polyester easy to mock; but Morris gives them their due, and I found myself deeply touched. One of the greatest films ever made--but you already know that.
Roger,
Just when I think I couldn't love you more..My friend Bob hates the movie 1001 Dalmations(original animation)because when he got home his Dad told him his dog had gone to live on a farm..Bob told me this story about 10 years ago and it sent chills.Those were the exact words my Mother said about Smokey!I had to release our dog Goldie in her 13th year.She was my son's 5th birthday present and knew from the moment they met she was his defender but she slept by my bed.And when he turned 16 and took the car on his dates she and I would walk the floor till we heard him drive in and then race for my bedroom and pretend we didn't notice the time.I miss her still.
Roger,thanks for the Travis McGee reference.I read all the books and thought they would have made a great series.I cast Richard Burgi in my head....
You might enjoy a short story by Connie Willis called "Last of the Winnebagos." It's about how much we humans love our dogs.
I share some of your dog trauma, Roger. Our first dog, a toy poodle, was given away when I was very young between the sale of one house and the completion of another. Our second dog a cocker spaniel was left in the custody of my aunt and uncle during a trip to Florida when I was 6 but "got loose" while we were gone. My third dog was a black lab/something mix who started out living inside, but was exiled to the outdoors due to my brother's allergies. The insulated and heated dog house I built never quite assuaged my guilt, but it was the best I could do for her. I would cook her hot meals and bring them out, which she would happily gobble down, but I still feel guilty these many years later. All events outside of my control, but that doesn't really help.
Been home a week from a 3+ week trip to Italy where we saw dogs everywhere, all gussied up in little coats and sweaters, going in and out of restaurants, stores, bars, and relieving themselves wherever they wanted. Proprietors of some establishments had squeeze bottles of disinfectant in order to dissipate some of the urine stains on walls, etc. We smiled at every pup we saw, but all owners totally disregarded our existence and the dogs ignored us because we didn't speak their language.
We have a Lab, 3.5 years old, replaced a 12 year old rescue Lab that we had for 5 years before he became terminally ill. Worst phone call I have ever made was to a vet who made house calls; he came to our home to take care of our beloved Jim, taking him away when the deed was done, and bringing back his ashes 3 weeks later. We waited a year before we got another dog.
Gus, our 3.5 year old, is an enormous PITA but we wouldn't trade him for the world, missed him immensely when we were gone, but would never dream of taking him out into the world at large. He stresses easily.
Get yourself a dog - life is too short to live without one.
I wish you could have owned a couple of the cats I've had, they were awfully sweet and affectionate.
I have tried to understand our lingering affection (and occasional obsession) with these little animals, and I believe that in a world with suffering and pain, they represent something sweet, simple, and true in which we want to believe. There have been suggestions that Japan's obsession with all things "cute" was a direct result of the horrors of WWII, and the need to be captivated by innocent and simple dreams and images.
I have identified this as being behind my own fascination and attraction to these sweet little animals. I want to believe in absolute good, simple love and affection, and that we can care for the most innocent and needy among us (cats and dogs are quite needy, not always innocent but perhaps innocent of true evil and only victims of their own needs and instincts). Especially if you have suffered trauma and pain can these little creatures be peaceful to the soul.
I have an uncle that probably never told his mother "I love you", but cannot watch "where the red fern grows, or Old Yeller." True story.
Ultimately, how we treat this animals does speak to our own humanity. But our endless affection for them probably also speaks to our desire for all of us to be more human. (humane?)
Curse you and your incessantly thoughtful blog, you've got me thinking too hard again!
My family got a rescue doe in 2006 named Shelby, a Newfoundland/labrador mix who was skittish and shy for the first few weeks. Our other Newfoundland, Alex, warmed up to her quickly and we had two wonderful years together.
Last summer Shelby was hit by a car. I saw it. It was without question the most horrible thing I have ever seen. I've been away at school for most of the time she has been home, and yet I felt like I had a great bond with her, better than any bond I made at school. What was funny was that Alex immediately sensed our sadness and comforted us, taking the role he had before Shelby was in the picture. It's funny how dogs know what to do in a given situation and know what humans like and need. I prefer cats, but nothing will ever love me like my dogs have.
I came by this article in a roundabout way, through the world of dog and cat blogs. I too had the same reaction as you, Roger, for years, each time I saw a dog, a cat or even a horse. I wanted to have one of my own so very much but life in big cities and a fairly nomadic existence made my parents unshakeable in their negative response. I grew up a nomad too, and lived by the same negative for years. And then one day, I threw caution to the wind and got a cat. At the time, I lived in Tokyo. I continued to travel and from Tokyo, I moved, with cat, to Chicago, and eventually returned to Europe. I now live in the French countryside.
And now, the longing is gone because there is Tom, my English Springer Spaniel, and Tama-Chan, my kitten. The original cat left me after 15 years, the one who followed him after only 18 months. Having now lived with several, I beg to differ with your "diagnosis" on dogs ad cats. Yes, they are different, very much so. The dog is your partner in joy, the outside world, whatever element of rowdiness you possess, whereas the cat is the mirror of your soul, the one who will love you shyly and discretely, and open up to you when it's just the two of you. Two sides of who we all are. The dog can be shy and sensitive and the cat can have hugely boisterous moments. And best of all, my dog and cats have all been the dearest of friends, playing together, cuddling together, and keeping me company together. We all bring something different to one another's lives, which enriches us all.
Do away with your longing. I spent years with it, thinking there was no way. It wasn't true.
Roger,
As the owner of two dogs and two cats, this post had me grinning from ear to ear. Your comment about women not being able to handle the fact that cats use litter perfectly summarizes the only real conflict that my girlfriend and I have. She takes Chaz's view that the cats should stay off of any surface upon which food is consumed and/or prepared. I echo the post above about pugs; my pug is the most easygoing, loyal pet imaginable. Sure, he begs for table scraps, but the utter joy with which he receives such treats is worth his weight in gold. And his favorite place in the world is wedged between my lap and my overstuffed leather chair, fast asleep. Great post. It really brightened my day.
The movie Firehouse Dog also has several of those dog-oriented title mutations in it, appropriate given that its star is the legendary hairpieced canine thespian Rexxx.
The story of Blackie was so sad and sweet. I have white carpet and a black dog and I know which one I care for. Penny and I were just out enjoying the Colorado sunshine, it's a glorious thing to have a dog by your side.
I can think of one movie character, universally beloved, who kills a dog in the movie. Who is it?
I read the same Salon article last week that you mention, Roger, and it's nice to know that there's a physiological basis for the ardent love I've always felt for dogs.
I remember as a child of 3-5 years old, before my family had a dog, my mother used to visit a friend of hers who had two kids, a boy and a girl, a couple years older than I, and a German Shepherd named Eric. I enjoyed playing with the other kids, but what I most enjoyed doing with them was playing with Eric. As it turned out, the affection was mutual. One time when my mom was ready to leave and I was still playing with Eric, she grabbed me by the arm to get me going. Eric, in turn, clamped his muzzle on her wrist, not breaking the skin or hurting her, and conveyed his message that he didn't want to see his friend -- me -- handled so roughly.
After that, my family had 3 poodles, the first of whom (the only female) bore two litters of 4 each, which we sold or gave away to family, and I loved all of them (even the middle of the three who was an absolute pain-in-the-ass barker and in-house pisser). The last of those three died in Vegas at about 14, perhaps a year or two before my dad, his best friend and daily ice cream provider.
Fast forward a couple years, and my sister bought a couple dogs for her kids, and during the time I was living with her helping out, we took in a couple (purebred strays), all of whom we were in love with, and who seemed to really love each other: http://flickr.com/photos/jackknife_juggernaut/3285441913/sizes/o/ and http://flickr.com/photos/jackknife_juggernaut/2020039681/sizes/l/ (Yes, that's a temporarily dyed mohawk on the cockapoo -- my nephew's idea since his school wouldn't let him have a mohawk.).
Hell, I even got a couple of the dogs' pictures in Entertainment Weekly with me: http://flickr.com/photos/jackknife_juggernaut/2019978273/sizes/l/!
In Wall Street, Gordon Gekko derisively remarks "If you want a friend, get a dog." I would give the exact same honest advice to you or anyone else.
Re Patrick Brennan
"Also, straying from the point slightly, did you know that you can steal the story and characters from any film as long as your version's cast is composed primarily of animals? Scarpaw. Citizen Canine. The Dogfather. La Doggy Vita."
Ebert: To Pee or not to Pee. The Good, the Bad, and the Pug. Dog With the Wind.
Composer's they can listen to: Bite-o-ven, Moz-arf, Mauler (sounds the same), Devourak, Droolbussy, Ruffmaninov, Choppin (lame), Shostakobitch
Didn't Jeffrey Lyons and Neal Gabler do the Dog of the Week segment too? If so, didn't they use a different dog (female) instead of Spot and Sparky?
Ebert: Not that I recall. Gene and I dropped the trained animals after a certain point. We asked ourselves "Would Pauline Kael work on television with a dog?"
Your post reminded me of the poem "My Dog" by Philip Schultz. It's published in the pulitzer prize winning book "Failure." I don't know if you ever read it but it's worth checking out. I would have posted a link to the poem, but I couldn't find it online.
But you can listen to him read it in this Poetry Foundation podcast. He starts to introduce the poem at about 4 minutes into the podcast if you wanted to skip ahead.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=428
This post made me tear up, dog lover that I am.
I got my first dog just a few years ago, in my late twenties. My father wasn't an animal lover, so no dogs or cats growing up (just a ridiculous number of small pets, which really weren't much of a substitute). I swore as a child that when I grew up I was going to have a dog, but then I got into a relationship with someone who hated them even more than my father did. She loved cats, though, and despite the fact that I was mistrustful of felines when I met her, I became a cat lover myself.
But I still wanted a dog.
When that relationship ended, I had the good fortune to meet a woman who had grown up with dogs, and who has sworn that she will always have them. When we began living together, she had an elderly rescue Pekingnese (who has since passed away) and a 190 lbs. Great Dane named Lucy. To go from no dog to a crazy-big dog was interesting. I was dealing with a lot of stuff when I lived with Lucy, and I would come home every day and give her a bear hug. She would stand there and let me hold her for as long as I needed. Lucy was incredibly sweet, but she had a lot of health problems. Elbow dysplasia, heart condition, and eventually a torn cruciate ligament (doggy equivalent to the ACL). We had to put her down a couple of years ago, which was one of the most difficult things ever, even though I'd only known her a couple of years at that point. When the vet gave her the shot, my girlfriend was holding her, and just before she fell asleep she lifted her head and licked my face -- she had never licked me before that moment. Needless to say, I dissolved.
After Lucy passed away, I had the opportunity to get "my own" first dog. We went to the animal shelter and I picked out a brown mutt named Jack. I'm guessing he's a Rhodesian Ridgeback/Shepherd mix. He's everything I imagined my dog would be when I was a kid. He's my shadow, he's playful outdoors, a couch potato indoors, and he's amazing with children. The most tolerant dog I've ever seen. Today I went home at lunch, stressed out from work, and lay on the bed for a moment. He jumped up and settled down against me, letting me wrap my arm around him and put my head on his. I don't even want to think about how devastated I will be when he's not in my life anymore.
Jack got to be an only dog for a year or so, and then we got a new Great Dane puppy (my girlfriend had a Dane-sized hole in her heart after Lucy, so we had to get another). Jagger is 6 months old, 84 lbs., and the cuddliest lap dog ever (this is getting alarming, as he will likely top out at 150 - 200 lbs... and he literally loves to sit on your lap). This is my first true "puppy experience" (Jack was about 7 months and an old soul when I adopted him) and it's crazy. But wonderful.
Thanks for this entry. You're one of my very favorite writers and when I saw that you were writing about dogs, I was thrilled. This entry did not disappoint.
My dog is named Ming. He's a Golden Retriever/Bassett mix. I think people call them Bassadors, great combo if you can find it.
His mother was the bassett, she was impregnated by a stray. The farmer who owned her was going to kill the pups until our local Humane Society convinced him otherwise. He still didn't give them proper care, basically left them in the barn to fend for themselves. I'm pretty sure he was at least partially raised by barnyard cats, and he was the runt with two very aggressive sisters and a bigger brother.
The Humane Society originally gave him to a young girl in the country who, for some inscrutable reason, let him go. Just let him run away. I guess she didn't want him. He hadn't been seen for weeks, and we were going to take one of his sister's instead. Just before the adoption date he, miraculously, was found living under a porch. He'd been missing for two weeks, long considered dead. And yet, here he was. Cold, alone, but alive. Its a strange mix of breeds and circumstance that I think has created a dog unlike any I've ever met. He's timid, doesn't bark, plays like a cat (using paws more than teeth), isn't especially interested in things outside his yard (afterall, he had his adventure in the wild), and is amongst the smartest dogs I've ever met. He's also preternaturally soft.
My first dog, when I was a boy was named Odie. I won't go into a long story about him as this is already a long comment. But the night he died in October of 1999 was heartbreaking. He slept in my room beside my bed, and this night he jumped up on my bed one last time, let out a moan I'd never imagined a dog could make, and died beside me. It was terrible to have him go, but touching that the last thing he did was try to be closer to me.
Ebert: Animals know about death. When one of my cats died, the other approached it, sniffed it, and emitted a sound I have never heard from any animal before or since. The sound said: This is wrong.
I have trouble with those sad doggie eyes. To me a dog always looks as if it has a well of need so deep I can never fill it. But, I do have three granddogs and adore visits. The oldest lived in the house with me for several years before my daughter moved out and married. I have permission from my son in law to stay with the dogs if the humans ever decide they can both be gone from the house overnight.
My baby sister (same age as George Clooney and Obama) has an Australian Shepherd pup. Why she and her husband chose a new dog of that breed blows my mind, and they are often at a loss with the bossy Aussie. They are pretty laid back people. Their 21 year old son is not drill sargeant material either. But,one day she called me laughing. After a hard day at work and a rough few days with our mother's failing health, Sheila greeted her coming in from work as if it were the most wonderful occurence in the world. Les said "I love coming home to someone so excited to see me." And she has grown to enjoy the six o'clock in the morning walks.
We had a cocker named Blackie when I was four. It was stolen. Go figure. After that dogs were outside animals in pens with houses, mostly bird dogs when I was a child. But we lived in western Kentucky, almost Tennessee. It wasn't that cold.
Thanks for the post. Enjoy your random dog moments when they come. They are often joyous creatures.
I think we have an enormous responsibility towards the well being of animals everywhere. I used to be overly rational about everything, and accepted the death of animals everyday as something that simply occurs in nature, and didn't give it the slightest hint of meditation, essentially giving them another place in existence than the one humans inhabit. This was my stance before I was given the cutest mixed Chihuahua that went from being a playful thing to becoming a fill-fledged member of the family. She just won my heart by being so self-less and grateful. I went from not caring about non-thinking creatures to realizing that they enjoy their existence in their own ways,just like we do. Being the dominant species in this planet, it is our responsibility to take care of them with love and pride. Of course, this entry is about dogs, and I have to say, they are just PERFECT as our companions. Nothing can beat a dog as a pet(and as a friend).
I never had a dog growing up, due to my mother's overwhelming fear, and I yearned for one desperately. I had imaginary dogs, I wrote stories about dogs. Finally as an adult I was gifted with a golden retriever puppy, and I have never been without a dog since.
Roger. Somehow, some way, there must be a way for you to fill that void. Dogs are the ultimate caregivers, and perhaps there is one out there who needs you as much as you need him.
Make it so.
Once again, great column Roger. I am not sure what you are currently needing assistance with, but I know there are amazing dogs out there who are trained to assist people with disabilities.
I too would love to have a dog but am waiting until the time is right. I feel that there needs to be somebody else to assist in caring for it; I'd feel too guilty leaving it home every day while I'm at work. But I do find myself watching The Dog Whisperer a lot. Great show; I guess I'll be armed with the tools to ensure I have a healthy, happy dog when the time comes to own one.
I do wish you well in your recovery. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us.
Each winter when I spend the Christmas break in Toronto, I sing with a "Victorian caroler" company which sends costumed quartets to sing at office parties, shopping centres, clubs and, very occasionally, private homes. One gig many years ago was at a mid-century home in the Rosedale neighbourhood, and our quartet sang for an hour from a kind of internal balcony at one end of a large living room, a room perhaps thirty yards long, all for a smallish group of family and friends—no more than six or seven people.
There were two sitting areas, one at each end of the room. At our end, there was a fireplace, and at the other end, near the kitchen, a low table with platters of food. As we had arrived, we'd met the hostess, who was business-like, and their dog, as we entered through a door leading into the kitchen. The entry into the living room had one of those flimsy wooden gates, and when other family traffic through the kitchen let the dog sneak briefly into the living room, the hostess was quick and a little severe in dragging the dog back into the kitchen.
We started to sing from our balcony while the guests ate around the table at the far end of the room.
After a half-hour or so, they relocated to our end of the room to open their presents.
But at the far end of the room, someone left the gate to the kitchen open, and the unnamed dog (I never learned his or her name) wandered into the living room unobserved, sidled up to the low table, and snarfed from the platters for the rest of our gig. Unobserved, but not without witnesses.
Mr. Ebert,
This post reminded me of a terrific song by a band from my hometown, The Weakerthans. The song is called "Plea From a Cat Named Virtute". I know you specified your preference of dogs over cats early on in the post, but this song beautifully illustrates how one can find personal strength and security through their pet, especially in difficult times of loss. The song is told from the perspective of a depressed man's cat, and the cat trying to do what he can to prop the man up and give him strength. Below are links to the lyrics to the song, as well as an mp3 of the song on the band's official website. I highly recommend giving it a listen, this post instantly reminded me of it.
http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Plea-From-A-Cat-Named-Virtue-lyrics-The-Weakerthans/DE06468F97BAEAE248256D7A0013A8D6
http://www.theweakerthans.org/audiovisual/mp3/weakerthans-plea_from_a_cat_named_virtue.mp3
Great story Roger. I have never been a dog person, however your story, and one I read last month http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/090122, maybe I need to rethink the whole dog thing.
It's a shame that you didn't (apparently) get to see Bolt.
I had to put down my beloved Black Lab, Sophie this summer, and I can't say it really hit me until having nothing to do I caught an early matinee of Bolt in an empty theater.
I soon became quite happy that the theater was empty, as about forty five minutes into the movie even before anything sad began to happen I started sobbing, and kept going off and on until the film was completed.
Thank God no one else was there, because I can only imagine how strange it would have looked to a stranger that a grown man was sitting by himself crying through a children's movie.
I never really understood the line in Big Fish about the mayor seeing his old dog at the pond. I do now.
As much as we have made dogs what they are, I think that dogs have shaped us in a similar way; we expect a lot out of their companionship and get upset when others (re: people) don't live up to our high hopes. Dogs are perfection!
Hi Roger,
I am so glad that you decided to write this article.
There are times when you seem impersonal--through no fault of your own, mind you--but because of your celebrity status. I understand you may not think of yourself as a star, but to people who value intelligence and skillful writing, you are right up there with the best.
So, like I was saying, it was wonderful of you to share such personal details of your life and childhood through your words and pictures. What I see is a kid who owned a dog, who grew up in a small neighborhood, and had probably many of the same dreams I did as a child.
Ebert: Inside of us are all the people we ever were.
i was motivated to show you this immediately after reading "and sneak it bites from the table" in your second paragraph:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUbsc_a-e3g
perhaps you've seen it, perhaps not. regardless, you can't help but feel bad for the poor dog!
I got my dog with the silly notion that it would convince a woman to stay with me despite her desire to travel and see the world. Career circumstances prevented me from following her on this path. Needless to say, the woman did not stay, but the dog did. It was the best mistake I've ever made.
Ebert: Did you so inform her?
Something similar though infinitely more disturbing happened to me. My Evil Parents probably fed me my favorite rooster (or is it a cock?).
In the Evil Parents' defence, i would like to clarify that Chooza i.e Urdu for chick (i was appallingly unimaginative) was one hell of a nasty fellow and made all the other animals miserable. He pecked the crown right off the poor peacock's head, fought with the older rooster all the time, harrassed the hens, terrorized the cats, and was recklessly unafraid of my fierce guard dog.
he also stole food from the kitchen, sneaked inside and decorated the sofas with muddy foot prints, stole all bright and glittering things he could find, and crowed long and hard in the night.
For these and other adorable habits, my Unreasonable Mother tried to get rid of him many times, but i always put up a spirited fight. also, my grandparents were on my side and that really helps in all eastern cultures. Nobody dares defy the Elders.
I went to Islamabad for a short visit and came back to find Chooza missing. The Elders said a cat ate him. The Evil Parents said he ran away. Cranky Single Aunt told me he died of a terrible disease.
Much later i found out through Not-Funny Sister that they had Chooza slaughtered and froze the meat. I probably consumed his earthly remains. Horrors!!
Ebert: During WWII and the meat shortage, the Shaw family two doors down raised rabbits. We kids loved those rabbits. About once a month a rabbit would disappear and there would be chicken stew for Sunday dinner.
Dogs are the only animals, besides humans, who understand and respond to pointing. That includes the apes, who don't get pointing at all. Pointing is the fundamental for learning, how we share and demonstrate (at least, for humans, until language came along).
Mr. Ebert:
Not being a dog person and having always dated cats persons, I am very moved by your story. Please write a complete memoir/autobiography. I'd be the first one to buy it.
I don't want to make this about me, but I almost jumped when seeing this sentence:
"I had cats named Orange Cat and Sports Fan."
I have a cat named Orange Cat.
jun
In answer to Ron Barth, Atticus Finch killed a dog in "To Kill a Mockingbird", but is still a beloved character. He's the only one I can think of.
My dog, Annie, was the best dog that ever lived. She passed away in October at age 14. Nobody, human or animal, will ever love me as much as Annie did.
I choked up reading this. I, too, had a dog I wasn't allowed to keep in the house. I won't go into details. Can't right now. But I just wanted to tell you that your blog is wonderful. The entries, and perhaps some of the thoughtful responses, should be published as a book. It should all endure.
In one of the latter episodes of Frasier, now and forever one of the great TV shows, Martin (John Mahoney, now and forever one of the great actors) tries to explain the concept of death to Roz's five-year-old daughter, Alice, after he accidentally lets it slip that her pet hamster's died. Anyway, one thing leads to the other with the kid asking all sorts of questions as kids tend to do, and Alice eventually asks if Eddie, Martin's Jack Russell, will die soon? He's just a puppy, Martin says, he's only eleven. "That's not a puppy," Alice answers, and the scene moves on.
After a while, Alice leaves with her mum, and Martin glances at Eddie, resting on the sofa. "Here, boy," he says, and Eddie jumps on his lap. Martin hugs him, and kisses the top of his head. Then, I cry.
You see, Moose, who played Eddie, was getting on, and that was one of his last episodes before Enzo, his son, took over the role. That is Martin Crane hugging Eddie in that scene, sure, but it's also John Mahoney hugging Moose.
Mr. E, please, please do something wonderful for yourself and, if at all possible given your current living situation, adopt a dog. Adopt a dog with a horrible past and a quietly stoic, kind face. A dog who is fully aware that he has one chance left, that you may be that chance, and that you can be his real-life hero........and Blackie will smile a quiet doggie smile there in his personal dog heaven, and you and he will know that you have done the right thing for yourselves. I wish this for you with all my heart. (My 3 cats and recently adopted pit bull wish it for you, too.)
Ebert: During WWII and the meat shortage, the Shaw family two doors down raised rabbits.
You know there's something called rabbit starvation, which is universe's way of telling us it's uncouth to eat cute lagomorphs.
Beautiful, moving stories, both yours and from your posters. But, yeah, sometimes I wonder why we do it to ourselves: again and again, we buy or attain these little animals, knowing, knowing, that we're going to go through an intense period of Hell about fifteen years down the line, when it's time for our beloved pets to say goodbye to us. Of course, we do it because the good is often so good that we're willing to take the deal and accept the pain later. But it's still so hard. I still have bad moments thinking of the last days of our beloved black cat, Elaine, gone almost a year now.
Not to perpetuate sexist/pettish stereotypes, but it appears to me that man is dog and woman is cat. You cannot ever own a cat; you can only embrace those fleeting moments of warmth, the scarcity of which makes them all the more valuable. A dog, however, like so many men, is overkill.
And as your post so eloquently illustrates, it is that utter indulgence that dog owners hunger for. Who wouldn't envy such heedless, boundless, insuppressible joy? Felines allow their observers the ability to meditate on the power of refinement. Canines happily eat cat shit.
But as a life-long lover of cats and women, this post is working in my wife's favor. For years she has dreamt of owning one of those sloppy, smelly, grunting bundles of excess. And fortunately, Our Wall-To-Wall Carpeting has already been destroyed by a four year-old.
Couldn't agree with you more about dogs, Roger. Indeed, given our common evolution and natural selection with dogs for the last 50,000 years or so we and they are probably hard-wired to respond that way to each other. But is it really necessary to make invidious comparisons with cats? Can't we just enjoy dogs without ripping on felines, the very last animal to be domesticated? And I don't know what cats you've hung around with, but mine provide more companionship than I know what to do with: they constantly climb into my lap, nuzzle my face, purr as I pet them, etc. Cats are many things, but boring they are not. I would hazard that people who are bored should consider first whether it is because they themselves are boring.
Ebert: I have had two dogs and two cats. I loved all four.
Ding! Give that woman a cigar, Roger! (I can't think of any other beloved dog killers, either. Can anyone else?)
We had an big australian shepherd named Jenny when the kids were growing up. She was the calmest, wisest, smartest, sweetest soul. Each morning, she gave me "morning loves" in my favorite chair by laying her upper body across my lap, gazing at me with adoration, and sighing with contentment while I caressed her ears. Around her 7th birthday, something changed.
On our walks, I noticed that she leaned into me, nearly pushing me over. She no longer charged out to chase off interloping squirrels. While giving her an ice cube (her favorite treat) one afternoon, the light shone at a certain angle, and I could see that our friend was nearly blinded by cataracts. They had developed suddenly; the vet could not say why, as she was otherwise healthy. For a few days we watched as Jenny would run into something, and then look sadly around, wondering who or what had hit her, and why. It absolutely broke my heart.
I got a referral to a canine opthalmologist, and she advised cataract surgery, to the tune of several thousand dollars, which we could ill afford. The specialist said that Jenny would be able to see perfectly at a distance of 6 - 10 feet. At other distances things would be blurry, but she'd be able to see well enough to avoid obstacles. Our entire family sacrificed and saved to afford the operation.
I will never forget the look on Jenny's face, the pure joy, as we drove home after her surgery. Although her eyes were still irritated and sore from the procedure, she watched the people and cars out the window, wagged at a bicyclist, looked so intently and lovingly at the beautiful world that had been restored to her. When someone asks me about great memories, that car ride home is always on the list.
There's always someone who, upon hearing this story, says that it sounds like a lot of money and a big sacrifice. My reply: If it had been the other way around, Jenny would have done it for me in a heartbeat.
That's dogs for you.
Not sure where I first saw it but my favorite defintion of heaven,
"Heaven is the place that when you go there all the dogs you have ever loved come running up to greet you"
Makes me want to believe in God.
This post makes me think of -Gates of Heaven-, Errol Morris's stunning masterpiece, which masquerades as a cabinet of curiosities and emerges as a study of the most essential questions about life, love, care, and death.
Regardless of one's favorite animal, people's relationships to pets are endlessly fascinating-- for the same reason that an animal's gaze is fascinating. Two eyes, not quite human, yet somehow recognizable, and somehow recognizing us-- returning our gaze. Like us, but other. Our care for creatures has to be similar. They are not other people, and yet this difference is constantly being forgotten. They cannot speak, and yet they do. Surely they cannot love in the same sense that we do, and yet this love is proved over and over again in hilarious and heartbreaking ways. And in death they are doubtlessly mourned.
-We- are -their- gods? An interesting proposition-- after all, it is we who run around to frantically satisfy their desires, keep them safe, show them off, buy them clothes and toys, post videos of them on youtube, bury them in graves. And think about the consistency of the totem and the animal-god throughout both ancient and modern cultures...
No, but I inform my dog every chance I get.
There is always work that needs to be done at an animal shelter, and believe it or not, playing with dogs is one of them.
You teach the strays how to sit, how to walk on a leash, and even how to love people by sitting quietly with him and petting him and calling him a good dog. It requires a training session (for you!) that lasts a few hours, some patience, and a good heart. Even if you don't have a lot of time or energy, the shelter will be happy to have you share whatever you can, especially big city shelters.
http://www.anticruelty.org/site/epage/36646_576.htm
Wonderful post, Roger. It brought a lump to my throat. Did you ever confront your parents about what really happened to Blackie?
Ebert: No, I never did. At first I was too young. Then I wondered what difference it would have made.
I should put my 13 year old black dog to sleep today. He can't stand up by himself anymore. I carry him outside and inside and he can barely walk when I put him down on the grass. He eats ok and drinks a lot when I put the water bowl under his chin. I don't want him to leave just yet. He sits next to me on the couch and puts his head in my lap and falls asleep. Sometimes he dreams and he wimpers a little and his legs shake. I've walked him around the neighborhood thousands of times and he was really excited to go out every single time. I don't want him to suffer but I don't want him to leave. I wish he would die in his sleep on my lap. I love this dog and he loves me.
Ebert: Orange Cat was getting to be like that. I out it off as long as I could.
I sent this to my sister, who must be a kindred spirit of yours. She recently had to euthanize the elderly, deaf and epileptic border collie that she had adopted only a couple of years ago. Fortunately, she has bonded with a three-legged border collie mix that (until she brought it home) had been living at the shelter for about 20 months. She never lives without a dog for long.
Your timing couldn't be better for me. I teach a university English course on Children's Literature. Last week we did *Call of the Wild*. Yesterday we covered *Where the Red Fern Grows*. If you haven't read the latter, you should. To quote it, it's about "puppy love, the real kind".
Here's a question: given animal-protection standards in film, could an authentic, live-action film of *Call of the Wild* be made now? Would you wish to see one? [The previous versions are inferior and false, unwatchable.] Animation is the solution, but part of me would like to see a responsible film with genuine vigour and danger—something like Jean-Jacques Annaud's *The Bear*. I think Jack London would be right up Werner Herzog's alley, but would drive him crazy, no?
I’ve noticed that all dogs have small idiosyncrasies, unnoticeable unless you spend some time with them. Maybe these nuances exist because of the dog’s breed, upbringing, or both. Anyway, my dog is a Havanese, about a foot and a half in length with a beautifully soft white coat. She follows you when you come into the house and jumps on the back of your legs until you give her some attention. The Havanese used to be used to round up free-ranging chickens on South American farms. Her hind legs are about a quarter higher than the front, allowing her to jump almost like a cat. And every now and then she displays that special skill used on chickens: running in circles. It sounds easy, but when you see the way this little dog can run around you at top speed (I’m sure she would drive a dog-catcher nuts) you want to get some chickens to see if she’s still got it.
Roger, for god's sake, get a dog, any dog. Life is too short. It is now or never.
I love both my cats and my dogs. Right now, I've got a cat on my lap. Seeing as he's of Siamese decent, he loves me like a dog - except he's beautiful like a cat.
I lost two dogs late last year. My heart is still breaking, for one in particular. Named after C. Aubrey Smith, whom he resembled when he was a pup. Scottish Deerhound. He was fairly autistic, but an incredibly joyful being when his world was right (as I made sure it always was). He helped me get over my Dad's death three years ago. So in December, when Aubie was diagnosed with an inoperable and painful brain tumor, I did what a best friend should do. I will love the dogs I have in the future, but I doubt I will ever love another one as much.
http://s17.photobucket.com/albums/b56/prairiewind/Aubie/?action=view¤t=aubie-web.jpg
Kipling certainly understood the joy and pain of being owned by a dog. Gives me a bit of comfort somehow, knowing I share an experience with Kipling.
The Power of the Dog
by Rudyard Kipling
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
Hi Roger, I understand completely your need to have a dog and have been blessed myself to have had them in my life for all 62 years except for a 12 year gap from 1966-1978. In fact I remember you bouncing my cat Stanley on your knee back in the early 70's but as you say, cats don't quite fit the bill.
Anyway, I was wondering if you ever considered sharing a dog with someone the way Sara Paretsky's heroine does in the Warshawski mysteries? I am sure you live in an area surrounded by people who work all day who would be thrilled to have someone come by occasionally and take their dog for a walk or even just play with them. You might have a nice neighbor who would love that. To say nothing of the dog!
I have a feeling I will be haunted by your Blacky story for some time. Growing up, we lived right in the city and always had at least one or two dogs who shared everything with us, even our beds. I will always be very grateful to my parents for that.
http://www.eons.com/photos/profile/529451/photo/197108-Beloved-Billdog-Pen-Markers?context=group_drawing-and-painting#comments
http://www.eons.com/photos/group/drawing-and-painting/photo/475965-For-the-Love-of-a-Pooch?context=group
Re: the minor subthread about dog movie parodies, I recommend THE DOGWAY MELODY, a dog-cast version of Acadamy Award winning THE BROADWAY MELODY (1929).
Roger,
What you need is visitation rights. Some friend with a dog needs to bring said dog to you regularly for playtime. It's not the same thing as having a dog of your own who thinks of you as a god, but most dogs I know have hearts (and souls) big enough to share with a "special uncle", and they know perfectly well when their love is needed.
Good luck to you and I hope you can find some way to have dog-time!
I had two dogs sable (girl,part german shepard and ?) and spotty (boy, bulldog, can climb fences, trees). Sable was a puppy we got from the streets for free I think and I raised it by myself, wanted to train it, but did a bad job, some fundamentals I didn't learn. I would spend about all day and night with the dog the first year or so of its life in the backyard...letting it bite my ears, then teaching it not to bite, play fighting with it. It was a happy dog. I eventually got tired of being back there all day, and everytime I went into the house the dog would be doing small cries for me looking through the windows--also licking the windows, so I taught the dog to play by itself. There was a soccer ball in the backyard, and I taught the dog it can play by itself. To my delight, I would look out the big windows to the backyard and found that Sable was kicking the soccer ball back and forth very fast. When it got out of air, Sable would kick the beer cans back and forth the whole yard very fast. Then we got Spotty, and Sable and Spotty would play fight all day long...well, Sable would play fight and it would have to fight back. I'd allow this until Spotty would occasionally bite Sables neck with its lockjaw, which means it was fed up with playing. Spotty also could climb our backyard fence when I called it--wanted it to--or on its own, which it would do at night. I don't want to get into the story of what happened to these two dogs, but I'll say that to my surprise, I started crying when I had to say good-bye to Spotty--that miraculous dog, who would play fight and could climb fences, and was also trained. When I would take her out with the other dog owners for the restroom, they would remark saying to Sable: "Wow, you're a happy dog!" Sable was not trained, but I was so proud of her.
It's interesting to hear so many people say that the very things I don't like about dogs is what they like about dogs **chuckles**.
I guess having grown up with a siamese cat that was found by campers (hence was semi-feral and an amazing hunter that could catch birds from four feet in the air, etc.) helped also teach me the value of earned friendship from a pet.
When I first got Shiva at age eight or so, one of the first things she did to me was scratch me all the way down my face just next to my eye. I didn't mind it.
Over time Shiva and I became such good friends that from age ten to thirteen every time I delivered papers on my paper route Shiva (a cat) would follow behind me the whole half mile circle. Sometimes she'd run off quickly to catch a mouse that somehow she heard in a ditch or hole somewhere, but she'd follow right behind me.
When I'd had Shiva for thirteen years and she was too old to beat dogs in a fight or scare them off, a pack of three wild dogs attacked her and hurt her fatally before I could run out and chase off the dogs. Shiva's death on my chest a few days later is still one of the saddest moments of my whole life. I just tried to let her know I was with her as she died.
A lot of people think cats don't make good friends. They like dogs that are so enthusiastic about showing their love. But I think they just didn't quite make friends successfully with a good, tough, mean, smart, loyal and caring cat.
Very few human friends I've ever known can be as loyal as a cat that's a true friend. Some humans can be, but not many.
**shrugs** I'm glad at least people are happy with their pets. To each their own :)
Ebert: One thing I'm discovering is that some cats have very "doglike" qualities. Mine were 100% "catlike."
Re: Loveable dog killers...
Tommy Kirk as Travis Coates in "Old Yeller" - same motive, by the way.
The doggie love of my life was Zelda my mini daschund. She was born by c-section and her mom was too out of it to take care of her for the first twelve hours of her life. So I gave her the first few meals with an eyedropper and had her sleep on my chest for extra comfort and warmth. She was so tiny! There was no danger of me rolling over in my sleep and hurting her because I was very pregnant. About six weeks later I had my own c-section and gave birth to a wonderful little boy. I breast fed him and of course Zelda wanted to be right there. One early morning I was really tired and the baby had fallen asleep on my tummy after having his milk. Zelda cleaned up the mess for me. After that, when the baby was done, I didn't see the harm in letting Zelda have the leftover milk, I was just going to have to squeeze it out into the sink anyway. She was always very gentle. Because I let her nurse and because I gave her the very first meals of her life we had a very close bond. I still miss her, and I promised her when she was dying at age 13 that the very first thing I would do if I got to heaven was look for her. I knew she was going there for sure. I have a mini doxie named Audrey now, but it took me six years to bring myself to allow another dog into my heart. I got to pick her out of a litter when she was about two weeks old. She liked to help her mother clean up the other puppies. She is an amazing little dog and I really love her. Thanks for posting this, I loved reading all the pet stories!
Ebert: I haven't been replying to as many posts in this tread as I sometimes do, because they speak so eloquently for themselves. But I have been sincerely appreciating them. Perhaps pets are a way for us to speak more openly about love than we otherwise feel able to. Your post was lovely.
What dogs want most is to be a human. Humans too want to be human. To feel not to be completely so (Phantom of Opera) or treated as less than one is a painful thing.
In what you rightfully describe as a purposeless movie, Button can at best be seen as a hunchback of Notre Dame, but far more misfitted. Actuaally the plot idea could have served better as a state-of-art Comedy of Errors.
Strange indeed must be the ways of the academy or poor the annual crop for Button to find itself nominated as top film and Doubt missing.
I had a similar epiphany that you did, Roger, regarding my parents and the magic intervention of thieves or seizures intervening in my dogs' lives.
We had two dogs when I was 9, a beagle and a weimaraner that were kept outside because of their penchant to eat furniture. In fact, "the last straw" was when the weimaraner ate one-third of the basement step and needed surgery to remove the wood. One day I came home from school and the dogs were not there. Immediately I sensed they were stolen as their collars were deftly kept on the chain outside their respective dog houses. Yet, my parents did not call the police and we did not go on the typical Hollywood-vigil of putting posters all over the town's telephone poles. I just accepted it through many tears.
A couple of years later, we had a lhasa apso that we discovered was prone to seizures. The seizures were pretty intense. One day, my dad and I went to the local soda fountain and we shared milkshakes and a couple of games of Pac-Man. An unusual event to be sure. When we returned, my mom was sitting on the back porch, smoking a cigarette, with the "10,000 Yard Stare". I was informed that she had a seizure and died not soon after we left. I never thought of the convenience of the seizure or the fact that my dog had a seizure, died, was driven to the local vet (a 15 minute drive), processed and returned to us for burial in our backyard within the 45 minutes my dad and I spent sharing milkshakes and video games.
When I was 19, I was talking about my dogs with my then-girlfriend and as I was going through the nuances of the stories it dawned on me that in both situations, my parents had in fact gave away the weimaraner and the beagle to a hunter-friend of my father, and that the lhasa ("Tiffany" which was to be my name had I been a girl) was actually put asleep because of the frequency of the seizures.
I was choked up, not just because of the loss of the animals but of the betrayal I felt. I began wondering about my whole existence. Was I adopted? Are my parents serial-killers? What kind of sicko(s) takes a kid's dogs away from him making up a phony-baloney story that they did. And each of the "tragedies" was followed by a new dog coming into the family.
I am still steamed about all of this. My mom was evasive up until her death four years ago. My dad admitted to it, and assured me that the first two dogs at least lived out their lives hunting. I'm not a hunter and take no great comfort in that. I saw Fox and the Hound.
As a parent myself, I have made up stories to my young boys about what happened to their fish in the fishbowl. But, I feel learning about death is the first step in understanding and coping with it. We have staged funerals over the toilet bowl and said kind words about the .99 goldfish and his assorted pals that met their maker. Then we go have a milkshake.
The first few paragraphs are about as accurate a description of the bond between Man and Dog that I've ever heard. It was lovely to read.
My father once told me a story that your post reminded me of. His father (my biological grandfather) walked out on the family, and his mother eventually remarried. He still saw his father from time to time, and once, he brought my father a puppy. Specifically, a Husky puppy. He said he loved it as much as he'd ever loved anything at that point. Unfortunately, his step-father found it, and made him give it up. He's wanted a Husky ever since.
When he was a little older, he was the manager of a movie theater in Easton, Pennsylvania for a time. One day he went out back, and found a mutt plowing through the garbage. He was half-poodle, half-who-knows-what. He took him home, named him Rodney (after Mr. Dangerfield), and hid him under his blankets, feeding him candy bars. His parents found that one, too, but they let him keep him, and he lived a long, happy life.
I grew up without a dog, but just before leaving for home, my father got the family a big black Lab named Major. He said he thought that every kid should, if at all possible, have a dog growing up, and he felt like something was missing in all those years we didn't have one.
Ebert: I suspect kids who have pets don't require imaginary friends.
Now I understand your politics, Mickey! :D
Hi, Your post on Blackie was so poignant, that I keep thinking of how you to get you a manageable dog. In addition to my previous comments on a finding a good breeder and trainer, there are pets trained to be companion animals for a variety of circumstances. This includes monkeys and ponies trained to help!
A friend of mine trains Golden Labs for the blind. The dogs spend a year with her family and they are all excellent trainers. After a year the dogs leaves and they get a new one. They kept one with a heart defect that couldn't be placed. It wouldn't take a year to train a dog for you, most likely.
I also keep thinking it would make a great documentary, Roger Gets A Dog. The trainer could bring the dog to come visit you every week or so and when it is fully trained the dog could come live with you. Since you didn't comment at all on my first description on how you could get a dog fully trained by a good trainer, it may not be an option at all for reasons I wouldn't know.
But my own dogs have brought me so much joy, it moves me to want to help others have the same benefit. You wouldn't believe how much joy a six pound dog can bring, how smart they are and how much they can expand your day. Forgive me for belaboring this if it just isn't possible, but there are ways to enjoy a loving, great dog in various circumstances.
Our family had several dogs over the years, but the one I remember best was the last one: Buster, a red Labrador who was my mother's steadfast companion in the last couple of years of her life. At this point, it was Mom, me, and my brother sharing the house when Buster came along, a gift from one of my sisters. Mom was housebound with emphysema, and Dee thought, correctly, that having a dog around would give her some activity to fill the day while Sean and I were at our jobs (I worked days and he worked nights, so one of us was usually around, but Buster was the constant). It was all prety uneventful until Mom turned 80, at which point everything started to shut down. My room was in a different part of the house from hers, so when she had distress in the middle of the night, Buster would come back and get me - he knew that Mom needed help, that he would not be able to do what was needed, and that I would. I know the scientific explanations - instinct rather than cognizance - but what difference did that make? Buster knew what he had to do, and did it. Mom finally died after lingering longer than any of us had expected. She passed on Saturday - she had attended daily Mass until the emphysema kicked in, and one of the first people I had to break the news to was an old family friend who brought her Communion every Sunday. We kids (in our late 40s and early 50s) were reserved adults about it all, so it fell to Buster to do the real mourning. Not long afterward, Sean moved out, leaving Buster and me in the house by ourselves. Soon after that, economics forced the sale of the house, and I had to find another place to live. I wound up in a condo that didn't allow pets, so my other sister, Pat, took Buster to live with her, her husband, and their dog. End of story - except that as I'm typing this, I realize that it all happened just over six years ago, so I don't know what happened to Buster in the days since. Most likely, he's gone to wherever good dogs go (which would be just about anyplce except a Korean restaurant *sorry*) but sometimes I still wonder; I've turned into kind of a recluse in my old age, but having an animal companion (the new PC euphemism) might take a bit of the edge off... /*/*/ One brief irrelevancy, which I probably shouldn't throw in but I will: I once had a book about the origin of nicknames (long lost in a move), which maintained that "Buster" was a common nickname for boys and men, particularly in Irish-American communities, as far back as the mid-19th century (and its usage as such in Eire may go back even farther) - long before young Joseph Keaton was so tagged by Harry Houdini. Guess that means that Union sergeant from New York could have been Buster Kilrain after all. (If somebody told you this years ago - forget I said anything.)
...'The Third Dog'. Cue the zither...
Or 'Z' (as in what really happened to zee dog?)
One band I was in played schools and 'homes' during the slower winter months. At one place, playing for the old folks, the elevator door on the opposite wall opened and out walked a dog! It is more common now, but I'd never seen a resident dog before. I loved that moment of astonishment. I often think of ways of having 'shared' pets for our changing lives.
And the old folks - they didn't care what we played or how entertaining we were. They were just glad someone was paying attention to them! And they'd usually crowd around before you could get out, wanting to tell their stories. I grew to really like these shows.
Loved your dog story. Funny how the past gets so important and wonderful as we get older. I always HATED the dull 50's, while now I look at them fondly.
We haven't had dogs since we were both kids, and got a Golden 10 years ago. She only has a couple of years left, and I hate to contemplate that day. Ugh! We may also be nearing the end of our 'dog days', as we may be too old to deal with a 75# animal in 15 years. Some tough choices are coming!
As usual, loved your article - and you have the best commentators anywhere.
Has anyone yet mentioned my favorite screen dog, Petey from the "Our Gang" shorts? Has any dog in film history removed the seat from so many truant officers' baggy pants? Evoked such a slow burn from Edgar Kennedy? Thwarted so many dog catchers? Rescued so many children from burglars, Wild Men of Borneo, and curbside loneliness?
This is My Dog Skip's secret: He's Petey as a Jack Russell--and according to imdb (whose My Dog Skip page is linking to this blog), the dog who played Skip also played Eddie on Frasier--and isn't Eddie simply Petey for grownups?
Not that this is a competition, but still: All hail Petey!
When I was too young to remember it, my family moved to the suburbs of Philadelphia with our golden retriever, Eric. He was, as far as I know, a pure golden, but he was big for the breed, with heavy shoulders and a dark coat-- hence Eric the Red. Like all goldens, he was more gentle and forgiving than would perhaps be healthy in a human being. (He was astonishingly intelligent too, but that's another story.)
In that neighborhood a man whose name I don't remember owned a large and angry German Shepherd named King, whom he allowed to roam free in the neighborhood. King snarled and barked at people, and did worse than that to any dog that didn't get out of his way. The neighbors complained, but the owner was pleased-- he was that kind of man.
Shortly after we moved in, King jumped the fence of our back yard to pay a visit to Eric, introduce himself and lay down the law.
In many ways those were difficult years for my family, but one of my father's more pleasant memories of that time was calling King's owner on the phone: "Excuse me, we just moved in down the street and your dog picked a fight with our dog. Could you come and get him? He's pretty badly hurt."
King lived, but stayed in his own yard from then on, roaring and snarling at anyone who walked by (any child, anyway) but never going outside. We let Eric roam free, and he got to know everyone and everyone got to know him. When a stranger walked by, Eric fell into step a dozen paces behind and simply followed, neither angry nor friendly. Hello, and welcome, and I just know you're not going to cause any trouble here. He would not seek a battle as he was, nor as he was he would not shun it. Eric is long since buried under his favorite tree on my land and gone to run at Orion's feet, but in his day everyone in that neighborhood loved him, and so did I.
By Mickey on February 18, 2009 8:58 AM
...Was I adopted? Are my parents serial-killers?...
By Ron Barth, Jr. on February 18, 2009 11:55 AM
"Now I understand your politics, Mickey! :D "
Yeah Ron, I wasn't too clear on this statement. I meant that once you discover that your parents lie to you, you start thinking about the core of your very existence and what other lies ol mom and dad may have told you.
Just to be clear: I have nothing against adoption, but I cannot say the same about serial-killing.
You crack me up, Dude...
Dear Roger,
These stories are truly moving. I wanted to add mine to the conversation.
When I was young, my family moved around alot. We even moved in the middle of the school year a few times. Once, during a particularly painful move, my father promised my sister and me ( we were probably 8 or 9 at the time) that he would get us a dog when we moved to our new house. As it turned out, this offer got changed to "a dog, or a pool." It took us about five seconds to say we still wanted the dog, but my parents changed their minds and built a pool instead. I've never quite gotten over that broken promise. I still remember my grandfather (yes, even he got in on the act) saying to me incredulously, "Who wouldn't rather have a pool than a dog?" Me, that's who.
I vowed that as soon as I was on my own, I would get a dog. Well, it took me until I was 33, but when my husband and I bought our first house, we went to the local humane society and adopted a sweet, beautiful Golden Retriever. We named him "Briscoe," after Jerry Orbach's great character on Law and Order. Unfortunately, he died of cancer only 3 years after we had adopted him, and I've missed him every day since. My son is only 3 years old, and he doesn't remember good ol' Briscoe--I hope to get another dog someday so my son can have the experience that I never got to have as a child.
I can relate to why you continue to think of Blackie, Roger. It’s no easier to say goodbye to a pet you’ve loved than a person, when there’s been no closure; when you’re left wondering what became of them..? It’s gut-wrenching. Mind you, it’s just as hard when you do know; and there’s the rub.
I lost a black cat once named Elwood (the name inspired by the Blues Brothers) after she “disappeared” one day only to find the bones a week later scattered further up the street; seems a coyote got her. I was heartbroken but eventually found the Zen to make peace with it and in time, get another cat; this one a Balinese lynx-point I named “Milton” after the 16th century English poet and author John Milton, who wrote “Paradise Lost”.
Note: a cat doesn’t follow the pack. It walks its own path and in that sense, is an independent minded sort of creature. And so Milton, is was.
In January 2006, Milton took ill. At first, I thought it was old age; she was 13 yrs, the life expectancy for her breed. However upon taking her to the Vet, discovered it was actually diabetes; yes, cats and also dogs can develop it too. And reasoning that it needn’t be a death sentence, you don’t kill people when they have it, opted to manage her illness instead; as I’d be damned before I left her go. Not my best buddy!
Ever wonder, if push came to shove what you’d be capable of doing for a pet you love? In my case, I can tell you it’s the courage to learn about insulin – and injecting a cat twice a day with a needle. Yup. I did that. And she took it. Put up with it, so too my initial fumbling attempts before I figured out how to do it quickly without pain; it’s the area behind the neck, by the way, where the mommy cat picks-up her baby, that area. You just have to get the insulin under the skin not hit a vein or anything.
Everything was going well, though the expense was not an easy thing to bear; but I found a way. Then in late March, my mom was suddenly diagnosed with cancer. That’s not a story I’m going to tell beyond that it took her quickly; she was gone in 8 weeks. A week after the funeral, for reasons too painful and complicated to recount in here, it wasn’t possible to continue Milton’s treatment. Too many things had changed at home and I was forced to take her to the Vet and have her put to sleep.
I stood there, bleeding internally, tormented by feelings words could never express, and watched how it was done. A sedative is given first. Then the actual drug to end her life. The Vet was East Indian and a compassionate soul. THANK-GOD; he understood how to reach the Zen I was struggling so hard to find.
“Nothing ever really dies” he said. “Remember that”. And then a moment later Milton was gone. I felt her leave me, I actually felt her leave the room. That isn’t something I’m likely to ever forget.
My family chose how my mother was laid to rest. It was typical of a funeral, all dressed in black and observing traditions that for me only make the grief harder to bear. And I vowed not to do the same; not for Milton. As that isn’t the way I personally want to go, either. Screw that. I didn’t want a sober affair or to leave her in a cold, lifeless pet cemetery, as I saw it. Instead, and once it was possible, I took her to a small island off the coast of British Columbia where some artist friends lived. They too, had lost a beloved cat – from feline AIDS, which they’d subsequently buried in their backyard garden. They even had a little headstone for kitty; surrounded by plants and flowers on the edge of an old growth forest.
It was twilight in June. My girl friend and I light countless candles and lamps making the garden glow like a fairytale. And then blew-up balloons upon which I’d drawn silly faces, before placing them round the small grave I’d dug for her makeshift urn; the goofiest thing I could find! A bizarre, psychedelic cat-with-a-hat shape piggy bank and stuffed with mementos and notes from me to her. And then beneath a darkening vaulted ceiling and with stars so close you could pluck from the sky, we rang tiny Buddhist bells and popped the balloons and laughed and drank and shared fond memories of having been fortunate enough to know our cats, while wishing mine a happy afterlife.
Note: as fate would have it, it also my birthday. And how’s this for irony? I’m a “Cancer”.
I threw Milton a party, not a wake. I surrounded her with color and light. And said goodbye to her in a garden where she’d be able to play with the ghost of my friend’s kitty and therefore not be alone, but with a buddy now to stalk butteries and ladybugs and all things of interest to cats. Where birds would sing to her each morning, and the smell of lavender, rosemary and thyme would float through the air as she napped.
It’s the comforting memory of “how” I said ultimately goodbye that makes it easier to bear that we had to. Not that there was less to bear that day at the Vet’s. It sucks either way. Whether you know how they died or not. But if you choose how you’ll remember them, regardless of whether or not there’s a body to lay in the ground – and I had none for her, just a few tuffs of fur as I couldn’t afford the cremation, it does make a difference. At least it did for me.
To Ron Barth:
I know that you are probably correct the majority of the time in your assumption that Man=Dog and Woman=Cat, and vice versa, but my own experiences have been contrary.
When I was a little girl I was quite fiesty. One day I saw some neighborhood boys abusing a cat. They had it surrounded, and were throwing stones, fists and feet at her. They were all at least a foot taller than I, but I marched over there in all of my huff and puff and told them what was what, grabbed that cat and took her home. She stayed with me for eight years, until we had both become too distant to remember what it was that kept us together, and then she simply wandered away. She ended up with an elderly gentleman, serving as the perfect lap cat.
When I was 22 and searching desperately for myself, I partcipated in a home-build on the Northern Cheyenne Reservation. For sixteen days I lived in a tent and helped build a home. There were many wild packs of dogs that lived around the area we worked in, but only one dog called our site home, and she trusted humans about as far as she could fetch one. About a week after we arrived, a furry puppy showed up. When he wandered happily from table to table during breakfast that morning, each person looked at him in disgust and shooed him away. When he came to me, I pitied him. His fluffy fur was matted and covered in briars, he had visible fleas and ticks, but perhaps most sickening was the green goop that oozed from his eye. I asked the foreman that day if I could take the morning off and I spent it cutting away the mats, pulling out engorged ticks, and telling him what a good boy he was. He let me do it all without complaint, until I reached for his eye. Again and again he would jerk away, but eventually he decided that I was trustworthy enough. As I wiped away the green goo that poured from his eye, I saw what had caused this mess. There, attached to his bottom lid, was a tick. I took it between my nails and yanked it out of there so fast even I didn't know what hit him. After I was finished I thought this would be the end of my friendship with the dog, but he had other plans. He followed me everywhere, and that night when I went to my tent he tried to follow me in. After unsuccessfully trying to get in, he found the next best way to be close to me. He went around to the side, underneath my fly, and pushed down on the netting of my tent until it laid on top of my sleeping bag, and there he lay for the night, curled next to me, hair poking through the holes and brushing against me. We have been inseparable ever since. He is the most intelligent dog I have ever known, but I suppose every dog owner believes that. He is nearly 100 pounds, black, long-haired and boisterous when he wants to be, but is always respectful, protective and intuitive. I couldn't ask for a better companion.
When my husband and I divorced, there was no question who the dog would be following. He kept the two cats, which is just as well, because they adore him. They follow him everywhere, lay on his chest while he reads, on his lap while he watches television, on his desk while he works, and curled in his nook while he sleeps. I don't know that I will ever meet a man who dotes more on his cats. The male cat and I had quite a strong bond, and I do miss him quite a bit, but the female cat and my husband were on another level altogether. She is his "princess," as he likes to refer to her, and she knows it. I think our divorce would have been much more difficult if I hadn't had Nakohe ("bear" in Northern Cheyenne), and if he hadn't had Callie and Pumpkin (our Orange Cat).
So while I believe that there are more cat lovers who are women and more dog lovers who are men, I think that the bond does not depend on gender, but on the source of that bond. Blackie clearly had a different and more rooted bond with Roger than Ming or his cats ever did. Nakohe is my soulmate, and I am grateful he found me.
-Amanda
Oops!
Not Ron Barth, but Lucas Rothman. I apologize sincerely!
Holy Guacamole.
Somebody once said of Paul McCartney, many years ago, that he could sneeze on a record and it would sell a million copies.
I'm beginning to think that you, Mr. Ebert, could sneeze in this journal and get about 800 responses.
Ebert: Or start an epidemic.
I was 19, and i was *supposed* to go on a walking tour of the UK. Instead, a friend phoned me, and told me there were puppies in her neighbourhood. I went 'just for a look'. The slowest puppy of the litter had some black smudged on his yellow face. I picked him up, and wiped him off, and he carefully gave me a kiss.
I still haven't travelled - i got ill, but i figure, maybe later. I still have Lucas, through four moves, three illnesses of mine, a marriage, and canine cancer. He's cured - something that doesn't happen often with dogs. i have learned that pet insurance is a blessing, that smart dogs are exceedingly hard to train, and that dogs are superbly eloquent.
You have an open invitation to come and pet him - but please bear in mind he's still a smart dog, without a lot of class, i'm afraid. If you are inattentive, he will sneeze on you, in hopes you will rub his dog snot back on him.
Ebert: Aww. Would he? I would be happy to.
Roger, I WAS going to write that you've obviously never owned an Abyssinian or a Havana Brown---but since these are cats with very dog-like behavior, all I'd be doing would be making your point for you...
Did you watched S.O.B? The movie begins and ends with a sad dog and his dead owner on the beach. I hate when they use dogs. Even in As Good As It Gets, it starts with a dog launched in the laundry can. Independence Day have more mass population being toasted than any other flick, but I only cared for the dog. I feel so cheap when I fall in those emotional traps. That's why I don't like dogs in the movies. Or donkeys. I feel cheap because I wouldn't care that much for a stranger... for them the main treatment is 'its not my problem'. I feel detached with people. I just judge them. I just condemn for their sins and flaws; and are sins and flaws that I also have. But then, the director puts a dog. Strategically put. Like Dancing with Wolves. I just hate that.
I CAN"T SLEEP and Eddie Schwartz is not there! The last time I had insomnia was back in the early 80's and there was always something good to listen to on the radio---I miss my DOG! Cupid--he was a horrible cocker spaniel who once bit me and I had to get stitches and yet I MISS him lying on my pillow, snoring... I miss my dog Domino, a Dalmatian we had when I was little--Domino went to a farm to live--yeah RIGHT! I miss Frostie the Westie and I miss all the mutts that used to walk around the neighborhood free! You really know how to yank the tears Roger!
Once you love a dog, he always warms a chamber in your heart. We have a ruby toy spaniel named Rosie. It took us two years to house break her - not because she is stupid, just willful. She ate all of my needlepoint pillows, chewed the claw feet of the coffee table and pretty much ate my husband's easy chair. At the 4-H dog show Rosie brought home blue ribbons for longest ears and best trick. Her "trick" is to attack our ironing board like a wolverine defending her young. This happens every time we raise or lower the board. She barks like a crazed beast whenever we take her ball into the yard. Our ten year old daughter keeps the playroom door shut - otherwise her toys are Rosie's. When we went to Disney World our dog sitter called the vet because Rosie ate her magnetic business card. If you drop it - Rosie eats it. She never tires of retrieving a squeaky rubber guy named Short Mort. Whenever a stranger shows her affection, Rosie rolls on her side, wags her tail and piddles. Even before your bottom hits the cushion, Rosie is in your lap. She rubs her head on your hand and moans with joy when you pet her. If you briefly leave the car on a family outing, Rosie whimpers pathetically until your return. At the dinner table she uses her big brown eyes to great advantage - everyone gives her something. It reminds me of the scene in NATIONAL VELVET when Mr. Brown tells Mi not to feed the dog from the table because it will encourage him to beg. The entire family, including Mr. Brown, feeds the dog surreptitiously. Mrs. Brown later says, "What's the meaning of goodness if there isn't a little badness to overcome?" When Rosie greets us like god's returning home she overcomes all of her badness.
Thank you for your lovely dog story. I just emailed some comments about our dog, Rosie. I forgot to put my name. I hope you are well and happy.
So many sad stories here, all needing to be told. Here is my favorite dog story, remembered as best as I can, from Readers Digest...
A lady had 15yo Golden who needed a $5000 operation. All her friends said she would be nuts putting that much money into a very old dog, but in the end, she did it.
She and her husband had been trying to have a baby for a decade, and eventually stopped dreaming about it. Of course, she became pregnant!
One evening, washing dishes, the dog started nudging her leg for attention. She figured the dog wanted to go out, but she wanted to finish the dishes first. A few minutes later the dog was back, more insistent. The lady followed the dog back to the nursery, where she found the baby on her belly - and blue. The baby started breathing again as soon as it was picked up, and the dog was a hero!
A vet mentioned that dogs spend the whole day listening and observing. At some point it realized the baby wasn't breathing - and was smart enough to get help.
My spine tingles whenever I tell this story. Thanks for your story, Roger. You're such a good boy! Yes you are! I hope you get to curl up and get a good back scratching tonight.
(and right on cue, here's my Golden, Ruby, wondering why we haven't walked yet!!! Her brilliant trick is to stick her nose under my forearm and lift it up so I can't type. Works every time!)
And in lieu of having a dog, you get to enjoy Mutts in the comics. My fave - a dog gets out of a car, knocks on the door of the lonely lady's house, and wordlessly drives her to the pound (during pet adoption week). The caption at the end - 'If I could, I'd pick you up and drive you there myself'. sigh!
I am not a beautiful woman.
And I have a medical condition with symptoms that are shameful to me, which I keep secret from friends and family -- they cause me to not seek out intimacy from a man. (Not that they're lining up anyway, see point #1 above.)
So, human touch is not something I really have, in my life. And all of this makes me value my dog so, so much -- the physical affection, sitting by me when I read or watch TV, sleeping with his head on my foot, little kisses when I get home from work. He doesn't judge me for any of the problems that keep me isolated.
Unfortunately, he's 15 years old, and I know the end is near. I'm sure I'll find another dog when I'm ready for the next one, but I can't imagine any dog could ever be as good as this one! I'm very lucky in this regard. And from the looks he gives me, it seems like he thinks he's lucky too -- I'm his person.
I'm sure you've heard the term "dog" applied to a woman. This has always amused me -- if I was half as cute as my dog is, I'd be quite happy about it!
OK, Roger, seriously, you're killing me. I have three great dogs...in small, medium and large sizes. (15, 30 and 60 lbs.) They are Labradoodles...yes, they make little ones. The two smaller ones are retired breeders--all from Australia-- and my two allergic kids don't sneeze and I have not one hair in the house.
Hows bout you borrow one every once in a while? Like for a couple hours while I'm at the salon. C'mon--it'll be great. I drop one off with no need for feed or peeing and you watch a movie with them (they are EXCELLENT at watching movies) --Charlie on the lap or Ruby to the left (always) in the chair.
I am as serious as a heart attack. Contact me and we can start the visits anytime...
I am a huge fan...when you were off, I saw less movies; no question. Ok, now email me! :)
Take care.
Life wouldn't be the same with the four pound, dictatorial package that runs my household. We might actually get to chose where in the bed we get to sleep without being pushed off the side, read a paper without 'someone' sitting in the middle of it, or kiss each other without a third party joining in on the fun. Timmy falling in the well has nothing on us. A year ago I became ill and have been confined to bed. Daisy has spent each day with me. On good days, she tries to cheer me up with sharing her toys, tugging and belly rubs (hers, not mine.) On bad, she can lie so still that you might wonder if she wasn't the one who was in need of attention instead of me. What do people without dogs do? Your earlier poster said it best who made the comment, "It is a cruel joke that dogs are instilled with all the personality, character, and love of a human with 1/6 the life-span." I think it's why there are an abundance of dog movies versus The Aristocats.
Roger - What timing! Your piece today comes just six days since I lost Sancho Panza, my companion for the last 18 years. My wife, who's known for just three years, is inconsolable. I'm there, too, but with the added misery of replaying the images of his life and mine in my head. I feel disoriented, blinded and a little cockeyed without him. Even in his hobbled, quiet and subduded last days, he had me in his eyes, soulful eyes that had once been like bright caramels. Anyway, I'm feeling the void to which anyone who's really shared his life with a dog can attest. It absolutely stinks and there's nothing to do about it.
Stay well.
Dear Mr. Ebert,
Thank you so much for your touching thoughts on dogs. I called my dog into the room after the first paragraph because I knew I'd want to give him lots of scratches and love while I read it.
My biggest childhood wish was to have a dog, and my parents wouldn't let me for reasons that were never explained. When I was five, I traded my neighbor our Nintendo for his collie, Chuy. I knew my neighbor was getting the short end of the deal. Unfortunately, our parents made us trade back.
My biggest fear, growing up in a highly religious household, was getting possessed by the devil, which my dad said would only happen if you gave him permission. I was terrified he'd show up and offer me a pet dog – I knew I wouldn't be able to say no.
I'm 25 now and I got my first dog two years ago. It was worth the lifetime of waiting. Having a dog is the best cure for depression and an experience I'm honored and delighted to have. He's half pitbull and half basset hound – here's a photo of the little guy:
http://img19.imageshack.us/my.php?image=snit2ts3.jpg
I named him Snitter after the dog from the book & movie Plague Dogs. It was an animated film made (IIRC) in the early '80s. If you haven't seen it, you have to. It will break your heart but deliver 'elevation in spades (after you're done crying). It's available on Netflix – if you haven't seen it, you really should.
I na
For this remembrance, for its words that would wound rivers if dropped, for the syntax that is a cairn...thank you. I have my own dog, back there, and my own ghost of a dog moving, here, everyday through a fender. Mr. Ebert, you are progressively old fashioned and a joy to read. In cold Ohio, in my car, I turned earlier the last page of Julius Winsome by Gerard Donovan and was moved. Then, I read this and, suddenly, it was okay for my shadow to also move. I've my own stone to skip across the water and it is below. Gently, that it makes it.
***
comics
***
it was our dog
killed
the neighbor’s dog.
hours
my brother and I
we washed its mouth and cried.
dad came home early.
black as
stove.
mom
whatever she had to put on
she put on
for dinner.
we ate. we were a hungry lot.
they have another dog, mom said.
dad
he just howled
and pulled her to his lap.
he put his hands all over her dress
which she had worn the week before
to a wedding.
A thought-provoking story, though somewhat tiresome for the cat vs. dog stereotypes that it unfortunately promotes. Because I am surrounded by dog-loving friends, I hear a lot (often way too much) about how much they all love their dogs. It can get tedious, especially as I am not allowed to talk about my cats in a similar way, cats supposedly being inferior and therefore uninteresting to them. Like a few other earlier posters, I like dogs just fine, but I prefer cats. They're more subtle and complex, and if we have to get utilitarian about it, they catch rodents too. I am reminded many times by my dog-loving friends how dogs can be trained to do so many useful things, and that for this reason, they are superior to cats. Well, SOME dogs can be trained to do useful things (certainly not all breeds), but should we really measure an animal's worth by how useful it is to us? I'm glad some dogs can be trained to sniff out drugs or guide blind people across the street and so on. That fact does not make me want to own one or make me admire dogs more as a species. And while I have observed that my cats exhibit traits usually associated with dogs, I would never describe them as dog-like because I don't like it when animals are pigeon-holed in this way. My vet once told me that everyone thinks their cat is unique because it behaves in some dog-like way, so that should tell you something. I once had a cat so totally devoted to me that she followed me everywhere and slept on a pillow beside me every night of her life until she died. My sister has a chocolate Lab that is more cat-like than some cats I have met. Instead of being so focused on trying to prove that dogs are better companions than cats, we should relax with the categorizations and just enjoy both species for the complexities their personalities embody. But having said this, I must say that no matter how wonderful dogs are, I will never find anything a dog does as soothing or comforting as the sound of a cat purring while softly sleeping in the crook of my arm.
Foreclosures and layoffs are hitting pet owners hard. Help someone else avoid having his or her dog (or cat) "hit by a neighbor's car" by donating pet food to a pantry. Here is a listing:
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chicago/chi-pet-pantry-box-nzone-20feb20,0,1239723.story?obref=outbrain
Hey Roger,
That was a beautiful post about Blackie. I'm truly sorry you can't have one now. Perhaps one day it'll happen?
My partner had a similar experience to yours with Blackie when his dog gave birth to a litter of puppies. When he went to school, they were all snug in their bed and when he came home, they were gone. When he questioned his mom about it, she said: "what puppies?" People who don't understand one's love for a dog can be so cruel.
I've had my mini dachshund, Libby, for nearly twelve years. Her sister, Abby, died of parvo when she was four months old and I received Libby as her incarnation a year later when I was eleven. Before I went to college (at Columbia College, btw), she was always by my side and we went everywhere together. I'll never forget the day I left because she looked so confused and frightened at my departure. When I returned home for the first time on a visit, she literally shook with fear because it seemed like she thought I had left forever and suddenly came back. Now we're together again and she's the light of my life. Right now I'm sitting here as a blubbery mess because re-watching that part of My Dog Skip made me bawl.
Thank you for sharing, Roger. Before Libby and I were reunited, I often went to dog parks just to bask in some sort of houndsville. Maybe you could do the same?
~Sara
Roger, if you ever need to look into a dog's eyes, you have an open invitation to visit our three dogs in Oak Park.
Ebert: "I can hardly pass a dog on the street without wanting to pet it. If you first let them slowly smell your hand, they'll usually let you. Some guys will admire a babe's dog so they can chat her up. With me, it's strictly a matter of getting to know the dog."
An empty and idle boast, since you're already married to a babe.
But if we're boasting... A few months ago I saw a young man standing in the park with two pit bull terriers on leashes, and those gruesome choke chains with the teeth pointing inward and the extra span for mechanical advantage. Everyone else in the area was giving them a wide berth. I approached -- but not too directly, you know the way -- and in a few seconds had both dogs joyously snuffling around my hands and my grocery bag (which was full of vegetables, no cheating). The young man grinned like the sun and said that nobody ever wanted to approach them, that they were usually skittish around strangers and that one of them usually had a frantic fear of bags.
Alas, he was not a babe (I'm male, and hetero). And alas, whatever that language is, it seems to work with a wide range of animals and children but not with women. I'll never forget that other time, and the look on that cheerleader's face when I got on the bus with a bat hanging on my finger...
My husband of 20 years hates dogs. It sounds bad, like a good reason to leave him. But being married that long means lots of compromise, and this is one place I've given him his way. After all, how much fun would it be for him to live with an animal he hated? How much fun for me and the dog to live with that hate pressing around us?
After many years of married life I discovered that he was open to the idea of living with a rabbit. Hence fate presented us a rabbit to rescue from a bad home, neutered and litter box trained and quite frankly adorable. So now we live with a rabbit who hops around under foot most of the day. He's curious, affectionate, and playful. And cute!
I never imagined I'd live with a rabbit. I'm a dog person, always have been. And yet, here is something new. Rabbit isn't scared or skittish, but interested, engaged, concerned and dare I say loving. The world held more possibilities than I thought.
I did hear though of a man who bought a puppy the day after his wife's funeral. She had thought dogs were too messy and didn't let him have one. His daughter reported he was quite happy with how it all turned out. So maybe there will be something to look forward to, later.
Sometimes I think the thing that drives me the most crazy about life is you can't have it all. You can have some, but maybe not the some you wanted. Rabbits and dogs really can't live together. So only since my husband hates dogs do I have a rabbit in my life.
And my rabbit is quite wonderful. Really.
If ever you're in the Albuquerque area you also have an open invitation to visit with our little Wendy (named for Peter Pan's Wendy), who would be more than happy to allow you to spoil her for as long as you like.
The last few years of my dad's life were spent, after the death of my mom from smoking-related causes in '96, in the company of a miniature chocolate poodle, Coco, and I can't imagine the two of them being more content than with each other. Whether it was his thrice-daily walks or his share of the ice cream that my dad ate every day, Coco was the best friend a person could have in Vegas, and he kept my dad from spending all his time (and money) in the casinos. And my dad was the one who initially didn't want a dog, but from the time I was 5, we always had a poodle, and he was their primary caretaker (and friend). He grew up without dogs, so he never knew what having one was like, but when he learned, he never wanted to be without one again, despite the work involved.
Thank you for this. I'm deeply moved. The hole in my heart is Charlie-sized. Of all the hurts in my life -- and there have been many -- nothing compares to him. Even now, 28 years since the last time I saw him, the heartbreak is nearly suffocating. I, too, was a kid and didn't have the power to save him, but that knowledge has not dulled the pain and shame one bit. Your story has made me feel a flicker of compassion for myself. Maybe Blackie and Charlie will come across one another someday. If there's a heaven, it must surely be for dogs.
My cat was healthy for eighteen years, then wasted away in a matter of months (by the way, she *was* fond of me). About a month later, my Maltese (age unknown) died. Not happy times.
When my dog was alive, I used to say that our dogs make us more human--that is, they increase our capacity for patience and compassion in ways that human relationships never seem to.
Since my dog died, I keep thinking that perhaps dogs are really just trying to make us more doglike--more in-the-moment, less capable of holding resentments, and more joyful in the world.
Fortune was a beautiful greyhound, my dear friend for 12 of her 14 years. She left me six weeks ago, and I am deeply grateful for her many gentle lessons.
Great writing.
I have had many cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters, snakes, etc as pets as I grew up. But when I went to college, only a cat was easy enough to keep and move around.
Now I have a 12 year old orange and white cat and a 2 year old Border Collie. They are best of friends. Dog can come inside, but cat stays outside almost 24/7 (we are So Cal so always a nice day).
I am reminded of a joke I was told (sorry I don't know who to give credit to)
Dogs: They look at you and think, this guy gives me food, he gives me water, he takes me for walks and rubs my belly, he must be my master.
Cats: They look at you and think, this guy gives me food, he gives me water, he pets, gives me toys, and keep my litter clean. I must be his master.
Willie was my little brother. The fact that he came from a litter of puppies didn't change that fact. He helped my mom through the "empty nest" years and so much more. He was smart, adorable, and fun. And like everyone else's dogs, he was the World's Best Dog.
Roger,
I, too, am a dog lover who, by circumstances regarding living situation, has a cat. My Leila is a wonderful, loving being, who isn't afraid to crawl all over me when she wants some affection, which is most of the time. She doesn't sneak food from my plate, but she does sometimes stick her head in my water glass, and she curls to sleep at my side every night. Having been inspired by your stories of your childhood dogs, I thought that I would share a story of my own. Maybe a few of dogs close to me, as well.
When my parents divorced many, many years ago, my mom eventually found a boyfriend in an artist. He had a young (must have been young, probably no more than two) collie, named Shadow. Shadow didn't look like Lassie; his coloring was black, brown and white. I remember meeting him at the man's loft apartment/studio in the Fort Worth area outside Dallas; I had some Chips Ahoy!, and was told that if I gave him one, I'd "Have a Friend For Life." I think Shadow ended up getting about five. Immediate in my memory is the fact that Shadow was never an "it" to me. The dog had a personality, which the years that I spent in his company only accentuated. No, Shadow was a "He." Family. My little sister and I loved him, being with him, submitting to those uncanny eyebrows. We'd be eating pickles from a jar, he would be watching, his big brown eyes mournful at not sharing our joy in this strange, tasty treat. We'd give in, pass a slice of Vlassic. It would hit his tongue, he'd spit it out in surprised disgust, then look up to see us enjoying more pickles, and he was begging for another one. We did a lot of traveling, moving between Dallas and a plot of land in northern New Mexico.
Every weekend, my sister and I would make pancakes. After making several, with fruit and/or chocolate chips for the humans, we'd make up some dog food pancakes for Shadow. He'd lick the batter away from the nuggets. A trip to an ice cream shop or doughnut house would always yield a small treat for him, too. One day he came home having been shot in the face with a full load of rock salt. He healed, but he had a hole in his right ear to the end of his days. Another time, another town, he came in with a broken tail. For several weeks, he couldn't move it; his beautiful, magnificent beacon of mood. We were afraid that it would need amputation, but he healed from that, too.
After a seven year relationship, and many adventures throughout two states, my mom and the man broke up. We'd still see them every now and again, but not often enough. A year later, we relocated to yet another state, but my little sister stayed in contact.
Shortly after my high school graduation, one of my older sisters got married in Austin, Texas. The man and Shadow lived there, at the time, so my sister made sure that we had some time to visit. He took us to his house, and we saw Shadow again for the first time in six years. He was old, arthritic, going blind and deaf. His fur, once silken and luxuriant, was graying, dry and brittle. My sister and I spent the first I don't know how long at his side, stroking and scratching and cooing, telling stories, laughing so we wouldn't cry. He was so... like we remembered, but completely not. Within this withered body was the spry, mischievous being that we had cherished with our bodies and, when circumstance intervened, our memories for so much of our lives. Finally, we rose, so the man could show us the space he was occupying, different paintings he was working on. He had told us that Shadow was really bad off, barely able to move. So, when we heard the painful, tottering clatter of clawed paws on hardwood behind us, we were a bit shocked. Shadow completed his journey to us, and surprised us once again when he reached out and gently clamped my wrist in his jaws, which was a game we used to play.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house.
Eventually, we had to go. A few months later, Shadow, completely blind and crippled by arthritis, was taken to the veterinarian and put to sleep.
That was, I suddenly realize, very nearly ten years ago. It still seems like yesterday, sometimes. I love that dog. The fact that he is no longer alive can't change that.
Roger, you can still have a dog. Maybe not a play dog, but, at the very least, a service animal to help around the house. That way, it can enliven your day, and go everywhere you go. Service dogs are exempt from the rules that bind most ordinary animals, remember? You know you've thought about it. You can do it. Be a god to an animal once again, and damn the Wall to Wall Carpeting. It's worth it.
As for cats, these are quite remarkable:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9PxI3efVVeI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SN1VcgRrEM8
I can't decide if this one is cool, or creepy. Leaning towards the latter, but you are your own man.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypMl2RFTC9Y
This is the first time I have read your column...beautifully written. I am sorry your parent's were so heartless-your poor dog!
I have an idea for how you can finally have a dog: hire a house sitter (really a dog sitter) who will stay at your house when you travel. We travel frequently and it works really well. The key is to find several responsible people you can call on who love dogs and are willing to stay overnight at your house. (Word of mouth is the best method.) People are usually happy to do it for the extra income. It is the perfect solution for people who want to have the freedom to travel and want the love and happiness a dog will add to your life!
Go for it!
I got a laugh out of Terry Davidson's comment, especially the little narrative within it - was cute. But the funniest part was that there are people out there who think dogs all have the same personality. Clearly this opinion is held only by people who've never owned more than one dog, if any.
That's a very sad story Roger, and I can most definitely relate with it. Only my story was with a cat. When I was a kid my father brought home a half-blind, cute little baby kitten from work. I loved that cat so much, my seven-year-older sister would fed it with a baby bottle and everything because it looked sick--I was so young then, I can't recall whether it was a boy or a girl, but I'm pretty sure he was a boy; I'd ask my parents but I really don't like talking about it... Well that cat got older and and started looking really healthy, really beautiful, and I felt so good about that, but then one day the neighbors' two dogs (as I remember) got loose and ripped the poor thing to shreds. I was at my grandmother's house, only like four or three when my mother called up frantically telling my grandmother about what had just happened. For some reason my mom had my grandmother drive me over to the house and I saw, there on the lawn, the cat that I really loved as much as any person dead and bloody and ripped open. I really wish to this day I hadn't seen that image because it's stuck with me for life, I just can't get it out of my mind no matter how hard I try...
But I could never bring myself to get a new cat again. But when I was sixteen my mother brought home a black kitten and I got really sad when I saw her because she looked so beautiful & I knew I could never bear anything bad ever happening to her. I had her for six, almost seven years but then out of the blue, the wind blew the door open to our house and she got loose and I haven't seen her since. (We searched everywhere.) It was one of the most terrible experiences of my life and I can definitely understand and respect your decision not to get another dog ever again because when something goes wrong it really, really hurts.
But then again, since you have such a profound love for dogs, I think it's a shame for you to deprive yourself of one's companionship...
Dear Mr. Ebert:
I began poking around your movie columns for a little while when I was twelve, looking for someone who thought like me, and lo and behold, I found a reviewer who basically shared the same opinion of most movies! Now I always check your reviews for evaluation of movies. :)
I'm thirteen now, and I clicked this post out of habit, maybe boredom, maybe curiosity, and I think there is indeed a void in all of us that needs to be filled by something. Anything. Something that loves you unconditionally, without regrets and a sort of no-holding-back expression on their face, which human beings can never achieve. Whether it is by a dog, a cat, a ferret, a parrot, or whatever, it's something.
Some might accuse me of over-anthropomorphization, but I'll say something back: how many people do you know trust you with their lives? Who are more devoted than any other being in the universe? Who attach themselves with heedless abandon and never let go until they die? Perhaps I'm getting overly philosophical, perhaps I'm too much of a cynic, perhaps I have too much to think about after my dog recently ran away and I have my cat -- and I don't want to spurn another dogs versus cats debate, but life is very, saddeningly, finite. Exceedingly so. And you never know what you have lost until it's gone, right?
And I suppose I also agree that it's cruel to lie to children when you're an adult. It's like you don't think they understand, when they do, and euphemisms don't soften the blow. It's sharpening a blade and stabbing it into them, it's considering them unable to deal with the 'real world', it's insulting.
I guess I'm writing this in case some kids stumble across this page and need someone who's not reflecting on over a decade back to empathize with their loss.
I know it's only been a couple weeks, and I haven't given up hope yet, but I'm sorry about Blackie, and I hope you get a dog, or at least get to hold one someday. Because I really hope you get to fill that little hole.
Because it can really add up, sir.
Good luck. :)
- A kid.
We got a dog when I was seven--he was a Labrador-Rottweiler mix, so he was HUGE, and therefore bigger than I was as a kid. He had some fantastic habits: pinning me down and licking me for about five minutes; getting a running start from one side of our backyard, jumping, grabbing a branch of our pear tree, shaking it, and then feasting on all the pears that had fallen off; trying to herd us all to safety during thunderstorms and tornadoes. Lovely dog. We had to put him to sleep the summer before I went to college, of all times, because he had contracted cancer and was in a great deal of pain, poor guy. I miss him.
Thanks for this, Mr. Ebert.
Usher is the name of my Scottish Terrier. I got him 2 days after meeting Usher, the singer, in 1999. I was hoping the name would bestow the same sweet personality upon the puppy, and also I lived on Church Street at the time. But Scotties have a well-established, born-n-bred personality of their own, not to be influenced by something as soft as a name. At dog shows they are often introduced with descriptions such as "dominance over their owners". When I called my 2 year old grandson, John, recently he said, "Usher bite me". That is usually what I hear from people on the street - "oh my grandmother had a Scottie when I was young and it bit me." One day on a walk I fell on "black ice" and lost control of the leash. I couldn't get up. Usher didn't run off and chase cats or rats as he was bred to do. He stood there barking his head off until help came along. Loyalty is the strongest characteristic of the Scottie.
I love my dog. I love all dogs. I love your story about dogs. I wish you had a dog. I will be happy to bring Usher to visit you. Don't worry, he only bites small children. Otherwise he remains aloof, alert and quite handsome.
This article made me miss my dog, my beloved pug of 16 years. He will stay buried in my heart as well.
I recalled watching a PBS special on dogs and at the end, they gave a short story of an Indian tale about man and animals. (I apologize in advance for the paraphrasing.)
Man lived among all animals of the Earth, but soon it was time for him to be on his own and separate from the animals. Man walked to one side and the animals stayed on another. The Earth cracked, and a crevice appeared in the ground. As the crevice was getting larger and wider, the other animals stood back from it, acknowledging the separation between the two was taking place and would be final. But before the crevice was too large and wide, the dog jumped the ever-widening gap and stood by the man. That would be the dog's place on Earth.
I meant to get a bunch of little odds and ends done this Sunday morning. But I was reading Suzanne Clothiers blog with a link to this essay and now I've spent an hour and half reading it and looking at the videos and reading comments. Do you know of Suzanne Clothier? Of all the dog behaviorists (interpreters?) I admire she is at the top of my list. She wrote a book called Bones Would Rain from the Sky. You'd like it.
Oh my gosh Roger-I wish for you a dog. Perhaps it will find you and cause you to fall in love before you have a chance to remember that it's not practical for you to have a dog.
I do like cats, but their reputation as being a tad self centered is often deserved: Here's a hilarious cat cartoon/video you'll appreciate, Simons Cat 'Cat Man Do' -
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0ffwDYo00Q
As I write this my big cat, Split, his bro is Lickety, they are identical except Split is 20 lbs and Lickety 11. Well Split WAS on my chair behind me and nosing his way into my lap but he's now given up. Two cats with very different personalities. Split is a smoocher and a lover, of everyone, and Lickety a free spirit who goes into ecstasy when shown affection, but only when it's me. Cats do have individual characters.
We also have a family of raccoons living in the attic of our lovely apartment building that is Old Hollywood, 1924, Spanish Colonial, and that a developer wants to demolish for 16 ugly condos that the city has approved in spite of a long neighborhood fight. But I digress.
Our lovely old building has a very comfortable attic, for raccoons. They have alarmed us and amused us with their movements over the years, BUT just last Sunday one found her way through a hole in our kitchen ceiling that we had never known of and neither, until now, had the raccoons. I could see her standing on the nasty vinyl panel of the faux ceiling (circa 1983)right above me. She was huge. She was just too close.
Well, sadly, that's the end of our hospitality. I wish it were otherwise but Measures Are Being Taken. The manager will make sure all raccoons are given another home. The hole has been blocked up. Animal Control is on the job. I will miss the little critters. Maybe they'll find their way back.
I am sorry Roger, but I have never had a dog. Our apartment managers don't allow dogs. But Scott had a Blackie experience with a dog when he was a child. They said he Got Out of the House while Scott was away. Don't tell Scott but his Mom told me once that she asked their housekeeper to take him away. She now denies it. Scott spent days calling for "Lassie" (He was very original about dog names) and he never got another dog. Still pining after Lassie.
Now the Cat IS out of the bag. I may never hear the end of this. Telling about Lassie and family secrets. Yikes!
Roger, you will love the writings of Jon Katz. His blog, at www.bedlamfarm.com was a source of solace for me after my beloved 10 year old Belgian Sheepdog died of lymphoma. At his suggestion, I now have another dog, and life is better. But I will always miss my boy.
Take care, Mr. Ebert. We love you.
Oh GOD!
There is something about the heartbreak of a dog that stays with you, huh. I guess its because they are so dependent on us and TRUST us so much. I have a heart break dog story too. I hope there is an after life because I hope she is springing with joy there like she did here.
I'm so sorry about your dog, Blackie. We (humans and dogs) go back a long way. They are our watchers in the night. They go before us to places unknown.
I just posted a comment and am now teary from reading the other comments, and I also thought of a dog story I want to share. Its a happy one.
My mom and I kept bringing dogs home until we had four dogs. I was at college so my mom was taking care of all of them. Even though she was mad at first, she fell in love with the last one I brought home from college. That was P.J., there was my angel dog Cubby who I rescued in the mountains, my first dog Snowball, and Oboe. They all deserve a story, but this story is about Oboe.
My mom brought Oboe home when I was a young teen. Oboe was left in a box on the side of the road with a sign saying "Free Puppies!"
I loved Oboe and was worried about him because his status in the house had fallen since I'd left home. He was a big black dog with a very good heart, but he was not dominant and the new little dog was picking on him. Also, my mom didn't like him. I could tell. She had her reasons. He stunk. His breath stunk and he had smelly gas. He wanted more love than she wanted to give, and he had a strong nose and would demand to be loved with a jab of his head. He was also old and couldn't walk very fast anymore.
Hmmm.. what to do? My Grandma had died a few years earlier leaving my Granddad all alone. With a stroke of genius I realized that they would be a perfect match! Oboe smelled, my Granddad's sense of smell was going! Oboe was demanding, my Granddad was withdrawn! Oboe walked slowly, my Granddad walked slowly!
My plan required subterfuge because my Granddad has always said gruffly that pets are good-for-nothing-thieves that suck your time and your life away and don't do any work in return. This may be why no one else in my family thought this was a good idea. But I had total faith in my plan.
My Granddad lived a state away. I called my Granddad up and said I was coming to visit and asked if I could bring my dog with me. I drove across the desert with my dog. I brought all his things. I brought his bed.
When I was out of the room I heard my Granddad whisper to Oboe, "Now YOU'RE a FINE dog." He kept playing with Oboe's soft ears. He let him lay on the couch. Oboe had never been the center of attention like this. He never got his free rein of the furniture before! I felt bad leaving him, but I saw that he could be happy there. He would be the king instead of a picked on old man.
Now comes the tricky part, the lie: "Granddad, can I leave my dog with you for a little while? I'll come back soon and pick him up."
My Granddad started walking Oboe every day. He took Oboe on walks to a patch of woods near his house. He met neighbors while he was out and about. He was proud of his fine dog. He tied a red bandana around his neck and took pictures.
About six months later we had this conversation on the phone, "You left this dog here with me." He said gruffly, complaining about all the work.
"Oh Granddad, thank you for taking care of him, I can come pick him up right away."
"Oh! ... Oh no. You probably shouldn't do that... He's used to it here now. He wouldn't like that."
"Ok, Granddad."
And the transfer was complete. An (older) dog and his (older) boy.
This is one good thing I've done in my life.
This wonderful blog is like the antidote to the heartless Michael Vicks of the world.
Went to the Dog Beach in San Diego last year. It was like being in doggie heaven! Must have been 50 of the happiest animals on earth there that day.
to ANON - I once met a guy who's face was horribly burned. After a few times, it wasn't that noticeable - or important. But the first time he turned around I wanted to run! He lived a normal life, and was even in a band.
Everyone is beautiful in their own way. Everyone with a sincere smile is beautiful. Maybe not like a movie star, but still beautiful. And there truly is 'someone for everyone'. More than one, even.
I've met the most beautiful women on the dance floor. I'm not going to say looks aren't important, but those who could move gracefully, with spirit, had no problems getting partners, no matter what they looked like. Looks really matter very little - it is all personality and vitality. You are likely holding yourself back more than your perceived looks do.
And whatever other problem you alluded to - get over it. Really. Lots of people have imperfections. Stop letting it hold you back in life! Your dog will thank you for it.
Roger, I really enjoyed this piece. I lost my wonderful dog last autumn and still miss him. My memorial to him is here; perhaps you will enjoy it.
http://jackjackattack.blogspot.com/2008/10/real-good-dog-1991-2008.html
'Great Love exists only through True Friendship and Pure Devotion.' Holly Carter
My Soul Mate was a Golden Retriever mix name Nala and that is the inscription on the Relequary Box that I made in her honor while in college. She was my best friend, my confidant, the only one in the world who ever could understand the pain of my broken heart. No one will ever fill the hole that was left in losing her, but she was there for me in a time of uncertainty and sadness, while now I have a new love, Lucy (a Golden-Doodle), who brings me Joy and Happiness of a different kind, while Nala was a wise sister and friend from many lives past, Lucy is a child filled with happy new beginnings.
It took many years for me to feel I could begin to fill the hole Nala left and to get beyond those ghostly feelings of her standing at the door with quiet patience waiting for me to come home. As people we need someone to need and in turn to need us and in times of strife and poor health a devoted dog is the only creature that will truly take care of you unselfishly. Fourty-five years is too long to wait for such a dear friend to come along, go out there and find that true friend that your deserve, who will take care of you!
When my mother was getting ready to euthanize one of the family cats, my wife and I had the following conversation:
Her: This cat doesn't appear to be in obvious pain. Why is she having it put to sleep again?
Me: Well, for every animal my mom sacrifices, she gets to live another couple of years.
Her: You're horrible!
Me: I told you she had a boxer dog named Susie when she was a kid, right? And we had another when I was a teenager. The one out in the living room is Susie Seventeen.
Her: ...
Me: And I'm Rick Five.
I would like to share an Alaska dog story. I have heard many, but this one sticks with me.
A man, his wife, their children and dog were fishing in a stream. The area was in a park and a short distance from their car along a wooded trail. Where they were there were two levels- one at the stream level and a higher one above the stream. The levels were sepparated by a short fence and connected by two staircases about 100 feet from each other.
The day was wonderful, the fish were biting, and they were all having a good time. A black bear emerged along the stream and came towards them. Black bears will often leave you be if you don't frighten or excite them. They walked up one set of stairs to the higher level. The bear followed them. They did not think they could make it safely back to the car, so they went down the other staircase. The bear followed them, curious and focused.
They walked quickly back to the first staircase and climbed to the higher level. The bear followed them and was getting very close. They were getting frightened and went quickly to the second staricase. Before they got there, the man told his dog to sit. They went down the second staircase again, the dog sat unhappily where it was told to.
The bear walked slowly up to the dog and sniffed it. The dog growled, its hackles rose, but it sat where it had been told.
At this time, a brown bear emerged from the wooded area near the trail leading to the car. The brown bear took one look at the area and charged the black bear. The black bear ran off and the brown bear chased it. The dog sat. The family collected their dog and went back to their car.
There is more to the story: the fear, the worry, the return of the brown bear- but I am leaving that out. Every time I think of this story, I have different thoughts about it, so I won't comment other than to say only a dog would sit and face certain death only because its person told it to.
When dogs came out of the darkness and shared the first meal with men thousands of years ago, a deal was struck. Man, by far, got the better end of that deal.
Mr. Ebert, after tearfully reading your excellent blog, I had to go over and play TickleFeet with my 12-year-old dog Beagle Bailey. She's my life, my love, my everything. She's also a multiple cancer survivor, and living on borrowed time. We've gone through so many surgeries with her that I've nicknamed her my Jimmy Choo. I've had dogs all my life, but I've never fallen so head over heels as I have with my little Bailey. So I make sure I give her as much time and affection as 24 hours a day will allow. When she goes (and really, it's only a matter of time), a piece of myself will go as well. But I take heart in knowing that I have loved and been loved in return, in the complete way that a dog and their human rarely but amazingly experience.
It's been said that "Money will buy you a fine dog, but it will not buy the wag of his tail," and though a dog may be loyal to someone who feeds him, true doggy love is the thing that they give you when you have earned their heart.
I've met people who've never had a pet, and they seem to me to incomplete, somehow - empty in their eyes of a light that comes with holding a helpess creature in your arms and having them trust you completely. My mother told me once that when your heart breaks, that is because it is growing bigger. My pardons for the paraphrase, but: To have loved and lost a dog is, at least to me, better than never to have loved at all.
Elegy for a Dead Dog
William Doglas Bowers, I have laid you to rest,
But neither of us seems to rest:
I have cried bitter and strange tears after you,
And YOU--you come and go,
You lope beside me, arthritis-free, at times,
Not even needing ground: you, playfully,
superimpose our hearts, and we stroll in a common rhythm;
Then you stretch, and our eyes share space as well.
It is quite totemistic; you honor me.
But, Bill,
Eleven years was not enough.
Lightning storms would find you crawling onto my lap,
And you so big.
I LOVED comforting you, Bill, you big baby,
Bill, you fierce protector, barking away intruders,
Bill, you able, loving friend.
Hurt comes and goes,
But it always stays, at least a little.
Bill, it is the measure of your trueness.
Perhaps we'll converse after I have "gone," dear
Bill.
I so hope so.