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“No way.”
Those were the approximate words my soon-to-be-betrothed used
way back when, after learning of my plan to adopt a dog with a
trashed leg and a track record to match.
Needless to say, I ignored the advice. From the second I saw
Bilbo that fateful night seven years ago, leg bandages trailing in
the gutter as he scrounged for trash under the streetlight, he
stole my heart. See, for a couple of years, Bilbo had been a sort
of vagrant dog – making the rounds among friends while his
owner pursued his dream guiding on the Grand Canyon.
The lack of supervision only fueled Bilbo’s predilection
for late-night, self-guided tours of local alleyways, and
unfortunately, he eventually landed himself on the losing end of a
hit and run. Although the metal plate in his front leg put a dent
in his mobility, it did nothing to damage his appetite. And thus,
on this particular night, he slunk away from his current foster
home and made his way across town in search of the finest vittles
Durango’s dumpsters could serve up. When he was noticed
missing, I volunteered for the search party.
Call it destiny, but within a few blocks I spotted him. I opened
my car door and called to him. Must’ve been a slow night for
local grease traps, because he took me up on my offer and jumped
into the passenger’s seat. But don’t get me wrong. It
wasn’t a slobbering, lick-your-face Lassy kind of entrance.
It was more of a cool, stand-offish, James Dean to-do.
Anyway, due to some uncontrollable urge – you know, the
same one that draws sane, respectable women to the “bad
boys” they know deep in their hearts that they’ll never
be able to change – I soon found myself adopting the wayward
mutt with the bum leg and aloof disposition. Something told me I
could tame the beast, teach him to catch Frisbees, shake, roll
over, fetch my slippers and who knows, maybe even stay put.
My better half knew better. “It’s your dog,”
he cautioned.
Of course, over the next few years, those words came back to
haunt me. Like when an elk carcass mysteriously showed up on the
front lawn or the frequent occasions when the dog returned from a
long absence reeking of eau de fish guts. And then there was his
running – more of a disappearing act, really. There one
minute, gone the next. No fence, window, door, leash or car could
contain him, sort of like a canine Houdini. Often, I would leave
him enclosed in the yard, only to come home to find him sitting
outside the fence, a smug smile on his face and an empty pizza box
nearby. And the worst part was, I fell for it every time – a
total sucker for the fuzzy face and one floppy ear.
Needless to say, it soon became apparent who was schooling who,
and any hopes of slipper-fetching or Frisbee championships went out
the window, along with him. Amazingly enough, on all his sojourns
he managed to avoid the long net of animal control. Call it luck,
but I think there was a higher intelligence at work. I often joked
about making a “dogumentary,” complete with helmet-cam
just to catch him in action. (Disclaimer: Roaming dogs within city
limits are strictly illegal, even if said dog is more like a big
cat with a gimpy leg and teeth like an Appalachian hillbilly.)
Anyhow, as the years went on and Bilbo’s sight grew dimmer
and his hearing more selective, we began to fret more over his
unchaperoned outings, which often took him across busy
thoroughfares. Each time he wandered off, we won
dered if it would be the last. Unfortunately, with the
distraction of two small children, it became easier than ever for
him to sneak away. But at the ripe age of 13, his stealth skills
weren’t what they used to be. After waking me recently at the
vulnerable hour of 3 a.m. to go out, Bilbo’s secret mission
was betrayed by a motion-sensor garage light.
“He’s making a run for it,” Sean shouted as
the outdoor bulb went on, flooding the bedroom with light. He
looked out the window just in time to see Bilbo rounding the corner
into the alley. We jumped to action, only problem was, neither of
us were dressed for it. Sean’s T-shirt and boxers trumped my
nightshirt, and like a circus firewalker, he dashed barefoot out
the back door, through a several inches of crusty snow and down the
icy alleyway. Bilbo had made it to the next block by the time Sean
corralled him. As luck would have it, it was a slow night, and both
parties returned home without incident or citation, although frozen
appendages were a different story.
Little did we know, that night would be the first – and
last – time we would catch Bilbo in the act. Maybe it was the
sight of a grown man in his underwear chasing after him, but from
there on out, Bilbo stuck close to home.
About a month later, he was diagnosed with the big
“C” – that dreaded six-letter word all dog owners
fear. And looking back, I think Bilbo knew it all along – his
3 a.m. mad dash was sort of his last hurrah. Which isn’t to
say he gave up completely. In fact, for the few weeks following the
news, he took complete advantage of his diagnosis, living life to
the fullest, snatching bowls of ice cream off the table, wolfing
down T-bone steaks, polishing off unattended kids lunches and
washing it all down with slobbery trips to the toilet bowl. In
fact, he lived his final days with such gusto that I began to doubt
his death sentence, thinking he would outlive us all.
But as predicted, the sinister disease caught up with him, and I
was faced with the hardest decision a dog owner in denial can face:
saying goodbye.
“You’ll know when it’s his time,”
friends who had undergone similar ordeals told me.
So for the next few tenuous days, I watched and waited for
“the sign” – you know, maybe he’d look me
in the eyes and communicate telepathically. Or he’d do
something so out of character, like lick my face or snuggle up to
me, that I’d instantly know. But nothing ever happened. And
then I found it: an unscathed half of a grilled cheese sandwich
under the kitchen table.
“Maybe he just didn’t know it was there,”
offered Sean.
But I didn’t buy it – not from a dog who could catch
the scent of a wiener sizzling on a hibachi 10 miles downwind or
hear an electric can opener the next county over.
This was it.
And thus a few days later, with a heavy heart, I scratched that
special spot behind his ears and buried my head in that mangy neck
one last time. I hung on tight until it was time to let go, hoping
that some day he would be able to forgive me.
Long may you run, buddy.
– Missy Votel
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