Free To A Good Home
David Roberts

 

Free to a Good Home
by David ROBERTS

Nothing prepares us for the caretaker's job of having a dog better than bringing up children.
If you have a dog and children, then they grow up together and the effort put into raising a dog becomes secondary to the raising of the kids.
For my wife, Eileen, and I it was different - I had a dog when I was a kid but the tragic manner of his death from ingesting rat-poison left me with a sensitivity about losing such a loved companion. Eileen had never had a dog.
So, when we decided that we were going to get a dog, it was without the remembrance of the early days in a dog's development, and besides, we were going to bypass all that anyway. This was because we had decided to give a home to an older dog that was up for adoption.
This would cut out the early years and give a home to someone who needed us as much as we needed hem. Our eldest daughter had fallen out of the nest when we came to Canada from New Zealand. Our younger daughter was at university and would fly the coop when she graduated, so it was time for us to look for someone to lavish our affections on, besides each other.
We scanned the Free To A Good Home ads assiduously, and one evening I saw an entry for a nine years old Yorkie. His 'parents' were breeders who were retiring and were looking for good homes for two of their three dogs. They were disposing of them one at a time and interviewing prospective parents as to suitability.
Along we went for the interview. Our youngest daughter, Lisa, came along with us and we were all dressed up in our Sunday-best, dry-mouthed in anticipation. On arrival, we met the elderly couple that were the donors and found them to be pleasant, steady people who had a good home environment for their three Yorkies.
Then it came time to meet our intended friend. In came this squarely built sausage with the most endearing face and a sparse covering of hair on his back. His quizzical expression as he looked at the three of us and then to his parents revealed that he knew something was up. Then, with the unerring instinct of someone who knows this could be a momentous occasion in his life, he stumped over to Lisa. Sitting at her feet, he looked up at her with adoring eyes, as if to say, "I'm yours".
That did it and we became caretakers to Timmy, whose formal name was Timothy of Chantmarle. The coincidence there was that Chantmarle had also been the name of the old Manor House in Dorset, England, where I had done my police training.
I commented on Tim's sparse hair to Arnie and he explained that Tim had a retained testicle that influenced the secretion of hormones and resulted in thinning hair. His slightly elephantine skin gave him a leathery look, but he was such a sweet character that it didn't matter one bit - Tiny Tim was ours.
He soon fitted into our routine, or was it that we adapted our routine to his? On reflection, I realized that we fit into our dog's life and not the other way around. We may think that we are in charge but I have the feeling that we all know the reality of that situation!
Timmy soon knew who was the person to see about walks - me; which had to be smiled at when treats were required - Mum; and who was the best person for cuddles - Lisa.
He would lie along the arm of the sofa alongside her and bask in the sunshine of her smile as she studied. Bedtime was great - down the stairs and out for a pee, little bit of fun, wrestling with Dad, then off to bed with Lisa. He had developed a habit of sleeping on her pillow, but curled around the top of her head at the backside of the pillow, secure against the bedhead.
At the time we lived in a unit in a small townhouse complex and the bedrooms were on the third floor. Our car was parked under a carport at the front of the unit and, with the true disregard of reality that most cops have, left unlocked. After all we live in a pretty crime-free community, don't we??!!
During the wee small hours we were ripped from slumber by the fierce barking of our four-legged, sparsely-haired, security system. Lisa, of course, was right there. Timmy had startled her so much that she shot out of bed and, in her haste, swept the pillows - and Tim - to the floor.
I rushed into the room expecting some disaster, only to find a bemused Tim and a startled Lisa looking at each other blankly. We decided that Tim had suffered a bad dream, soothed him and eventually settled down for the rest of the night.
It was when I left for work the following morning that I discovered the true reason for his outburst. My car had been entered and my entire cassette tapes stolen. What ticked me off more than anything was that they were all 90-minute tapes comprising of tracks lifted from various classical recordings.
I just about tore my hair out when I realized that when the thieves heard the music, unless there was an instant conversion to Beethoven, Sibelius and Mozart, the tapes would be junked. We'll never know, for I am yet to bump into one of our local yobs that is humming a few bars from Eine Kleine Nachtmusik as he stumbles out of the Liquor Store.
Timmy joined the Delta Police department a little later. My work as a forensic identification specialist involved a rostered weekend duty once a month. Eileen had often remarked that Tim would sit at the window, sadly watching me drive off on a day when he normally got a good walk and lots of attention from me.
I decided that there would be no problem in taking him with me as he could sit in the Crime Scene van while I was working, or curl up under my desk when I was in the office.
He soon became a popular fixture on the weekend scene. By this time his hair had thinned out considerably and to keep him warm, and to avoid embarrassment to him, Eileen had made a coat in a warm woolen plaid. This was soon referred to as Tim's "Sherlock Holmes" cape, by the male and female cops he came in contact with and he was christened Detective Tim, the Undercover Drug Dog.
He provided many of us with a smile in an environment that can be deadly serious. Complainants would smooth some of the furrows from their brows when "a dog in a coat, fer chrissakes", accompanied the guy who came to examine their burglary scene.
Some months later he had an opportunity to return to duty in another sense. It appeared that his success as a
breeder was renowned in the "industry" and Arnie wanted him to come out of retirement "just one more time". We would either get a cash payout or the pick of the litter for Tim's efforts.
We found it quite amusing, particularly when we were informed of a little complication, which accompanied Timmy's amorous activities. It transpired that our Little Swordsman was just that! Due to his short legs he had to be assisted into the required position at the crucial moment by the vet slipping a telephone book under his back legs to give him the desired elevation.
Arnie invited me along to watch the proceedings, but I declined; after all, WorldWide Wrestling was on TV that night and I decided that Tim's dignity would be offended by my laughter.
Three days later he was back home, exhausted, but with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. For the next couple of days all he did was sleep and dream. Viagra must have been available for pets before it became the killer of humans that it has!
Arnie informed us that time had done the trick and Tim's bride was pregnant. We would be kept posted on the progress and invited to choose our alternative when the pups were weaned and ready to leave the mother.
We had debated whether to take the money or keep the pup and seesawed back and forth in our indecision. Then Fate presented us with the ideal solution.
The week before we were due to decide a friend of ours was subjected to a tragedy. His parents were taking his son and daughter to northern British Columbia to a cabin that they owned on a lakeside, for a holiday, giving the parents a break.
On the journey, in a particularly winding stretch of highway, they met a camper truck, out of control and losing the canoe that was tied to the roof rack. The canoe arrowed across the road, smashing into the cab of the pickup. The grandparents were both killed instantly. The children, safe in the jump seats, survived physically but the emotional trauma stayed with them.
Presented with a therapeutic solution as to whether we chose a dog or took the money, we asked Phil if the gift of a pup would divert the kid's attention from the tragedy. Anything was worth a try and Toby, as he came to be known, was a true gift of love.
Our guess was accurate and he became the focal point and a healing force for the children's' disturbed emotions. Just like his dad, his endearing quirks and pugnacious attitude for such a small creature stole their hearts and healed them before giving them back, though he always retained a piece for himself.
It was interesting to us that when we had brought Toby to our home and Tim had seen him, there was no paternal interest. Tim went over to this mewling infant cuddled on a sheepskin rug, sniffed him a couple of times, snarled quietly at him then stumped over to the drapes and showed his disapproval by cocking his leg, leaving a spray on them.
A short while later we moved from the townhouse to a 'real' house on the outskirts of town, having spent three years re-building, re-carpeting and renovating our present domicile. I have often asked myself why it is that as soon as we are finished a project of those dimensions we seem unable to sit back and enjoy it for long, but have to move on to something else. No matter, I was soon back at sawing, hammering and wallpapering in our new home that needed some TLC.
The new place had a definite attraction for Tim as he now had a large garden all to himself. The exploration and signature exercise took days and our little adventurer would emerge from the long grass, covered in bits but with a smile on his face.
At the back of the property was a paddock in which a couple of horses and cows grazed and this scene of semi-rural bliss was easy to take. Tim would mooch around the garden, take his supervised walks on the quiet, surrounding streets and gradually developed his own routine. We would not need to know exactly where he was as he had the run of the garden and often dozed on the sundeck.
By this time he was a regular feature at the police station on my monthly week end duty and I could plot his progress around the corridors by hearing comments such as, "Way to go, Tim", "Watch the stairs, Tim", or "Love your coat, buddy". Then, of course, there would be the squeals of delight when he found his way to the switchboard operator and got a cuddle for his troubles.
All this stood him in good stead when he decided to go 'walkabouts'. This is an Australian term for the periodic wanderings of the Aborigine, answering the call of the ancestral spirits and taking off for the bush.
For Tim, walkabouts were restricted, of course. When you're eight inches tall, there's only so much you can do! However, unbeknown to us, he had found (or made) a gap in the rear fence that would allow him access into the paddock. Later examination of the crime scene revealed a flattening of the grass that suggested a continuous use of this porthole.
One Saturday morning I had been pottering around in the workshop and Eileen was busy with household chores. Neither of us was concerned about the whereabouts of Tiny Tim until we met for coffee. "Have you seen the Lad?" was my question. "I thought he was with you", was Eileen's reply. "Oh,Oh", was both our exclamation and we scrambled to our feet.
I searched the upstairs; Eileen did down - with no success. A check of the garden gate revealed that it was firmly closed, although there was the possibility that he might have been able to squeeze under it.
I was checking along the street frontage in case Tim had fallen asleep in the shade of one of the shrubs, when one of our patrol cars cruised by. Leaning out of the window, the officer yelled, "Lost something, Dave?"
"Yeah, Doug", I replied, "that little bugger of a dog of ours has disappeared, can't find him anywhere".
"That's no good, mate, I'll get the other Ladner car to give me a hand and we'll search further afield".
As the morning wore on and the area was subjected to an intensive police dog-hunt (even the Detective Inspector joined in); we became more and more concerned. Tim was just a scrap of a thing and if he had met a larger dog and exhibited his usual lack of realization of his true height - the mind boggled.
My, by now, frantic hunt was disturbed by joyous cries from Eileen, "He's back, he's back." Sprinting down the road - I was a lot younger then - I skidded around the corner of the house into the back yard, and came to a screaming halt. There, on the sundeck, crouched in submissive pose, ears down, podgy little body flattened to the boards and covered from head to foot with slimy, green cow manure, was Timmy.
His stump of a tail gave a tentative wag and he looked up at me from under lowered brow in that heart-melting look that only a dog can give. I was so relieved that I burst out laughing. Eileen joined in and so did Tim when he realized that his escapade was not to be the cause of any form of real punishment or disapproval.
Then we were faced with the proposition of cleaning him up! I had installed a photographic darkroom, complete with a deep sink and 'wetbench' in a small cloakroom upstairs and knew that it would be ideal. Steeling myself, I picked up our horrible, slimy, stinky, loveable bundle and holding him at arms length dashed him up the stairs and into the sink.
As I soaped and lathered him I gave him a verbal lashing, but he knew that he had really won.
The next time he visited the police station he was accorded the equivalent of the "nudge, nudge, wink, wink" that human escapades generate.
The next four years were good. I was kept fully occupied renovating a home that had been purchased new but not maintained during its occupancy by the original owners. Between putting in a decent garden, building a large sundeck, knocking down interior walls, decorating and altering, there wasn't much time for anything else. The routine of walking Tim, reading and listening to my classical music provided the relaxation I needed.
Tim had become a fixture in the neighborhood and was a familiar sight; body suspended four inches off the ground as he walked. His little legs moved so swiftly that they were just a blur. He knew all the dogs around and had made friends with most of them.
There was however, a Doberman pup that walked in the opposite direction to us who committed the cardinal sin of Familiarity with My Dad. Over the months that he was growing, his owner and I had exchanged greetings and become nodding acquaintances.
One evening the Dobie, on one of those extending leashes, saw us and pranced over to me with wagging tail in a friendly attitude. When he got close enough for me to touch him, Tim shot out from behind me like a rocket. Snarling like a savage beast, he disappeared under the Dobie and leapt. There was a strangled squeal and the Dobie took off in the opposite direction, ripping the leash dispenser from the owner's hand when he reached the end of his tether, never to be seen again that evening.
Tim stood foursquare in front of me, daring anyone else to try and get a lump of Dad's affections, reserved exclusively for him.
The next time we saw the Doberman; he lowered his head while Tim bristled at him as we went by. The Dobie's owner and I enjoyed a chuckle at this example of Right beating Might when there's a principle involved.
Tim became devoted to us and us to him, for he had a great, individual personality. By this time, our youngest daughter, Lisa, had graduated from university and left for Ottawa to pursue a career in a branch of the government service. Allanah, the oldest lived in Vancouver and was busy putting down roots. We all developed a comfortable existence that slowly revolved around Tim's needs.
After the renovating had been completed we enjoyed the fruits of our labors for a while, then Eileen dropped a bombshell - we had to move!!! When I had calmed down, I listened to her arguments - she didn't drive; the local bus stop was a fair hike to the main highway; the Library and shops were not close. She was dependent on me for transport and my hours were pretty erratic.
These were all valid points that deserved consideration, so the inevitably fair decision was made. Regrettably, I had done too good a job on the renovations and the house sold in two weeks, albeit at a handsome profit.
Now we had to look in earnest for a place to live. There was nothing that caught our eye, even in a far higher price range and we began to despair. House after house was viewed and rejected, if not by us, then by Tim - too near a main road, big dogs in the street, not too many lamp posts to lean against, etc.
Finally, an ad. in the local newspaper for townhouses caught our eyes. A small, ten-unit complex was to be built just off the village core, adjacent to a large, treed park. We knew the area well, for it was just two blocks back from the shopping area, a hundred yards from the Library and four minutes from work. Ideal, except that they wouldn't be completed for at least three months.
The bonus was that we would be able to vary the interior design and install high quality carpets and fittings, so we would be getting a custom-built house at spec prices. The quasi-Victorian design was appealing and, at 2000 square feet it would be more than sufficient for us.
In the interim, were we to rent? But then we would have to move furniture into a strange house and move it out again three months or so later. In the end we put the furniture in storage and booked into a nice motel at a long-term rate. We stuck it out with fortitude and punctuated our existence in one large room and a kitchen by making daily inspections of our developing townhouse, detailing alterations as we went along. Tim accompanied us and got a long walk in the park into the bargain. It was obvious that he was going to settle in without any problem whatsoever.
Once we were moved in we settled into a routine. I was home for lunch most days, so Tim got an extra walk. He had a great stair climber in the three-storey townhouse and life was good.
Then we noticed that he was taking longer to climb the stairs, was slowing down in his walks and sleeping quite a lot. He was almost seventeen, but I took him to the vet for a check up. The news was not good. Tim's little heart was giving out on him and he could not expect to last more than a year.
We kidded ourselves that with our help he would last a lot longer than that, because we couldn't contemplate a life without our little pal.
During the next twelve months we saw him get weaker and weaker. Although we didn't share our fears, they lay between us, unspoken, though tangible.
We were due to go on holiday down to Carlsbad, CA. to stay with a friend and then take a drive back through Napa and the northern California and Oregon coasts. The lady who trimmed Tim was going to look after him for us. He had stayed with the family several times and was on excellent terms with their dog, so we knew he would be in good hands.
A week before the date we were to leave I took Tim to the vet for a checkup to see how he would stand up to the separation. He had become weaker, lost most of his sight and was almost deaf, though he could hear the crackle of a cookie package at a hundred paces.
I expected that the vet would reassure us that Tim would be OK. Instead he conducted his examination, then re-examined Tim, listened to his heart some more and turned to me with moist eyes.
"Dave, it would be better if you just went home and left the little guy with me. His heart is so overtaxed, it would be kinder to help him by letting him go". Somehow, I had half-expected, and dreaded, this but I still could not accept it.
"Isn't there�." I choked.
"No way, my friend", said the vet sadly, for he and his partner had come to love Tim over the years.
I blinked back the tears and shook my head, but realized that he was right. How could I allow this little creature we loved so much to suffer just for us to feel more pain as we gradually saw him choke through lack of oxygenated blood?
"I can do it while you are here", he said, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing the life fade out of Tim's blind eyes and see that tiny, almost hairless body shudder to a halt.
I dumbly shook my head and stumbled out of the surgery. The receptionist laid a hand on my arm and said, "We'll bury him out in the garden at the back". I knew that they had done this on a number of occasions for people like us who didn't have a garden of their own in which to bury their deceased pets.
I couldn't even thank her and drove home in a veil of tears. How was I to break the news to Mum? That was really a secondary thought in my mind, as I wanted comfort for my pain more than the terrible responsibility of giving her the sad news.
There are some things that do not need to be said between people who, like us, have been together for most of their adult lives. When she saw the look on my face and the tears in my eyes, she just sobbed, "Oh no. Oh no". We held each other and sobbed our sadness together.
Luckily, it was a long weekend for me, having worked the previous weekend. It gave us time to grieve together and prepare to tell our daughters and friends of our loss.
Several times we caught each other looking, almost guiltily for the little guy and the four days were a constant, painful process of adapting to the loss.
Posting a notice on the bulletin board at work took care of notifying Tim's numerous fans, but ensured a procession of people offering their commiseration and sympathy. Although it seems a paradox, seeing hard-bitten veteran cops fumble with words of condolence, moist eyed and feeling inadequate, was something of a testament to the humanity of the people in my chosen profession.
Our eldest daughter was devastated, but was the first one to make the dreaded suggestion that we replace Tim with another dog. We both instantly dismissed the possibility, stating our desire never to go through the heartache again, but I guess the seed was planted.
Somehow, the next week dragged by and we took off on our holiday, driving down to Carlsbad through the rolling hills of Oregon, the dryness of northern California and down the spectacular coast road from San Francisco to LA. The drive itself was therapeutic as we could not but be impressed with scenery so like that of New Zealand, particularly the rugged beauty of Big Sur.
On our arrival we were enfolded in the love and sympathy of our friend and affectionately attacked by her two Lhaso Apsos. They must have sensed out sadness for they slathered us with affection the whole two weeks we were there. They never left either of us to be alone during the whole time and it was this connection that enabled us to heal as, inevitably, we must.
The trip back, though spectacular, was heavy with building tension, for we were both conscious of heading for a house devoid of the focal point that we had come to accept as an integral part of our contentment. Although we dreaded it, soon we were speaking of the emptiness we would be faced by and even tentatively skirted around the subject of another dog, although there was a sense that we would be disloyal to the memory of our Tim.
Our eldest daughter solved this for us in no uncertain manner within a day of returning to a house that had somehow lost the atmosphere of Home. Allanah (definitely A Type) arrived in a maelstrom of activity, hugging and kissing and remonstrating with us for not bringing back a puppy. She had brought the current edition of the Vancouver area newspaper with her, folded to the Pets Classified section
Plonking it down on the table she then took up an aggressive stance and declared, "Now, if you two haven't found a Yorkie by the end of the week I'm going out to get you a St. Bernard"!
I lifted an eyebrow at Mother and she replied with a pursing of her lips, for we both knew that our eldest was crazy enough to put her threat into motion. The thought of a St, Bernard in our townhouse struck both of us with terror, and we concurred that we would give it some serious thought.
However, that wasn't good enough for her and she snatched up the newspaper, stabbing at a column, rasping, "There are four separate ads for Yorkies here, so you'd better get on the 'phone right now".
The truth was, of course, that we were only too happy to let ourselves be bullied into making a decision that we individually, but unstated, had come to without her bludgeoning.
Once made, the decision could not be retracted and we embarked on the search for Tim's successor with a zest and enthusiasm that was only tempered by the realization that, whatever dog we picked to be caretakers to, it would never release Tim's hold on a part of our hearts.
He/she would be different and be loved for traits and personality quirks that developed from the interaction between the three of us. We could feel no sense of disloyalty in playing out an instinct that required us to lavish our affection on another friend. On reflection, we convinced ourselves that it was a responsibility for us to acquire another dog and give him/her the kind of home it deserved but would be denied if we continued to wallow in our sadness.
There is a quote from "The Once Again Prince", by Irving Townsend that is so applicable to people who take on that responsibility:
'We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached.
Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way.
We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan�"
This is so true a maxim that it sustains us even in our loss and enables us to give and receive the love of a fellow creature again.











 

 

Copyright © 1999 David Roberts
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"