Life Lessons
from my Canine Companions
I grew up with dogs. My father did too. Everyone in our extended family holds a kinship to canines. There’s no surprise my father is a dog whisperer.
The dogs in my family were Tippy, Nipper, Hobo, Bear, Kylie and Jennifer. And I learned from each of them.
Tippy was a Shepherd-terrier mix. I have a treasured portrait of her. Tippy’s fur, tan-coloured with a truss of white at her neck, was perfectly suited for our photo-op. In my light-blue pinafore, I’m dressed up too. Side-by-side, both of us are looking into the camera. When the picture was taken, she and I were both three years old. With few memories of her, I’m glad to have my father’s stories to remember her by. From him I know of her obedience, and had Tippy not responded to a voice from the other side of the road, she may have lived a longer life. She was killed by a car and I’m not sure when this sad event happened or how long after the photo was taken she was hit, but I do know it was a tough lesson to learn.
Nipper came to our family the same year my sister Melody was born. I was given a portrait of Nipper by my paternal grandmother who painted in oils. In the painting Nipper’s golden puppy-coat is tipped in white and brown. She’s propped up in a wicker basket beside another pup who was apparently her litter-mate sister. I love that the painting hangs in my writing room and keeps alive a wonderful memory of Nipper and my grandmother, who may have embellished the litter-mate detail of the story. One thing I know to be true about Nipper was her capacity to dig her way out of the yard. And when she managed, my mother could count on several phone calls.
Sometimes it was my grandmother who called. “Hello dear, Nipper is here.”
Or a call would came in from the McMillians. They lived on Pritchard Avenue, one street behind our house on the other side of the lane, which meant Nipper didn’t have far to saunter down the narrow alley to the left of their butcher shop. I can still picture the shop’s wooden shelves and the sprinkled sawdust on the worn hardwood floor.
In their call to my mother, one of them would say, “Nipper’s here.” Or, “Nipper’s out back working on a soup bone.”
If Nipper wasn’t at the McMillians, we’d find her stretched out beside Stan’s pigeon coup. Stan didn’t mind because he abhorred cats, and Nipper didn’t much like them either. A perfect match, and that’s why Stan never hesitated to invite Nipper in when she scratched at his gate.
Nipper had no fear of the dog catcher and when she saw his truck, she’d jump in. When the officer brought her home from those wanderings, he’d remind my mother (who I think he had a crush on) that he really should issue a fine. (He didn’t.)
Great with kids and everyone else, it was easy to take Nipper wherever we went. She was my best-friend dog and lived to be thirteen years old. She died on the morning of my junior high school chorus line performance of Oliver Twist. I learned about Nipper’s death when I came home for lunch. After my mom told me, I ran to my room to muffle my tears into my pillow. I was shy about crying in front of other people, even my parents. I think by then I had already embedded the false notion that crying was not a sign of strength. After giving me time alone, my mother came to my bedroom to say that if I wanted to, I could stay home from school. I had no particular fondness or connection to the music teacher who was directing the play, but as a kid who was apt to obey, I didn’t want to displease her (even though I didn’t much like her). Maybe I declined my mother’s offer because I needed a structured distraction. It’s tough to know what goes through the head of a heartbroken fourteen-year-old.
At the afternoon rehearsal, I stood in the chorus line with others and sang my part until the teacher shrieked, “Stop! Everyone stop singing!”
In the auditorium’s silence, all eyes settled on the irate teacher as she walked toward the string of singers standing on tables. When she finally stopped, it was in front of me and from where she stood she peered up into my eyes.
“If you don’t put a smile on that face I am coming up there to yank you down!” With her words clipped, my body stiffened. So did my face. “SMILE!” she screamed.
Perhaps those weren’t her exact words, but the message and the tone behind it, I’ll never forget.
Had I felt more warmly toward this teacher, it might have been wise to have been forthright about the shock of my mother’s news. Frankly, it never even occurred to me to say to her, “I lost best friend this morning.” Had I told her, I wonder if she would have behaved differently.
At the evening performance, I looked for my parents in the full auditorium. When I found them in the middle and several rows back, they sat up straight, poked up their hands and looked back at me. Their tender eyes––my mother’s brown and my dad’s blue–– locked on to mine, and in that special moment, the strength and safety of their loving acceptance filled me with courage to keep on singing. Nipper’s death was an early lesson in grief.
My music teacher’s name has dropped from my memory. However I do remember her attractive appearance, her stern tone and how she spoke to me at the rehearsal. I’ve attempted to recall if she was a smiley person and I wish I could remember the music class. I don’t recall much joy.
I understand full well a director’s motivation to see smiles and shining eyes among the cast. I sing in a community choir, and the wide smile on our director’s expressive face encourages and reminds us, to show emotion appropriate to the piece. She has never stopped and raged at any one person who might not be getting it right. Not even in the pressures of a last rehearsal. And never does she embarrass a singer. I like how she playfully mimics us to illustrate what the audience sees. This helps us laugh at ourselves.
On the day of Nipper’s death, the music teacher taught me an important lesson that I’ve carried into my teaching life. No teacher or choir director can be a mind reader, but a few words in a private moment could enhance understanding and empathy.
Our next dog, Hobo, was named after the adored star of the television series, The Littlest Hobo. In fact, our puppy Hobo came from the same breeder as his namesake. From the start, Puppy Hobo was a rascal not unlike the breeder warned. On one particular morning his shenanigans were beyond my mother’s ability to cope. He’d surpassed her patience, and may have scared her a bit with his budding alpha exploits, so she phoned my father at work. (I’m reminded of the one time I was caught skipping Assembly with my friend Bonnie, and the high school VP threatened to call our fathers at work. If Hobo had had a human brain, he would have known big trouble was ahead.)
On the phone to my father, my mother said, “I don’t like this dog. You need to take him back to where you got him!” Clearly she was not thinking straight because there was no way my father would ever give up on a dog. He suggested she speak to Hobo sternly. She claimed she’d already tried, to which my father replied, “I’ll be right there.” Within fifteen minutes my dad was having a little chat with their nine-week old pup. Hobo became a good dog friend to all us, including my mother. We had him in our lives until he was fourteen.
And then there was Bear. In the expansive collection of professional photographs taken at my first wedding, was a terrific picture of Bear and me. I was wearing a soft-white satin-lace gown and my handsome canine friend was leaning against me. It’s still my favourite wedding picture. Bear was with me through grade eight up until I moved into residence at university. He walked me into the early years of my young adulthood.
Early in my father’s retirement, his son-in-law, John, and his two dogs, Yogi and Zena, introduced him to dog parks. At the end of John’s work day, they headed into the lush ravine toward the sandy shoreline of a tributary of the Don River. Kylie always went with them.
Taking Kylie into ravines and the dog park changed my Dad’s life. Those evenings in the park gave him the opportunity for conversation with neighbours he’d not met before. I had a hunch my dad missed being among his male colleagues and from what I could tell, being with Kylie in the dog park, helped to sooth some of what he’d been missing. Eventually Kylie, who liked to keep other dogs in line–– like a mentor and top-dog–– became known as the King of the Park.
Kylie was my dad’s gateway to meeting new friends and he loved being among dog packs. On those ravine trails, I wonder if my father reminisced about youthful cavorting through the bush near where he was born.
Each of my father’s dogs had lived long lives, especially for large breeds. Kylie was the exception. Losing him after a fast seven years of pride and endless joy was devasting for all of us.
I’m not sure my father fully grieved. To help him do that my sister Jacquelin gifted him a dog. On that occasion I felt uneasy because I wasn’t sure enough time had passed. When the plump puppy was placed into my dad’s arms, he gasped and then he wept. Tears of joy, grief, or a little of both? I wondered if there was enough room in my father’s broken heart for a new German Shepherd puppy. It also concerned me that Kylie was a hard act to follow.
Assuaging my fears, Jenny became my dad’s soul mate. My father didn’t return to the park, but Jenny always accompanied him in his workshop and was a constant companion in his errands around the city. After my mother died, Jenny sat beside his chair in the living room and never missed sleeping beside my dad’s bed. One-hundred-and-forty-pound Jenny, became my dad’s loyal friend and had Jacquelin not followed her instinct and brought Jenny home, my father would have missed out on the wonderful comfort we humans are afforded by our loving canine companions.
Rest in peace, my special canine friends.
xoxoxo
