Holding Down the Fort

I’ve had a uniquely special relationship with a certain coworker in my small office for the past eleven-and-a-half years. In addition to the “normal” Monday through Friday, 8-to-5 business hours, he and I have worked closely together late into the night on too many occasions to count. We’ve been a team through many working weekends and even on holidays when it was the only possible way to meet impossible deadlines. Though I would never bring it up, he more often than not has fallen sound asleep while I tap away at the keyboard or stare blankly at the ceiling fan overhead in search of a solution or idea – his barely audible snoring not helping in any way with the work at hand.

And yet, although I have logged many long, late night office hours over the years, my coworker has been here even longer, holding down the fort. I have often had the opportunity to leave for a meeting with clients, or to go out for dinner with my wife and kids, or leave the office to simply do something other than work. My coworker, however, almost always has stayed behind and waited patiently for my return – acting as the ever-vigilant office security guard or simply busying himself with all sorts of miscellaneous activities, one of which typically included napping. As I mentioned, I never spoke to him about his tendency to drift off to sleep during working hours, but he knew that I knew he took advantage of my permissiveness. There were no secrets between us.

You could say that my coworker was also the goodwill ambassador for my business, always greeting visitors or delivery people with his overly friendly manner and welcoming ways. Guests relaxed visibly in his presence and in subsequent conversations would often ask me to give him their kindest regards.  

During any given week, I would all too often vent to him about particularly frustrating clients – or about not having enough work or having too much work or not enough time to do the work or having to once again go out and look for more work. No matter how much I ranted, however, I could always count on him to quickly calm me down and remind me in a way all his own that work is only work. It’s the relationships in life that are most important.

To say that this coworker was like one of my family would be misleading. He was family in almost every possible way except one – he wasn’t human. He was a goofy, tail-wagging, shoe-stealing, sleep-seeking, clothes-hamper-raiding, big, loving dope of a dog; my near constant companion, friend and coworker.

And now, he’s gone.  

Last Saturday, after weeks of expensive treatments and loving care for his failing kidneys, oceans of shed tears and not nearly enough emotional preparation for the inevitable outcome, we said goodbye to “Darby,” our family’s beloved yellow lab and the last of our dogs. (You might remember that I wrote about losing our beautiful golden retriever girl, “Sierra,” fourteen months ago. Yes, it’s been a tough year-and-a-half.)

I simply cannot find the words to express how much I miss that dog every waking minute of every day – and so far – during already too many restless nights. I have no guilt in saying that he was my favorite dog. Ever. He was my constant companion. My work mate. My protector (in his own mind, at least). The greeter of the UPS man. The passionate, tireless tail wager. Chaser of tennis balls. Incorrigible thief of shoes – even right from your feet if you wore slip-ons.  

He was our power-failure proof alarm clock. If we slept in even 15 minutes past our usual weekend routine, Darby would impatiently go to the hand towel hanging on a rack in our dressing room, take one end of it in his teeth, pull it off and bring it to my side of the bed. He’d continually nudge my arm with his nose until I woke up, then look at me with an expectant, “do you SEE what I have in my mouth and aren’t you going to do something about it?” expression.

As a younger dog, he and his golden retriever sister would have nothing of sleeping on our bedroom floor at night like mere dogs. Oh, contraire. The foot of our queen size bed was fine for Sierra, but not for Darby. He had to share our pillows and would position himself every night with his back to the headboard, and his face on one of our pillows. Yes, that meant one of us got to sleep with his other end pointed at us. And I loved it. Both dogs got too old eventually to make the jump to our bed – a fact my wife loved, but which I never really got used to.

I hope they have high alpine lakes in heaven, because this was a dog who would swim until near exhaustion whenever we’d take him to Mammoth. We would eventually have to hide whatever tennis ball or sticks we were throwing in order to keep him from going back out into the water yet again and exhausting himself in the high altitude.

Darby was proof that a dog can have gourmet tastes. His absolute love of pizza “bones” (crusts), slices of cheddar cheese and anything with chicken in it, would make him sit patiently and bore holes into you with big, round, black eyes as intense as any I’ve ever seen – until you’d break down and give him a piece of whatever it was you were eating. And then another. And another. He could hear a spoon on the bottom of a peanut butter jar or carton of cottage cheese from across the house and would suddenly appear at your side with his well-practiced “you’re gonna give me that, right?” look on his beautiful, goofy, always-loving face.

Darby was a male dog who never quite got the hang of lifting his leg. He’d kind of half squat, have lift one back leg and let fly – often on his own feet as he got older. Not exactly a proud moment for me, his owner. The few times in his nearly twelve years with us that he actually did lift his leg like a “normal” guy dog, we would whoop and holler and strut around so proud of his accomplishment – we probably frightened him from trying it again for years.

He was the first “self-walking” dog I’ve seen – always grabbing his own leash in his mouth and walking ahead of you as if you weren’t needed at all.

When we’d leave the house without him, he would go behind the couch in our living room to press his big, black nose against the window and watch us drive down the driveway with a “hurry back home!” look on his entire face. And hurry home, we would. Upon parking, he would be upstairs on the balcony overlooking our driveway, his nails click-clicking on the wood deck as he paced back and forth waiting for us to come back in the house – his nose poking through the balcony railing to better see us and his tail wagging furiously in joyous greeting of his family arriving home.

Darby was shrewd enough to stay off our family room couch in the evening as long as “mom” was awake, but he’d open one eye and carefully watch her walk upstairs to go to bed. As soon as he knew she was in bed, he would quietly get up from wherever he was, walk over to the couch and hop up on the cushions to settle in for a comfortable while. I’ve never seen a dog who loved comfort as much as he did. I hope he’s comfortable once more and no longer weary of the fight to stay with us another day, another hour.

They say that writing is the loneliest of professions, to which I agree. Working solo is a necessary part of the job. And yet, until now, I’ve never really been alone thanks to loving, faithful companions and ‘coworkers’ like Darby and Sierra.

This week, my office is lonelier than ever before. I find myself looking for the big, furry dope every time I get up from my desk. I’ll start to say something about this or that project before I remember that he isn’t there to hear me. He and Sierra are off in some heavenly meadow chasing after bright green tennis balls and snuggling together for well-deserved naps.

I know we’ll be reunited someday, but until then, it’s my turn to hold down the fort. Goodbye, dear friend.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

Note: This is an extended version of my column first published yesterday, 6.21.12, in the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper.

Goodbye To A Golden Girl

The most difficult and painful part of being a dog lover is when your beloved pet’s all-too-short lifespan comes to an end. That awful time came (again) for my family last Friday afternoon when one of our two dogs – a beautiful golden retriever, Sierra, barely just ten years-old – took her last breath and was finally at rest.

She led a pampered life, to be sure. Dogs at my house lack for nothing and are not spared even the smallest amount of attention and affection. But being a purebred, she was prone to numerous health issues. My wife and I have often remarked that between our two purebreds (our other fur-kid is Darby, a goof-ball of a yellow lab) with all of their vet bills and numerous surgeries, we’ve spent more on them during the past decade than we have raising four human children combined. C’est la vie.

I am such a dog person that I can’t bear to read a book or watch a movie in which someone’s dog dies. I was traumatized seeing the Disney film, Old Yeller as a young boy. I’ve caught snippets of scenes from this classic many times while flipping through TV channels, and quickly switch to something else. I just can’t go there. I resolutely refused to read the mega-hit memoir, Marley & Me. After all, it’s about the author’s life with his yellow lab who, as I’m told, ultimately dies. Sorry. Not gonna read it. Not to say that the book isn’t on our shelf at home. My wife read it, loved it, and promised that I would relate to every word on every page of the book. I have no doubt. And no thank you.

A writer I deeply respect, Dean Koontz, might possibly be more of a dog lover than even yours truly. Last year, Koontz sent me an autographed copy of his 2009 best-seller (A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog) about his own beloved golden retriever, Trixie. Breaking my rule not to read a book about the death of a pet, I read it. And I’m so glad I did. In the book, Koontz asserts that she was not a dog but an earthbound angel. I absolutely believe it. I would often catch our Sierra looking at me, or listening to a family conversation and know instinctively that there was an intelligence – a “presence” there beyond that of any mere animal.

Then again, at times she could seen as dumb as a bag of dog chow. For example, she would often get half way through our dog door from the back yard and seemingly forget where she was. She’d stand there with her front half in the kitchen and her tail end still outside, just looking around like she didn’t have a clue. What I would give to see her do that again.

To be painfully honest, I’d give so much just to have her here to do all those quirky and/or “annoying” things she used to do. Things like her tendency to bark incessantly in her high-pitched “girlie” woof when anyone would come up our driveway. She would run back and forth across the balcony outside my office barking her brains out and letting the entire zip code know that somebody’s coming! Somebody’s coming, Dad! Or letting out an even higher-pitched yip whenever our adult daughter, Amanda, would come to visit – almost always ending up by very gently and carefully taking Amanda’s entire hand in her mouth and leading her around the family room several times as if wanting to be sure to hang onto her and make sure Amanda didn’t leave the house. That dog certainly loved her family in a fierce, yet often funny way.

She also seriously loved the water hose. If she was anywhere in the yard when you turned the water on, she would come running at full speed to stand in front of the nozzle, making sure her muzzle was directly in the path of the stream. With an intensity you had to see to believe, Sierra would “bite” at the water coming out, only stopping to sneeze when too much of it went up her beautiful nose. And yet, take her to a lake or a stream in the mountains and she’d do everything possible to avoid getting wet above her knees. While her brother, Darby, would joyfully swim as far out as he had to in order to retrieve a thrown stick or tennis ball, Sierra would stand on the shore, excitedly barking to him and dashing back and forth along the water’s edge until he swam back close enough for her to steal the prize from his mouth without getting too wet. Go figure.

At dinnertime, she would devour every morsel of her food and then walk over to Darby’s bowl and stare intensely at him while he ate – slowly edging closer and closer, trying her best to intimidate her much bigger brother into walking away and leaving part of his dinner for her to eat. She would eat so fast and furiously, we even had to buy a special bowl that had three plastic posts imbedded inside to make it harder to get to the food and force her to slow down when she ate. She didn’t earn the nickname “hog dog” for nothing.

We also often called her “frog dog” (yes, we lean towards rhyming nicknames around here) due to her penchant to flop onto the floor with all four legs splayed out to the four corners of the compass. We thought it was hilarious. But comfort was always one of her biggest priorities. Which is why she was often being scolded for sneaking up onto the family room couch when no one was looking. Or why you would often find her sitting right at your side at the dinner table, or while watching TV or while I was working at my desk – and having her push her cold, wet nose under your elbow and keep at it until you finally started petting her beautiful, bony little head.

Speaking of comfort, Sierra had several favorite spots around our house that we always went to first whenever we were looking for her. One in particular was the tile entryway by our back door into the family room from our garage. She loved the coolness of the tile and would lay perfectly still, without moving even when someone tried to enter or leave through the door – having to be slid along the tile by pushing her out of the way with the door just to open it far enough to go through it.

Another favorite place of hers was the ridiculously narrow space under one of the benches in our kitchen breakfast nook. Whenever even one of us would sit at the table, Sierra would push her way in past the chairs and squeeze her body under the bench – often taking several minutes of scootching and scrunching and wriggling away, using her paws on the slippery hard wood floor until she was at long last in just the right position for her liking. It would take almost as long to extricate herself after everyone left the table after a meal. From other rooms of the house, you could hear her toenails scraping on the kitchen floor and the chairs being pushed around as she made her way out into the open once more. What a nut.

Sierra had been a “co-worker” of mine for the past ten years. Five or six mornings a week I’d walk into my home office, sit down at my desk and within minutes, Sierra would pad in and head straight for the leg well under my desk – perhaps the one place she loved to be most of all. She’d nudge her way in past my knees, circle around and around until she had just the right spot to curl up in, and then collapse – usually on top of my feet – to sleep without budging for hours to come. I’m writing these words at that desk, sitting in that chair. The space around my feet feels as cold and vacant as my heart.

The day after we took her to the vet for the last time, I was in my office with the shop-vac, on my hands and knees, getting rid of the many clumps of her butterscotch-colored fur that had accumulated in the casters of my chair and far back under my desk, under the sub-woofer, the floor mat – seemingly everywhere. As I vacuumed up her hair, I felt like I was somehow betraying her memory. What a strange sight I must have been – a grown man on my hands and knees, shoving the shop-vac nozzle everywhere under a massive wooden desk. Crying my eyes out. And yet, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit at my desk during the coming week if I kept seeing reminders of her every time I sat down to work. I’m so sorry, Sierra. That beautiful fur was such a part of you, girl.

While my theology may admittedly not be airtight, I’ll end this tribute by telling you my greatest solace this past week has been the hope that I will now have another cherished dog waiting for my arrival in heaven. I dream that I’ll be ushered in to the promised land to find Misty, Rusty, Banjo, Dorian and Boomer all racing towards me across the soft green grass of the new earth – leaping and playing and barking with joyous delight. Out in front of the wonderful, welcoming pack will be my golden girl, Sierra. Goodbye dear, sweet friend. I know someday we will play together again.

Thank you for allowing me to publicly remember a wonderful dog. I’ll see you ‘round town.

[Please note: This is a much longer version of my column published in yesterday’s CV Weekly newspaper (www.cvweekly.com)]

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