A Surprise from Longago

My story is like that of so many others like me. The child fell hard in love with Lassie and with Terhune’s Lad and that love guided the rest of our lives. And even though the object of our affections was not always the collie per se, that vision of human/dog relationship presaged all our futures. Trainers, breeders, handlers, devotees.

I was a purist. Everywhere I went I looked for collies. Sunday drives with my family led us into the country where any green field might reveal a gold and white figure. I read books that held even the vaguest hint of collie talk, including Tess of the D’urbervilles because there was a tiny collie on my cousin’s copy. All I know of kindness, nobility and character was formed in that focus. Mythical, beautiful, possible.


When I got involved with papillons my thought was that they were the smallest in a line of 3: collie, sheltie, papillon. I was convinced that papillons and shelties shared at least one ancestor (and indeed they may have). And that connected them all back to collies. I needed the smaller dog who would fit in my smaller house and smaller car AND be able to fly in the cabin of an airplane with me. I cannot imagine ever being without a papillon. But on my 50th birthday, we added a collie to our household because there was nothing better than to fall headlong into young love again.

But as with all things living, the life story changes as it grows and unfolds in surprising ways.

When I was about 10 I read a book called GAY, a Shetland Sheepdog several dozen times while studiously copying Margaret Johnson’s drawings. (That study was to last well into adulthood, as my library reveals. The great ones are almost as much a part of my mythology as Lad. Peter Pumpkin, Steely Dan, Sea Isle, Pocono, Banchory, …)

One day when I was about 12, I was upstairs in my grandfather’s sitting room listening to records of the Rolling Stones. Ruby Tuesday. The poignancy of the song, the sunless 4pm air and the rain made me feel very very far from everyone. I was alone. I was waiting for someone to come home. And suddenly I had a clear vision of myself walking under the enormous leafy trees, rounding the corner toward that big house on Cotswold Rd….with a sable Shetland Sheepdog. I cannot hear that song or… have you seen her dressed in black… without reliving that moment; it is embedded in the music.

And then suddenly at 51, with collie and papillons, I have a 6-month-old sheltie pup in the house. The story of how she came to be here is one of serendipity and luck, synchronicity, need and timing. She came because we thought we could reboot her confidence and because I had a strong feeling that I knew what had happened to turn this live wire into a flickering bulb. And because she gave us a clear sign of trust.

And here she is. For a week now she’s been here and by day 3 I was hopelessly smitten, plunged down the rabbit hole …moved by her courage and trust and joy. Hungry for the feel of her perfect little skull and the smell of her puppy fur. When her breeder offered her to us we said yes.

When I look at her, I hear Ruby Tuesday and I remember those moments of clear transcendent desire I had as a child. All those hours and weeks, months and years of pleasurable agonizing over which breed to commit to had come to this.

Holding her against my chest this afternoon, her head tucked under my chin I noticed how exactly she fit into my arms, how perfectly she balanced in my lap. It occurred to me that all my life this was what I had wanted…this breed…this magical little collie…as sensitive and loyal as I remain to that image born into the loneliest days of my childhood…

And so it was for that hour this afternoon and so it may be for a long time. But what matters is that we have found each other over miles and years and we can take that walk I envisioned: one foot, then another towards wholeness, on a lonely tree lined street in the rain.

Gayton photo 12/2008

I LOVE this photograph of the Tartanside girls.
It's from John Budie's website.

a day at the beach

The work is a mile high at school: a hiring committee, a lecture on my relationship to art histort, a panel on working as an artist, and 2 classes that overenrolled. M’s birthday was this past weekend and his gift was an overnight at the coast. For me that means many hours of preparation to leave the house in suitable shape with clear instructions for the care of the animals left behind.

But we had a swell time and the cabin we stayed in, right on the ocean, allowed dogs, so Maudie had her first trip to the beach.
We inspired her to a few moments of zooming and then she settled in to walk right beside us, only veering off to inspect the grasses at the edge of the sand for a moment or two before coming back. Like the corgis she insisted on finding a spot inside the grass and way off the beach itself on which to poop…I imagine it’s the same impulse that makes the herding breeds so easy to house train.

We thought of Gussie a lot. It would have been lovely to have him there too, and he would have had a great time. M talked about sitting with him inside his coat on a cold day at the beach. The paps love the beach as well as any other dog…and probably more than Maudie, but Maudie is an ideal traveling companion and measures her joy by how much she brings to us. To see her in that beautiful light was magical.

I have been thinking about breeds in relation to M. I hate the idea of his dropping out of the training world without Gus; I have loved having him be a part of it with me; we could share experiences in conversation as well as in actuality. It was fun to go to shows together and I loved watching him work with Gus in class. He may not be able to work another papillon—which is one response to his loss—and it gives me a chance to dip into the other breeds that HE loves: big poodles, little dachshunds and to think about the way he trains and the temperament and height that might bring him a different kind of engagement than Gus did. Because on Gus’ terms…he would be damn nigh impossible to beat…or match.

There is always the prospect of another collie, a stellar match. Although I am partial to roughs, if it were up to me I’d go for a smooth tri…. because I like smoothes best as tris and because I find the rough coat a little overwhelming. But it wouldn’t be up to me.

snow storm

December 21 2009. the wind was blowing, the snow just kept coming; in the end we had about a foot. On this day we walked down to Gabriel Park for burritos.

missing gus

We’ve stepped into January; the snow melted and turned to rain and it just keeps coming. The yard is soupy and covered with fallen sticks and leaves and the general rot of winter in our moderate climate. Funny thing is that the papillons will go out in it…but Maudie has to be pushed…she just does not like to get wet…Whereas Flynn used to back up in horror at the sight of rain, she now goes mincing out to potty pretty easily; Sonny barrels out and then barrels back in. Maudie looks stricken….

Gus’s absence is strange and deep. There is a clear feeling of being one less; the hole he used to fill is fuzzy and large. I miss his feathery little body curled up next to me, his perfect silky coat cool white and coal black with rusty thumbprints on his brow and cheeks. I even miss that odd smell of metal and spit he gave off these last months. I miss the way he would dance around all bossy and excited to get a cookie or be told how fine and handsome he was while getting a back scratch. I miss the top of his head where the white hairs of his head mingled with the black, and instead of being clearly delineated, they meshed. I miss his upturned bridge and his tiny front teeth. I miss the way his front feet folded when he rolled on his back for a tummy scratch…the fur on his fragile forearm that seemed always to be growing back after being shaved, the bright pink or purple vet tape that held the gauze to the vein that had been punctured for a sample or a tube. The little brown map that was left on the gauze after the tape was rolled off. I even miss how quiet it is when I and the other 3 dogs go to bed. He would already be there with Mark and would get in a snit about us disturbing them.

It’s that physical absence of a dog that is so painful. The feel of them, the smell, the sound conjures tears and an ache of loss. Our relationships are so about being physical and close, touch and smell. We watch them poop, they follow us into the bathroom too. There is no shame; there is just a being in the world together. And when one is gone, certain ease goes with it…a dance partner has bowed out…a team member folded, a comforter gone cold.

...3rd dog...

Maudie is now the 3rd dog.
We lost our Gus Friday night... and the physical absence of him is heartbreaking. The grief overwhelming. Our neice, who was stranded at the airport Friday on her way back east from Reed College has come here to ride out the winter storm ....and I think her presence...which is soft, and smart and sweet has made it much easier, esp for Mark. But I, who stays up late into the night and haunts the places where Gus is not...I meet the rip in the fabric that is our life in this house without him... the silence without the flurry of barking when I and the other dogs would come in to bed at night, his sudden appearance at the door for a late night snack and a pee.
Now, it is 3 am on the first full night of this terrible knowledge; the wind is batting the trees around, tiny ice crystals fall onto the deep snow and I am tired.
Earlier today I wrote a kind of eulogy for him to send our family and friends. Then we took Maudie out for walk in the snow.

CH Ezee Butterfly Storm CD CGC...known to his friends as Gus.

Gus came to live with us in 2002 took one look at Mark and announced that he was "his man forever." While he finished his championship with his co-breeders, Karen and Steve Baird, Mark and Gus began a relationship characterized by a love and devotion that was moving to all who knew them. They ventured in to the world of obedience together and very quickly earned a CD. Their second qualifying score was earned under Judge Jill Jones who remarked that she had never seen a Novice A dog with such great off lead heeling. This, we understood, was evidence and illustration-of the bond between them.
Gus took it upon himself to be Mark's partner; he taught Mark how to train, he took care of him in the ring. Once the judge called left turn, Mark, with Novice A jitters, started to turn right, but Gus turned left and for a moment Mark heeled with HIM into the turn.

They had been training in Open and Utility when he died. Tuesday morning class with Ellie Wyckoff was a highlight of the week. They went a lot of places together, and even when it was to the hospital I think the experience was softened by the fact that they were together.

Gus was a very special dog. If he had been a person, he would've been a poet, sensitive as an ant's antennae, lovely as a monarch butterfly. To us he was the epitome of papillon beauty: graceful, a little willowy yet masculine,and with the unmistakable bright intelligence of the breed. He didn't have a coarse bone in his body yet he always struck me as much larger than he was. He was of a type that defied fashions and fads, not flashy, but balanced and elegant. And he loved to show off.

Always polite to everyone, there is a small group of people with whom Gus shared his heart. He continued to adore Karen, he loved Ellie and Steve and me. But he
was without doubt, a once in a lifetime dog for Mark. An irreplaceable force, a true true friend.

Fall

Things have been relatively quiet around here. In my research on seizures I discovered that there is a high success rate for melatonin given to dogs who have seizures in their sleep. So Maudie is getting 3mg at bedtime...

I've also been informed that the off-gassing of polyester, the waves sent by wireless computer, cell and land phones as well as the fall out from television may play a role in disturbed brain activity. I've been replacing Maude's beds with whole sheepskin, wool and all cotton. I'm not sure what to do about the wireless Internet we have; it's become such a staple of the household...but I am being more mindful of her space in relation to the use of the electronics.


People tell me their stories, 99% of which are sad sad stories and I have to keep telling myself that every dog is different and that she has me to look out for her. I come to understand more and more Keats' theory of negative capability not only as a poetic state of mind, but as a way of being in a world guided by change and uncertainty...It's a balancing act to stay grounded, to soldier on while acknowledging that the Mystery is All. To not pull back from love when loss shakes its finger at you.