Sherry on the Street

So, I ran into Sherry on the street corner today. It was a classic meeting, actually. I was coming one way, she was coming another, and two women—one walking a rather spritely basset hound and one a kind of bright-eyed collie-like friend—from the other two directions. We all ran into one another at the corner. The dogs tangled their leashes nicely, I saw Sherry, and then we were talking to one another, and to the collie-ish pup.

Sherry was Oz's dog sitter, and builds her life around dogs. She thinks nothing of having a house full of dogs, and grills chicken for her dogs literally every night.

I filled her in on Oz's last days, and she let me know one of her dogs had torn an ligament. She was pricing surgeries, and trying to decide…and the first five minutes, the black and white hound was pressing up against me, cuddling in against my legs, and, for reasons known only to dogs, smelling my keys. A few gentle licks landed on my chin.

It was nice, but kind of like…well, not getting what you want. He was a fine dog, and I was happy to charm and shelter him, but…yeah.

Greg

Changes, Changes

I started this blog because I wanted to share the stories of my wonderful W's with Oz. I came back to it because we've lost her, and I wanted to remember her. One of the things that’s common to both of these is change.

What was amazing about the W's is how they changed my world. I like to think I'm both open-minded and original in my thinking…but I fall into routines like anyone else. I move from point A to point B with a purpose, and that means I cut out the rest of the world that doesn't serve this purpose. I wear blinders, almost literally. Driving makes it worse. I take the same routes, much like others, because they are the fastest/most direct routes.

Well. With the pup we didn't do any of that. Oh, we had purposes, but they were varied, spontaneous, and visceral. That is to say, if we ___ a ____ that ____ good, we ___ after/toward it.

If we saw a duck that looked good, we swam after it.

If we smelled a path that looked fun, we pushed through the woods towards it.

If we heard a cat that sounded friendly, we meandered that way, even if it meant going around a corner.And so on.

And what's more, the world changes. Apparently, it changes even from morning to noon, with new smells, new tastes, etc. After a while I got so I'd spot some of these, even if they weren't the ones Oz was tracking. Hey, the sun's now making that spider web glisten! Hey, that flower that was half-closed is open now!

Hey!


Greg

Stealing Tug

So, for whatever reason, I was missing not just Oz yesterday, but Oz's friends. I got accustomed to going for W's in order to see these specific dogs. So…yesterday I went to see Jackson. I filled my pockets with bones and walked his way. However, I had forgotten that since it was a Sunday, his younger pack member Tug might be off leash. (He's usually not because he's so young and ready to run.)

I called Jacks once from three houses away—and Tug burst out of his garage like a cartoon race horse. Everything was flopping and he was insanely eager to see me. He skidded to a stop, big paws at my toes, nose on my ankles, hands, then in the left pocket left pocket left pocket HEY!

I got him back and down and pulled out the bag o treats. He sat immediately, if not neatly. (No one sits neatly with paws that size.)

Tug always acts starved. He's not. He gets fed well, gets real bones from the butcher, and can scam the neighbors half the time. But he does a good "God, I haven't eaten in days!" scam. When he catches a biscuit in mid-air, his jaws make an audible snapping sound.

So, I fed him for a while, then tried to take him home…only to find that his kids were on the front lawn crying (normal family squabble). But that meant that I either had to intrude on that or sneak away. I tried to sneak away…and Tug came with me.

I led him as far back as I could without getting involved. He came with. I gestured him on. He suddenly doesn't speak English. Or gesture. I try to sneak away. He's with me. I go back. He's with me. I gesture, miming throwing a biscuit. He fixed on the hand, and besides, knows there are more in the pocket.

He kept trying to lead me back to my house (he doesn't know Oz is gone) or into the woods, where we had a good run one time with Oz. Finally a neighbor helped us out, taking Tug home, but it was so tempting. And I have to say, he was being…understandably bad. Go home…to crying kids and being tied up? Or come with me, for W and maybe a run and the rest of the treats? Hmm. I know which one I'd choose.

Greg

They Don't Know

One of the bizarre advantages I had as an assistant dog was my nearly absolute ignorance. I really knew nothing about dogs. The first time we stopped so she could eat grass, I was baffled. When someone nearby called out, "Eating grass, huh? Well, you know what that means!"

Actually, I didn't. That meant when Oz finished with the grass, plopped down on her tail, and vomited, I was horrified. Dear god, what's wrong!

Apparently, nothing. Apparently, people who know dogs know that they sometimes eat grass to calm an upset stomach—and that they throw it up again. Who would have known?

What this meant, though, was that I was in a continual state of discovery. I never knew if they were dog things or Oz things. I would just make a little note: Oz doesn't mind the leash. Oz loves water, but hates slippery rocks. And so on.

One thing I noticed, though, was how poorly people who think they understand their dogs understand their dogs. To be blunt, they don't know jack about them.

I remember one time we were walking along a road in Sudden Valley. A door opened, and a woman came out with two large-ish dogs on leashes. We were just getting to that yard, and were on that side of the road. Oz wanted to say hi, but we didn't know the dogs, so I asked, "Should we cross the street?"

"Oh no," she said. "They're always friendly."

At that point, they both leapt at Oz, snarling. When they couldn't get to her, they looped back around their "owner," so that the woman's arms were folded around herself and she was essentially tied up with their leashes. They started dragging her toward us, but slowly, due to all the confusion. We left.

They're always friendly.

Riiight.

The First Dance

I mentioned the dance on the trail. It was the biggest dance, but it wasn't the first. The first dance came on a local walk in Sudden Valley. We'd walked uphill and across the flats, and were starting to wind down the curves of Sudden Valley Drive. We turned right into one of the many cul de sacs that mark the development, Indian Hills Road.

They were building new houses along Indian Hills. Now, Oz loved new construction. I was never fully sure why. Some of it seemed to be for purely doggy reasons: the new smells. Other parts, though, seemed Oz specific. She seemed to get a kick of returning to the new house day after day, seeing the house change under her paws.

So, when we saw building, we went to explore. As usual, we divided the labor. Her job was to smell; mine was to watch for nails and other pointy things. However, rather than pulling me into the house, which was largely framed, she pulled me to the steam shovel in the driveway. The day before, the driveway had been a flat dry spot. Now it was dug up and roughed in, and the steam shovel was clearly responsible. Half a load of dirt and rock still sat in its scoop, which was turned knuckle down to the earth like the hand of a giant ape. Oz pulled; we went to see it. Oz smelled all over the scoop, then walked back and forth under the bent arm, pulling me with her, bending and grumbling as I knocked my head on the rivets.

Then, as soon as we went back and forth a few times, she stopped and did her dance. Oz twirled in circles, reared up on her hind legs, threw herself diagonally, and lapped the air in pure joy. Oh, we went on—the treads of a steam shovel are covered with good smelly dirt, and the garage had new piping piled in one corner—but the steam shovel was clearly the highlight of the W. Why it pleased her so much to walk under construction equipment, I'll never know, but it was like being in Mike Mulligan's steam engine for a moment.

Ah!

The Greatest W Ever

Oz and I shared many great Ws. We had adventure Ws, pack Ws, exploration Ws, lick the baby Ws, etc. However, if I had to identify Oz's favorite W ever, it would be the deer trail walk.

We were still living in Sudden Valley. We had several routes we took fairly often. In one we'd go down to the bottom of the hill and turn left. We'd be on a fairly main road for Sudden Valley, but we'd turn off frequently onto side roads, depending on which one looked fun, which one we hadn't been on for a while, etc.

Many of these side roads ended in cul de sacs. Others came to explicit dead ends. This one sort of trailed off. The road ended, then there was just a bit of gravel, then a wide trail went on for about two yard lengths, then it narrowed to a game trail. There were no signs, but I'd guess they had planned to expand the road that way, then reconsidered.

In any case, we often went down this road, because that narrowing of the road led to some interesting places to explore. Many deer used the game trail, and there were often smells. However, we had never taken the game trail because it curved around the side of the hill, winding up hill and out of sight into the brush.

For the most part, that was fine. It meant Oz and I would weave through the bushes, under some low branches, and over a fallen tree, and go until the trail essentially vanished. Then we'd turn around and go back. No problem.

One day, however, Oz wanted to go on. This happened sometimes, and I never knew why. Perhaps the deer smell was fresh. Perhaps she just wanted to explore. Both happened. She pulled…and I gave in.

It was a gooey adventure. The trail vanished to the eye for a while, but was still visible to the nose…judging by the actions of my faithful companion. I know it was a game trail and not a human trail by the narrowness and irregularity. It wound around as the hill got steeper and steeper, until Oz and I were both sliding sideways down the hill from time to time. Our right paws were covered with mud, and my right shoe was twisting on my feet from all the sideways pressure. I doubt any other dog had even been on this trail, it was so much work. It was a deer only route.

Then it happened. There, on the side of the hill, Oz stopped going uphill and just started jumping up and down, a little dog dance of joy. She was wiggling, and kind of biting the air, and throwing herself from side to side (aiee!). Only the leash kept her from falling to, if not her death, at least serious injury. And she didn't care. There was something about being the first people on that trail that just filled her with joy, so much joy that she had to stop and dance right there in the mud and the shrubs.

And then we went on.

The First Lake W

I was a bit concerned when we moved into town. I wanted to, for my sake—the only thing the Sudden Valley location had going for it was the woods and wild W's. The roads were actually kind of dangerous at times, since they had no shoulder, no sidewalk, and at times blind curves. We jumped into countless ditches to keep from getting clipped.

Before we moved, Kathy and I did a lot of searching: where would the walking occur? We chose our current house for a lot of reasons, but one was that it was near good walk spots. The first night after we moved in, I decided to break Oz in. We got the leash, headed right, down the street, left on Euclid and toward Lakeway. We crossed and went on. Oz was happy enough, but then, Oz was a happy dog. I was trying to get a sense of if the park that we'd seen on the map was real, if there was an entrance, okay, there's nothing but trees on this side, how the heck do we get in? There!

A kind of muddy entrance way led to a trail. A trail led into the woods. The trail forked…and we followed the left fork to the lake. That first time, we walked there, because we were just in exploration mode. We were Going Someplace New, but not someplace specific yet. But Oz got to wade in the water that first night, and to scare a big flock of ducks, and she came back happy. How happy?

The next night, we headed out on our W…and she led me right, left, straight…and on to the park. When we got to the park, it wasn't "Which trail should we take?" It was "How fast can we get there?" We didn't walk, in other words. We ran, to a target of ducks and waves.

A new home.

The First Stick

From our old house in Sudden Valley, it was about 5 minutes walk up to Sudden Valley Drive. From there, it was about 2-3 minutes more up hill and around a corner to a little dead end street. No big deal, right?Well, it wasn't, at least until I figured out that what looked like a road that hadn't been finished (there, behind the dead end sign) was actually a paved walking trail. We snuck up, afraid that we were on private property (meaning, I was afraid), and went down the trail. A whole new area! Trails! More streets! No traffic!

We walked that route for some time before I notice one of the road side markers was different from the others, and more time still before I bent my head under the low hanging branches to check out why. There we found some older wooden steps. We tried them…they led to a "secret" pathway along a creek.
Oz was in Oz heaven. Exploring things, but also, water! She plunged in to the little creek, splashing around, biting the water, etc. I watched for a while, but honestly, I got a little bored. I picked up a stick and started waving it around…and all of a sudden Oz was crouching and growling.

"Jesus!" I said. I dropped the stick.
Oz picked it up, shook it back and forth to break its neck, and started biting and tearing it. She took it into the water, the better to kill it. She put a paw on the body of the stick, and tore her head sideways, as if ripping the head of the stick clear off. Then she let the pieces drop to spin in idle circles in the creek.

She slapped her paws on the water and barked. What's that Lassie? Timmy's in trouble? Screw Timmy! I want the stick! It was the first time I had seen Oz be so demanding, so aggressive, so mock violent. I checked to make sure I understood. I picked up another stick, but before I could ask "You want this?" she had already clamped down on it and started gnawing. Hell, yes, I want that.
Gnar!

The Celebrity Dog

Just as people say that you don't know what you got till it's gone (or maybe they sing that…), so you don't know what you have if it is the only one of its kind you've experienced. That was the case with me and Oz. At first, I just didn't know that people were paying special attention to her because she was special.

Let me make it clear: Oz was not a genius dog. I've met some pretty smart dogs. I met one dog down in Arizona whose owners couldn't say "Walk" around him, because he figured out what that meant. So they spelled it out. He figured that out.

They switched to Spanish. He figured that out.

They switched to spelling in Spanish. He figured that out.

At that point, the humans just accepted that their dog was always going to know what was going on, and moved forward from there. Oz's talents lay in other area, specifically joy and friendship.

When the little girls down the street started stopping their games to run up and pet Oz, I thought it was because they were so happy to see a dog. It took me months to realize they had a dog of their own in the back yard. They were running for Oz.

It should have been a clue, though, when the folks were standing up on their second story balcony having a beer and the wife said, "There's that wonderful dog. She's got such a charming face." And Oz pranced a little.

It was brought home, though, when Kathy and I went couch shopping. We were looking for something nice, but also something that would clean up pretty well. One of the saleswomen helping us said, "Aren't you the guy who walks Oz?" I blinked. She lived just a mile or so away, at a corner we always turned on some of the long W's. We chatted, and she pointed us to a couch that she noted would match Oz. That's confirmation: when the salespeople who don't know your name can match the color of your dog's fur, your dog is the celebrity, not you.

Greg

The Evolution of W

It really didn't take long for Oz to get back in training, and to move from panting a bit after 20+ minutes to wanting to Energizer bunny through the world: let's keep going, and going and going…

It took me a bit longer to become adventurous. Part of this was the location. Kathy had chosen the house out in Sudden Valley before we were together. I moved in not having really explored or investigated the community. As a result, I didn't have a good sense of how amazingly large it was, or that there were so many trails leading off the roads.

I also had only had dogs in my life when I was ten or younger, and when we were living in the country. That meant I didn't realize people expected you to clean up after your dog. In fact, I'd always thought people were a bit silly and overly fastidious, carrying poop bags around everywhere. Are you serious?

Apparently, they were. One time we went down a side street and Oz pooped on the gravel near the side of the road. The next day when we walked past, there was a cardboard sign asking people to pick up their dogs' poop. That was us. We did that.

In any case, there were these trails. I didn't know about them, so we were comically hesitant at first. We'd go a little ways down a trail, then I'd get concerned we were on private property and turn around. A day or two later I'd look at the trail again, and realize it really looks like it sees a lot of traffic, and we'd go a bit farther, and so on. Eventually, we got to the next stage: we go so far on the trail that we're hopelessly lost, and have to backtrack.

The roads in Sudden Valley bend, split, and change names so often that this happened on roads too. I'd end up reasoning through which yard gnome we'd seen before, which swing set we'd passed, etc.

What I didn't realize, though, was how as we were exploring the world, we were also marking it—becoming local minor celebrities, in our way. Well, at least Oz was.

Greg

From w to W

When I met Oz—right up until the last weeks, actually—she had great energy. She was an exceedingly playful dog. She loved to chase, to hide, to play tug of war, etc. In fact, those she was unfailingly loving about it, at times she'd get kind of tiring. It was almost a cliché: it's the end of the day, and I just want to sit down, but there's this jazzy dog running here and there and…yeah.

Well, Kathy took to watching The Dog Whisperer. Some of the shows were impressive, some were kind of crazy (you have how many dogs?), etc. Along the way, Cesar mentioned more than once that an unruly dog was usually acting up because he just didn't get enough exercise, and prescribed at least 45 minutes of walking a day.

Slowly the light dawned. I took Oz out morning, noon, afternoon, and night to pee, but we just did a few minutes walk. Maybe, I reasoned with ponderous stupidity, if she got longer walks she'd be more well-behaved in the evening.

Well, duh.

I can still remember the first W. We went up hill, like we usually did. We got to the flats, and to Sudden Valley Drive, where we usually turned around. That was five minutes there, five minutes back. Tonight, though, we crossed the street. We went up mysterious road beyond, and down the hill we hadn't ever crossed before. There were great houses, and odd side streets, and a park!

We didn't go more than 30 minutes total that night—probably 25-27, actually—but Oz was panting. That night she slept.

We'd won, but at what price? You see, Oz was a "We always…" dog, as in, when you do something once with her, she changed that to "We always do x" (play chase, sit here, share the hamburger, etc.). We got a happy, sleepy evening dog, but we also created a monster of W.

Greg

Hanging Up the Leash

I screwed a hook into the wall of my office yesterday, over in the corner. Then I hung Ozma's leash on it.

This leash has been through…well, let me look at it. It has knots in it, from when the boys would take Oz outside while they were working on their cars. They'd tie the leash to a post, so she could be there with them.

The leash has mud on it, from all of our many, many swims. It's ground into the fabric of the leash now.
And the leash is dark with dried blood at more than one place. The blood came from Oz's stubborn love. She liked to grab the leash in her mouth and run with it, so I'd come along. She kept doing this right up till the end, even when the tumor got so large that she couldn't eat. She'd clamp down on the leash and take a leap forward, then cut back to a kind of trot. We'd job along until she could get the leash situated very far forward (pressing against the canines), or very far back, almost closing off her throat.

I tried not letting her bite the leash. It saddened and confused her, and she'd bite it anyway, chasing it around my body till she could get it.

She didn't like the taste of blood. If we hit a hard bump and the leash pulled tight, abrading the tumor, she'd bleed a bit, and I'd see her licking and tasting around it. But she loved the leash, loved me, and loved the sense of connection she seemed to get from biting the leash.

When folks would see us like that, they'd call out something like "Hey! Are you walking her, or is she walking you?" We got that in a dozen neighborhoods, from a score of people. I always answered something like "Well, we're still trying to decide that."We still are. The leash is waiting.

Greg

connection

If I had to put my finger on the strangest thing I've learned through Oz's death, it's a recognition of how important a feeling of connection is, and how rare.

I felt connected to Oz. I still do (more on that later). However, I don't feel connected to most people. I don't dislike them, but there are people I've known for years with whom I've never felt the connection I felt with Oz.

Greg

Telling Friends

A couple of days ago I walked over to tell Ozma's dog friends what had happened. It felt very weird walking up there. I'd walked that five minute walk literally hundreds of times, but the only time I'd ever walked it alone was after returning a stray dog to his home.

People speak of phantom limbs. I felt a phantom leash that day, tugging at my hand in a gentle ghostly fashion.

When I got to two houses away, Jackson came running, barking like crazy. He wanted his treats, so I reached into my pockets and got him some bones. After he'd eaten five of them, and slobberstained my sleeve looking for more, he settled in for some loving. I petted him like crazy, and told him what had happened. I thought about stealing him.

There was no magical moment in which Jacks acted like he understood. I just petted him and longed for my puppy.

Greg

Traces and Reminders

I went to the vet's yesterday, to pick up Ozma's ashes. It was a relief to realize that they were so different from her that it wasn't painful. It wasn't anything, really, to pick up the box containing the little urn. However, while I was there they brought a dog out from the back rooms where they do the serious procedures.
The dog was older, and long-haired, and moving kind of slowly. As the tech brought him out, she explained that the signs had been a false alarm—that the condition they'd thought the dog had cleared up on its own, and they didn't need surgery. About that time, the dog caught sight of his human, and he dropped about half his age. He started jumping around and biting the leash, and I was suddenly crying and jealous.

When I got home, I was getting everything out of the car and I saw T. J. and Chris walking down the street. T. J. is a nice guy—younger, married, with a kid just old enough to go on his first trick or treat last night…barely. Chris is a loving butterball of a chocolate lab--and one of the best trained dogs I've ever met. When Oz and I would walk past their yard, if T.J. wasn't out, Chris, who was lying in the grass without leash or fence, would wag, and even look longingly at the door which led to T. J., but would never leave the yard alone.

And, true to form, yesterday I saw them and said, "Hi. Hi, Chris!" Chris squinted at me, then looked up at T.J. for permission. T. J. gave it, and Chris came bounding over to get his butt scratched. As his dog was loping over, T.J. called, "How's Oz?"

And I had to explain. And about cried in the street. And it goes on and on.

Greg