Being predominately Aussie – smart, strong-willed – Dusty had to undergo obedience training with yours truly, though in the end, I think he came out ahead of me in that ‘un. Not too long after we got him, we discovered that the puppy had major hip dysplasia (probably the reason he was dumped by his original owners in the first place) which led to a pricey surgical procedure wherein the joints of his two hind leg bones were reshaped; it enhanced his ability to get around significantly, though in his final years he experienced arthritic pain and would regularly collapse on his hind legs. While his final years weren’t particularly active ones, there still were times most days when he displayed enough puppyish behavior to get us both thinking, “Yeah, we’ve still got some time with the old boy.”

But time’s not forever. Today, after a particularly hard night, I took the old dog in to be put down. It was a hard one for me to do because of all the pets we’ve had, Dusty has had the strongest connection; whenever I was home, he had to know where I was, keeping those striking eyes on me, herding me perhaps. All I know is I just loved to see him, and the feeling seemed mutual.

So I’m remembering Dusty now, those moments we spent together: the time in obedience training; the weekends at Bark Park, Bloomington, IL.’s then unofficial dog park; his role riding shotgun when we moved from Illinois to Arizona, sitting on the floor of the Budget rent-all truck looking up at me; our times out in the yard in Pima, chuckling over his geezerly attempts at “herding” two young non-compliant goats. “Now you know how I felt in obedience class,” I’d think. He could be a very protective pup; he wouldn't let any strangers cross the threshold of our front door unless we escorted them into the house; then he was fine with 'em.

In the end, he went quickly. At the vet's, I was warned that old dogs sometimes look like they're breathing even after they've passed; it can freak some owners out to see this, I'm told. Dusty went quickly and quietly: a sign, I think, that he was ready to let go.

And in the final end, this was the important thing: Ziggy Stardust was a damn good dog.

Labels: animal fare

“NOT ALL DOGS RETURN AS MEN, THEY SAY, ONLY THOSE WHO ARE READY.” As the companion to an elderly Australian Shepherd mix (Ziggy Stardust) who is at the stage in life when his hind legs regularly give out on him, I had some difficulty getting through the opening chapter of Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain (Harper). Narrated by Enzo, an aged mixed breed adopted by a young would-be race car driver named Denny, the book opens on the dog as he goes through his life one more time before leaving it. It is writer Stein’s conceit that Enzo, from his observant nature and time spent with Denny in front of the television, is a remarkably ruminative animal, capable of reflecting on the afterlife (no All Dogs Go to Heaven for this canine, more a steadfast belief in reincarnation) and opining on the greatest race car movies ever made.

As he watches Denny go through his life and life crises, Enzo alternates between personal reactions (initial jealousy, for instance, when Denny meets the woman he marries) and the philosophical. The latter is frequently expressed through metaphorical reflections on auto racing as first pontificated to Enzo by Denny -- and also through a memorable chapter where the driver takes the dog for a spin on Thunderhill Raceway Park -- and if a few of these words read more like the author’s than they do the dog’s, I was willing to go along with it.

This is one of those books that dog lovers give to other dog lovers to read, and I’ll admit to having been a little wary when one of my co-workers first offered me a copy. That initial chapter, as Enzo describes the pain brought on by a lifetime of the kind of hip problems that frequently plague big dogs, is real and emotional, letting the reader know that the writer isn’t going to back away from the hard parts of his characters’ lives. Throughout the course of the book, Enzo’s family experiences cancer, the devastating death of a loved one, a punishing child custody battle and trumped-up allegations that his owner is a sexual predator. That last almost pushed me out of the book -- a bit too melodramatic to these eyes -- though I was held by our narrator dog’s believable devotion and concern for his man.

In the end, though, I found The Art of Racing in the Rain difficult to put down once I got into Enzo’s life story. Most of us who live with animals have moments at our ebb when we look at our pet and know, at the very least, that they can sense we’re feeling down. Stein’s imminently readable novel takes that idea further and argues that our pets know so much more about us -- and still love us anyway. That’s a comforting thought, even if there are some things I’d rather not have Ziggy Stardust know about me.

(First published on Blogcritics.)

Labels: animal fare

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