dogs

Who Knows What Tomorrow Holds?

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Blogger’s Note: This is a more accurate account of the day the neighbor’s wolf-dog came to visit Boomer and me — much fresher than this one. It originally ran as a column in The Pioneer daily newspaper on Dec. 30, 1997.

It’s been one of those days.

It hasn’t really — “one of those days” implies I’ve had a day like this before, and with enough regularity to refer to it as commonplace, with a cliche.

This day has been like no other in my life.

I rolled in from work at about 1 a.m. Monday morning, a full hour later than one should if Monday’s paper goes together without a hitch. I can’t say just what the problem was Sunday night — computers crash; no one can say just why.

I stumbled through the house without turning on the lights, so as not to disturb our sleeping guests; went to the fridge and pulled out my lunch, which I had forgotten to bring to work, and sat down on the bed beside Jodi to eat.

The clock read 1:30 or so when two shepherd-looking puppies one house to the west began yipping like a pack of coyotes. I hollered once out the back door, and they stopped — briefly. About quarter to two, just after I’d finished eating and gotten comfortable, they started in again; I found myself standing in the snow in shorts and a t-shirt yelling into the black: “Shaddap!”

They did so.

Brendan woke up screaming sometime around three; he was wet through and hungry. The blanket was soaked, his bed was soaked — Jodi asked me to bring him in wet so she could feed him immediately, again to avoid disturbing our guests’ slumber.

Brendan would have none of it — he’s quite particular, our son — so we changed him, head to toe. Jodi fed him, then, and I stripped the bed, tripped down to the basement to gather clean bedding from the dryer, and remade the crib.

Brendan fell asleep beside his mother.

He woke again with the sun, hungry, and Jodi fed him. Her mother — bless her heart — got up and took him from Jodi so we could both get some sleep. I came to around 9:45, remembering my folks were expecting us all for lunch and that I had a dog to feed and a column to write before I could begin paginating Tuesday’s news. I got up.

I turned Boomer loose when I went out to feed him, and as I bent to scoop ice from his water dish, I heard snarling behind me. I turned to find Boomer standing between me and a wolf-dog (more wolf than dog) from two trailers to the east. I was scared, as one might be when one finds a wolf behind him, snarling at his dog. I stepped out of the kennel (Fool!) and told Boomer to kennel up; the wolf loped off toward his trailer, watching me over his shoulder.

I went inside to call my neighbor, the wolf’s master, to let him know his dog was loose and thus attempt to stay on good terms. No listing, and no answer at his mom’s house. Jodi’s dad told me the wolf had come at a run while I was bent over, not looking — I reluctantly called animal control to talk with the owner and possibly catch the wolf.

Jodi and her family left for my parents’ house, and I waited for animal control. I finally left for my parents’, only to get stuck a short way from my house.

I arrived at Mom and Dad’s just in time to eat and head to work for the evening. Jodi’s sister leaves tomorrow morning; it’ll be months before we see her again.

Ah, well — tomorrow is another day, and time to try again.

Tomorrow is another day, and Thursday is another year — both tailor-made for fresh starts and new beginnings. Who knows what either holds? Who knew what Monday would bring, or the day before or this waning year?

I have only to look at yesterday and this past year to witness new beginnings — a new state, new jobs, a new house, a new baby.

The job that keeps me away at night allows me to write this column and pay for our house — who knew yesterday that I’d have a column and we’d have a house? The house that keeps me busy with neighbors, shepherd puppies and wolf-dogs keeps our family and guests warm and secure, and the son that keeps us awake at night has brought more joy than the sweetest dreams. Would I trade him and the house away to rid myself of sleepless nights and fear of wolves? Not on your life.

Tomorrow is another day — who knows what may come?

Who knew a wolf might interrupt dinner?

Good Dog

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Our 15-year-old Airedale, Boomer, died on Thursday afternoon, June 25, 2009. At his age, it was not unexpected, but still a surprise, if that makes sense. We were slated to leave for South Dakota in a couple of hours, and found him lying in the back yard, in the the shade. He is missed, and so many people commented on my Facebook notice that I thought I should share a little more about him.

* * * * *

My folks started raising Airedales about the time I entered sixth grade. As a teenager, I rode to Tennessee with my folks to pick up a couple of female pups, big-boned hunting-type Airedales called Oorangs, and rode back to Michigan with the two of them chewing on my stocking feet. Seems like maybe I put some money toward them; regardless, my name was on the papers, and I got to name them. The chewing-est one I called Thorp’s Oorang Patchmaker, or Patches, and the curlier of the two, Thorp’s Oorang Ragtop, or Rags.

Boomer came along a few years later. I’ll have to dig out his papers and check, but I’m pretty sure Rags was his mother. His father was a big, matted mess of dog when we got him from some farm in Michigan. Master MacDuff, as he was called, was the biggest Airedale I’d ever seen, and his hair was so long and matted from lack of grooming that he looked like he had dreadlocks. The folks who had him turned him loose, and he tore around the yard like a mad man until Dad told me to step away from the grown men and crouch down. No sooner had I done it, then Duff slowed to a trot and came straight to me. He was a big, gentle, personable dog — a suitable precursor to his son.

Boomer was the biggest pup of the litter, with massive paws he used to swat and stomp his siblings: BOOM! His mother and aunt were tempermental gals, so when we decided to keep him as a stud dog and find new homes for them, we named him Thorp’s BoomOorang, or Boomer.

* * * * *

To my knowledge, the only thing Boomer was ever afraid of was explosive noises — gunshots, fireworks, and thunderstorms would send him to the deepest recesses of his dog house. He was housebroken as a pup, but never took to indoor living, and would get extremely nervous indoors. When Jodi and I first married and took him to South Dakota with us, we spent our first blizzard worried that the 65-degrees-below wind chills would be the death of him. We had rented a pet-friendly duplex — the upstairs of a drafty old two-story. You entered through an enclosed stairway up the back of the house, and a little old lady and her chihuahua lived downstairs.

The first day of the blizzard, we put Boomer in the stairwell to get him out of the weather. When we came home from work, our downstairs neighbor told us he had barked nonstop most of the day. When we went upstairs, we found he had made several messes and shredded a 50-pound bag of dog food.

I called Dad for advice, since it was clear we couldn’t leave him inside again. Dad said Boomer had stayed outside in Michigan on nights as cold as 35 below, and that as long as he had a windproof house and plenty of bedding, he’s be fine outside.

I had my doubts, but put a door flap on his house and filled it half full of cedar shavings. The next morning, I said a prayer and went to work.

When I got home, I found Boomer lying on the yard, the snow drifting over his back, head high, ears up, watching the chickadees flit amongst the leafless hedges. He refused to go into his house until I removed the flap so he could see out. Then he used his great paws to scoop nearly all of the cedar shavings out into the snow. Satisfied, he laid down on the hard floor — and until about three years ago, shunned almost all creature comforts in his kennel or dog house.

* * * * *

As I said, aside from loud and sudden noises, Boomer was fearless and proud, moving around his domain in a loose jog and often parading along the borders of the yard with a bone in his jaws to make the neighbor dogs jealous.

In Michigan, our neighbor dogs were part wolf — the female was about half wolf; the male was 80+ percent wolf, weighed close to 100 pounds and was kept on a heavy chain within a high fenced kennel. And one Thanksgiving Day, he got loose.

I was bent over in Boomer’s kennel, busting ice from his water dish while he made the rounds of the back yard. I heard a low growl behind me and turned to see Boomer, moving in his loose jog, toward a dark wolfish creature nearly twice his size who was staring in my direction. Boomer never broke stride, even when the wolf-dog turned its yellow eyes to him. The wolf hesitated, then turned and loped off.

Blogger’s Addendum: Busia (my mom; Polish for “grandma”) graciously clipped, copied and bound all my columns from my newspaper days in the mid- and late-90s, and Grandma Venjohn wisely kept them where she could find them. As a result, I’ve posted a more accurate account of this episode here. For one thing, it wasn’t Thanksgiving at all …

* * * * *

I’ve written about the Old Man many times over the years, and posted some of those writings. You can find them here:

* * * * *

A bit of shared humor from Boomer’s death date: when Jodi called the veterinarian to find out exactly what to do with a deceased pet when you live in town,* the receptionist kindly informed her, “You can bring him here — a mass burial is $36, or you can have him cremated for $74, or have him cremated and get his remains for $164.”

In the few seconds it took Jodi to process what was said, she thought, Why is a burial mass the cheapest option? And how do they know we’re Catholic? In her defense, when she relayed the options to me, I thought the same thing …

Goodbye, Old Man. Good dog, Boomer. Good dog.

* * * * *

*When you live in the country, pet “funerals” are simpler affairs conducted on your own place.

Like Cats and Dogs

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Blogger’s Note: This column originally appeared in The Pioneer daily newspaper, Big Rapids, Mich., March 10, 1998. The “incident” happened in Winter 1996-97. Our friend T at Holy Guacamole asked me to share this story awhile back, and I finally dug it back up …

Last year at this time Jodi and I were finishing up our lease of the second floor of an old town house in Canton, S.D.

Canton was the kind of little town that could charm you out of your boots and hat and make you stay awhile — Norman Rockwell painted pictures of towns like Canton.

We rolled into Canton one evening in September, just as the sun was setting, to take a look at an affordable duplex in town. “Turn left just past the courthouse,” the landlord has told us, and we did. The courthouse was a big stone building three stories tall with a clock tower, and a working, illuminated clock face on all four sides. It sat alone in the middle of a block-square patch of lawn, with green shrubs and plants surrounding.

The next block north was home to the city park and library, and our house was on the next block, kitty-corner from the Lutheran church. The church was another tall, stone building, with bells that rang every hour into the evening.

The apartment was nice enough — two bedrooms, high ceilings and huge, drafty windows. It was newly painted and carpeted, and quickly, by the looks — still it was our first place, and homey enough.

Besides, we had a view of the clock tower, and an ear for bells.

The town was also home to a couple of antique shops, a decent hardware store, and the Black Angus, a bar and restaurant that served good steaks, prime rib and pork chops, and had a good selection of imports and regional brews for a town its size. They served them all capped with olives. (The olives were to kill the “beer taste.” I always ordered sans olive — if you don’t like the taste of hops, save your money and buy domestic.)

It was at this time last year, it that charming little town a stone’s-throw west of Iowa, that I became known as the “new guy with the cat-killin’ dog.”

Boomer lived out back beneath a big black walnut tree — in a doghouse with a carpet-scrap door, a 15-foot chain, two dishes and a rawhide chew bone. The doghouse was tucked neatly beside an old garage used by the landlord for storage and by a few mangy stray cats for shelter. The cats came around less once Boomer arrived.

Boomer’s a big dog, and living in town on the end of a chain was no easy thing. Stray dogs would come and steal his bone, and squirrels would scold him from the neighbors’ yards. His best opportunity for exercise was on the end of a leash; invariably we’d spook a rabbit on the courthouse lawn, and he’d nearly choke himself to give chase.

I was very careful, when I brought Boomer west, to be sure he was properly vaccinated and licensed to avoid any problems should he get in loose in town.

And one night, he did.

I went out after supper to give him some scraps. I called him — “Hey Boomer!” — and got no response.

Usually he’d be lying in the snow until well into the evening, watching the house for signs of table scraps or an evening walk. He didn’t normally retire to his house until late — the flap over the door didn’t offer much of a view.

I stomped a path through the snow until I noticed Boomer’s chain in a tight ball at the base of the tree. The last link was stretched out straight, and Boomer was nowhere in sight.

The chain was bunched up as though it had snapped back after some great and sudden stress, and Boomer’s tracks lead up the driveway, six feet to a bound.

I made my way past the old sedan our downstairs neighbor drove and found a huge orange tomcat lying dead in the drive, smelling strongly musky, and still warm.

I scooped up the cat and spread fresh white snow over the red, then Jodi and I searched for Boomer, she in her car and I on foot.

I followed the sounds of barking dogs and the jingle of dog-tags and chain to him, and led him home. His nose was bitten, scratched and bloodied, and he reeked of tomcat for days afterward.

Two days later, we got a phone call from a little old lady a few doors down. I had told our downstairs neighbor about the cat, so she wouldn’t be alarmed if she uncovered bloody snow on the driveway, and she had told the ladies in her church group, one of whom had been feeding the big stray tom.

I called her, figuring it was the neighborly thing to do, and she explained that while the cat was, in fact, a stray, she had hoped to take him in.

“What about my other cats?” she asked. “I let them out from time to time — they’re bound to roam …”

“What about our children?”

I did not mention the origin of the phrase “fight like cats and dogs.” I did my best, instead, to explain that although Boomer had broken his chain to get to the old tom, and although he did, in fact, kill the cat quicker than it could run up the driveway, he was not a blood-thirsty animal and had never acted aggressively toward adults or children. (Secretly, I was a tiny bit proud — Airedales are known for their hunting prowess, and he’d never acted aggressively toward anything before.)

We finished the conversation cordially enough … after I agreed to her demand that I report the “incident” to the sheriff.

A deputy came by to pick up the cat and meet Boomer, and, satisfied that he was not otherwise dangerous, left, saying only that there were no laws against cats roaming in town, but that there were also no laws against the killing of a cat by a dog on the dog’s own yard.

“Now, if he runs down the street and kills a cat in your neighbor’s yard, then we’ve got a problem,” he said.

We had no further complaints from the neighbors and heard nothing of any other cats killed that night, perhaps because a big dog with tags and chains jingling and reeking of tomcat is not so hard to avoid. At any rate, I figured we were safe.

Even so, as might be expected with old ladies and church groups, the news of Boomer’s ferocity toward felines traveled quickly, and his reputation followed us wherever in town we went. I could almost feel the eyes watching us over a sinkful of dinner dishes. The cats knew, too; they would sit glaring at us from porches and beneath shrubs, but would come no closer.

A week or two ago, the postal service forwarded a postcard from the vet in Canton to our home in Mecosta. Boomer is due for his shots and license again.

And, it seems likely, the old ladies in Canton are still on the lookout for the new guy with the cat-killin’ dog.

Restless Morning

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I’ve worked from home the last two days. It’s quality quiet time, uninterrupted save for shepherding Boomer in and out from his corner of the garage to his kennel in the bitter cold.

My office doubles as our laundry room, or perhaps it’s the other way around. The floor is cold concrete, and try as I might, today I cannot warm my toes. So I take a break from speech-writing to stand near the fireplace and look out the glass doors on the back yard.

The heat from the fire brings warms my shins to what feels like an orange glow. A fat gray squirrel hangs bat-like by his hind feet from the bird-feeder, stealing suet and seed meant for chickadees, nuthatches and woodpeckers from a hanging wire basket. Another bounds through the spruces, sending plumes of powder tumbling down.

Our ancient Airedale Boomer has slept in his dog house most of daylight hours. Now he sits outside, in the snow, watching the trees and sifting the cold breeze with his great black nose. The squirrels escape his notice — sight and sound fail him, and the air is perhaps too dry for scent. He sits stock-still a moment, then turns his palsied head toward the house, directly toward the door — sniffs visibly but makes no sound, then turns his attention back to the trees nearest him. I watch; periodically he turns, looking as though he sees me — but I know he can’t, and he makes no sound. The brilliant cold is rejuvenating and deadly; between the trees and the house, he seems to weigh the consequences. I’ll wait until he barks to bring him in, not out of laziness, but out of mercy to his failing pride.

I should return to work. My shins feel like they’re crisping, but my toes have yet to thaw. I turn away from the glass. Puck sleeps in a tight circle at the end of the futon. This morning our manic Schnauzer is the only one not restless.

Winter Wanderings

/ J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Blogger’s Note: Haven’t blogged so much lately. Crazy busy, plus lots of little things to say, but rarely a post-worth. So how ’bout a collection of random bits from the season so far?

It’s been cold this winter. At least, it’s felt that way to me. I can just about tell the temperature by the feel of my whiskersicles. Temps fall into the single digits; I get ice forming in my goatee. Below zero, and they form in my mustache, too — provided my nostrils don’t stick shut first, or the wind doesn’t require me to suck wind in gulping gasps between gusts or cover my face.

One morning last year, it was cold enough that my facial hair simply went white, less condensed and frozen water droplets than flat-out frost. My reflection in the window of Morrill Hall’s side door gave me a glimpse of a white-bearded future. Nothing that bad yet this year.

* * * * *

Boomer’s doing better this winter than last, but it’s hard. Some nights he wants to sleep in his kennel; some nights, in the garage. We bought the old boy a dog bed for the garage, but he lays on the hard floor instead, using the bed like a pillow for his chin.

His preference for the kennel versus the garage doesn’t correspond to temperature. The coldest night in recent weeks, he returned to his kennel in the evening, and slept like a stone all night and well into the morning. When he hadn’t emerged from his house by mid-morning, I went out to check, bracing for the worst. I could see him curled in his house. The thick hair on his back was coated in frost, and I couldn’t see him breathing … no, wait! One long sighing breath, in and out, then nothing for five seconds or so, then another.

A couple hours later, he was awake, barking at the house for a biscuit and some warm water.

* * * * *

In the run-up to Christmas (and the Winter Break on campus), it was lovely to leave Morrill at the end of the day, and see snow swirling about the columns of Northrop Auditorium. My path to the parking ramp took me across a plaza adorned with hardy little maples strung with white lights, and the nights were so silent.

A block further, you’d begin to hear what sounded like music. Another half block, and the music was clearly holiday in nature. Then it came into view: the Beta house, I think, strung with lights that flashed on and off like keys of a great and colorful piano, in time with the rhythm and melody of familiar holiday instrumentals, which were being piped to all and sundry through loudspeakers.

My first reaction was mild annoyance; I’d been enjoying the silence. But the spectacle was well done, and now, with the students gone and the lights hanging dim; the house, silent, it doesn’t seem so bad at all.

* * * * *

The post-holiday clean-up has been slow, in part because the kids seem to be getting sick in circles. Maybe this weekend we can regain our home. At least the lights are mostly down, and the sweets, mostly gone. I still feel overstuffed somehow.

* * * * *

The moon seems so far off in winter, a bare bulb in a high, lonely window. I remember an old farmhouse set back from the road near where I grew up. The brush encroached on the two-track driveway, and the grass grew high around the foundation. I never saw a vehicle, a puff of smoke from the chimney, or a living soul there in all my years … but once I saw a light in the upstairs window. It seemed so cold that evening, too.

* * * * *

Blogger’s Addendum: When I posted this initially, that last two lines read, “I never saw a vehicle, a puff of smoke from the chimney, or a living soul there in all my years … but once I was a light in the upstairs window. It seemed so cold that evening, too.” That was a typo — I meant “saw” — but metaphorically, it worked that way, too.