The Dog With the Old Soul (6 page)

E. G. Fabricant

Every dog deserves a boy, or two.

Smooth-haired and black and tan, Frank came to us—to my wife, my two boys, aged ten and approaching eight years, and me—in mid-1985, on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia.

His procurement process was equal parts evolutionary and deliberate. My wife, Geri, grew up with miniature dachshunds. I was a dog-deprived child, growing up in a family with eight children; we span twenty-one years from oldest to youngest. My parents’ patience with nonathletic, character-building activities—dancing lessons, music lessons and pet ownership—ran out with my next oldest brother. Their tolerance for dogs ran out even sooner. After four different dogs met with sad fates, my mother put her foot down when I was ten. Literally.

“God
damn
it, Frank!
I’m
not feeding, walking and cleaning up after any more
goddamned
dogs! That’s it!”

I remedied this childhood dog deprivation as a young adult, my wife and I rescuing first three shepherd-mix dogs and learning that I could deal with most low-to moderate-shedding dogs. When it came time to choose a family dog, I wasn’t sure which breed would work best. We were a family of four with a three-bedroom, detached Federal, and no one was home during school hours. We were two working parents and two pre-hormonal boys. The ideal candidate would be:

Short-haired;

Low maintenance;

Agreeable, but not overly needy;

Long-lived enough to stick around, God willing, at least until the boys finished high school and, preferably, college;

Small enough to (a) manage, um, input and output efficiently enough to foist that and other chores off on the boys, and (b) be unable to do much physical damage above baseboard level when left alone;

And large enough to fend off childhood diseases and to be willing to stand his/her own ground with the boys, as required.

Those considerations, along with Geri’s imprinted girl-hood bias, led us to a litter of mini doxie pups who, it was mutually assumed, were somewhere on the other side of the AKC tracks—hence, the asking price and lack of complications. Frank was the only one not fighting, frisking and falling all over his outsize feet in that six-week-old way. He sat apart, motionless, and never took his eyes off us. He embarrassed and intrigued us into taking him home.

Okay…about the name. I was against a precious, cutesy name for a small dog. My solution was a
double entendre,
played off the more familiar “wiener” or “weenie” dog, to wit, “Frank.” Geri agreed, but my self-satisfaction was short-lived. Not only did I have to explain its meaning, anyway, but friends familiar with my story would invariably ask, with Oedipal gravity, “Why did you name your dog after your father?”

Frank’s childhood was a little rocky, attributably mostly to human error—mine. To train him, I combined two crude concepts, “papers” and “outside,” and spread newspapers both on the kitchen floor and outside the entrances. Unable to catch him with an urge, I created “sessions.” Reaching what I thought to be a respectable interval, I’d take him outside, place him on the papers and wait expectantly. He’d park himself in the middle of the pulp and give me his most tolerant look, as if to say, “Okay, Chief. What’s next?” I would stand there in the cold and wet, knowing my family was watching with amusement through the window.

Eventually it all worked out, but this was a dog that wanted someone nearby at all times. Dachshunds are renowned for feeling separation anxiety and taking revenge, and if he felt abandoned, he would resort to his untrained puppy ways. We arranged for a pet sitter to look in on him while we went north to Delaware for Christmas break. On our return she sang his praises, took the check and left. It soon became plain that she’d left the door to the basement open, and he’d exploited that loophole; fortunately, the floor was vinyl tile. In the end, he swallowed his pride, to keep the peace, and trained us.

Frank did us the courtesy of respecting Geri and me as the general governing authority, in that order—mostly because she hoisted him onto our bed one night at his first plaintive puppy plea, which he seized upon as a
carte blanche
entitlement. The eventual compromise was between our California king and a folded quilt on the floor nearby, which we called “Flap.” He’d ask routinely for the first, but if ordered otherwise, he’d plod glumly away, ears down, as though wading through molasses—followed by a grand and deliberate show of bedding down on the Flap. (Dachshunds are instinctive burrowers, having been bred to hunt badgers, and they like to sleep covered. Before retiring, they find it necessary to fashion a trench in which to recline safely, so they scratch, dig and hump up their spines while imaginary dirt flies out from under their haunches. Robert Benchley observed that “a dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.” For pure amusement, then, this was a value-added service.) To this day, when one of us has difficulty getting settled, the other will bark out that command of yore, “Lie down and go to sleep, Frank!”

Befitting his species-neutral given name, Frank established himself quickly with the boys as “the other brother.” He was always available to them without condition or stint for real, adolescent play. To be sure, he enjoyed “fetch the ball” in that maddening, “I’ve got it now. Come get it, sucker!” dachshund way, but right from the start he was always “we,” not “they.” While he acquiesced to being a love object for us adults and extended family, including my “Auntie Mame” mother-in-law, Ginny, he was all about Trevor and Bevan to the end of his life.
In combat, they both did him the favor of shrieking and flopping around on the floor while he vanquished them at the wrist with his mouth.

Frank adapted himself to their disparate personalities. Trevor was his favorite family-room snuggle buddy because, unlike Bevan, he didn’t become so absorbed in MTV’s
The Real World
that he neglected his petting and treat obligations. Because he was generally more aggressive, Bevan had to be reminded on occasion of his size-ratio boundaries with a growl or nip. When they were out, Frank waited vigilantly at the front window for them to return. The boys took to calling him Ma Bell because from the shoulders up, with ears elevated, he looked like an antiquated telephone set.

Almost Zen-like in disposition, Frank was made anxious by only three things: going to the vet; fireworks; and water, whatever evil form it took. He handled doctor visits with Gandhi-like civil disobedience, having to be carried and manipulated by hand. We learned to avoid fireworks altogether after taking him with us to watch the legendary National Mall Independence Day celebration from across the Potomac, at the Pentagon, when he was just a year old. He was content in Geri’s lap until the first flash bang; then he disappeared—under her blouse. I remember her saying, “I think he’s trying to mate with my spine!” From then on, he stayed home. And water? Total freak-out. When the boys were sledding or tubing, he’d run alongside in full cry, biting at the carriage. If the boys were swimming, he’d circle the pool, shrieking and biting the water. The first and only time he encountered the Pacific Ocean, he alternated between
running away from the incoming surf and snapping at it on its way back. It was clear to him, and not lost on us, that we were being protected.

Frank never met a guest or a lap he couldn’t conquer, without so much as a bark or a whine—in large part because he could stare down the Sphinx without blinking. He’d confront his intended victim and, if not invited aboard immediately, settle in and engage for as long as it took. At their first encounter, my baby sister, Carol, was wary of Frank meeting her husband, Don. She revealed, “He doesn’t like whiny, yappy little dogs.” It was less than fifteen minutes, door to sofa, before Frank was inside his very happy new friend’s shirt.

In short, Frank was not just ours, he was
us,
in whatever incarnation required. He was embarrassed by the whole dog butt-sniffing ritual and considered other canines’ loud, energetic curiosity about him undignified. In fact, his only acknowledgment of another’s very existence was a cursory woof, uttered after that other creature was safely out of range. For fifteen years, until his brothers had graduated from college and it was the late summer of 2000, he was the perfect relative and ever-accommodating host. Bevan was competing in the Olympic trials, trying to win a spot in the sport he’d excelled in at college—decathlon. Dozens of family and friends passed through our house to offer encouragement. Frank was already in decline, and the sheer numbers of kneecaps and laps simply overwhelmed him.

On the day Geri and I carried him to the vet for his final injection, it was we who were anxious—upset and tearful. We
held and caressed him; as he sensed and yielded to the phenobarbital, he regarded us one last time with that calm, transcendent gaze. “Don’t grieve for me,” he seemed to say. “It was a good run, but it’s time for my karma to be reborn.”

Good boy, Frank.

Trina Drotar

I first saw the cat one late spring evening,
and he seemed to say, “I’m here, and if you can spare a bite to eat, I’d be most appreciative.” Of course, he didn’t speak those words. In fact, he didn’t meow or purr or make any other sound.

When I returned with a bowl of food, he stepped left into the hydrangeas and camellias. I waited for him to approach. He waited for me to leave. I went back inside and peeked at him through the peephole. He sat and ate without greed.

He returned several times, usually in the evening, over the next few weeks, and we formed a sort of dance. He always led. I’d step out, squat and speak to him before extending my hand. He’d take one step back, always remaining just out of arm’s reach.

I’d check each evening for Little Orange, calling his name, even though I wasn’t sure that he knew he had a name, much less what it was. I’d walk to the sidewalk, searching for him;
I’d sneak peeks through the front door peephole; and I’d even check the backyard. Days passed. I was called out of town for two weeks. The caretaker didn’t spot Little Orange.

Days and weeks passed, and then one sunny morning, when I pulled the blinds in the living room, I saw him sunning himself in the backyard. “Little Orange,” I yelled. I placed some food and water on the back patio. We danced. We kept that appropriate distance. He spent the better part of the day in the backyard, first in the grass, then under the azaleas near the fence. It was much cooler there, in the dirt, under the shade of the evergreens, the red maple and the Japanese maple. He left sometime before dinner.

I looked daily for him. Scanned both yards, looked up and down the street, called his name. I peered from behind curtains and through the peephole, but there was no sign of Little Orange. That was nearly two months ago.

About two weeks ago, on a Monday morning, when I was headed to the store, I saw an orange/yellow presence on the back patio. I ran to the door. The cat was limping, favoring the left side of his body. He was thin, much thinner than the cat I had danced with. I opened the door and went to him, forgetting that we’d never actually had physical contact. He turned his dirty head and hissed, but he didn’t run. I backed up, told him he was safe, and assured him that I’d return with food and water.

He hissed as I placed the bowls on the cement. He hissed again as I backed up. He wobbled to the bowls. He didn’t sit to eat, as he’d done before. He stood. I also stood as I watched him
eat all the kibble in the dish. I stood as he drank from the water bowl. I wept. Where had he been these past months?

“I need a towel and the cat carrier,” I said.

I waited until Little Orange had finished drinking before I approached with the towel. I figured that I’d wrap the towel around him in case he tried to bite or scratch. Just then, another stray entered the yard and a chase ensued. I screamed. I cried. I chased both cats. The other cat had been friendly toward me and had a companion, but I was worried about Little Orange.

Thinking they had both jumped the privacy fence, I ran to the front. One cat. Not Little Orange. I went back through the house to the backyard and spotted him. He ran with all that he had, hobbling and favoring that left side. He leapt at the back fence. I knew we’d lose him if he crossed it. He clung to the top, unable, or as I’d prefer to think, unwilling, to pull his body up and over. I placed the towel around him and brought his toweled body to the house. With my roommate’s help, I placed him in the carrier and closed it.

Whatever Little Orange had experienced, I’d never know, but his ordeal increased with the visit to the vet’s office where I’d taken my pets for more than two decades.

I’d advised the desk personnel that the cat was feral, that it was injured, and that it was undernourished and probably dehydrated. I gave his name as Little Orange and completed the necessary paperwork before being shown into an exam room. The tech opened the carrier; Little Orange popped his head out, eyes crusted black, burrs on his head; and the tech tipped the carrier. She didn’t want to handle this little cat. Still frightened
from the earlier chase, Little Orange fell from the exam table before my roommate or I could catch him. The tech simply stood. Little Orange scrambled for the door, hissing.

My roommate picked him up. The tech insisted on taking Little Orange to the back for the exam. We said we’d carry him.

“You’re not allowed back there,” the tech said.

In hindsight, we should have left then, but we were both exhausted. We allowed the tech to take Little Orange, and then we paced the exam room until the doctor appeared.

“That cat is out of control. He is an unneutered male, and he scratched me and tried to bite me,” she said and continued to call him everything except pure evil.

My roommate and I looked at one another. He’d never been that way, not even when I pulled him from the fence. The hissing, I knew, was his only defense. The doctor suggested this test or that test, but only after we badgered her. Her first suggestion was euthanization. Immediately.

“Can we be there?” I asked.

“Absolutely not,” she said, adding that she’d give him a sedative first.

“Absolutely not,” we said in unison.

We spent the next thirty minutes phoning a friend who works with feral cats, another who loves cats and yet another who is known for having a solid head. One said that we needed to have the basic tests for HIV and feline leukemia done. Those would inform our next step. The tests came back negative. Good news. One friend then suggested we take the cat to the SPCA for medical care.

The next step was a complete blood panel to rule out kidney and liver disease, which we would have the SPCA do. Another thirty minutes passed before we told the vet that we would take the cat to the SPCA. It took ten minutes for them to retrieve Little Orange.

“He’s much calmer,” the tech said.

We drove away, intent on going to the SPCA. Turned out that it was closed on Mondays. We took Little Orange home and quarantined him in the spare bathroom. We put blankets and towels down, a litter box, food and water. He didn’t jump out of the carrier, as my other cats always did. He remained there until later that night, when I tipped the carrier. I helped him onto the bed we’d made for him out of towels and blankets. Little Orange was covered with burrs.

We made additional calls that evening, with the intention of bringing him to the SPCA the next morning. One friend suggested we try her vet. I phoned Dr. K’s office the next morning. We took Little Orange to the office. He hissed once at Dr. K. After the exam, we asked about blood tests. He ordered the tests. He told us that the cat was very ill. He suggested fluids for Little Orange.

We took Little Orange home, his neck fuller because of the subcutaneous fluids he’d received. He licked my finger clean of the canned food I offered and let me know when he was full. We purchased additional bedding for him.

Partial test results that evening indicated no kidney or liver problems. That, combined with the doctor’s proclamation that Little Orange had a strong heart and strong lungs, gave us
hope. With fluids, food, rest and safety, he’d grow stronger, like another cat I’d rescued several years earlier.

For the next few days, we changed his bedding at least twice daily, fed him by hand and checked on him. When he refused the cat food, we searched for something different. We brought home baby food instead. Beef and beef gravy had the highest iron count. Dr. K’s main concern was Little Orange’s anemia. His red blood cells were not being replenished. Dr. K indicated that the anemia went beyond the cat’s flea infestation. We purchased flea medicine and applied it to his already ravaged body. Flea dirt, we soon discovered, covered nearly every part of his tiny body. He’d likely been lying in the brush for a long time. There fleas had set up house and multiplied and used the already weak cat for their own nourishment and procreation.

On Wednesday I thought he’d died on the trip from Dr. K’s office. Little Orange lived. I moved him onto the bedding when we got home. That was the day I began stroking his body. I’d touched his head a couple of times. He’d flinched. He seemed to enjoy the stroking of his fur. I began, also, to cut away the burrs that had wedged their way into his fur.

Thursday seemed to mark a turning point. He raised his head and turned toward the bathroom door. Three times. The baby food, which he continued to lick from my finger, but only after sniffing it each and every time, and the subcutaneous fluids seemed to be working. We had been prepared to take him to the vet that morning. He wasn’t ready.

I spent nearly every day, nearly every waking hour with Little Orange during that week. I brushed his fur with an old
soft-bristle pet brush. He purred. I doubted that Little Orange had ever been touched by a human, ever been brushed, ever been held. When I changed his bedding, I held him. I pulled his frail, limp body close to mine so that he might feel my warmth and my heart.

Friday brought another injection of fluids. Dr. K reminded us that the office was open Saturdays in case we needed anything. Although there’d been indications throughout the week that Little Orange was getting stronger, Dr. K told us there might be some brain or spinal cord injury, things only specialists could diagnose. Dr. K never once treated Little Orange as a feral—only as our pet. He suggested a cortisone shot, saying that the shot was usually recommended by specialists.

We returned home, and I spent most of Friday with him, brushing him and trying to feed him, changing his wet bedding, removing burrs from all parts of his body. He needed to retain some of the dignity he had exhibited when he came to us. As much dignity as a cat unable to stand on its own could.

Little Orange, or Orange, as we affectionately called the peaceful orange/yellow tabby, refused to eat late Friday night. That refusal continued through Saturday morning. He refused to drink. He was unable to lift his head, his torso or his limbs. I held him, cried, told him that we loved him. He demanded nothing. He never fought.

We agreed that only Dr. K could tend to Orange. The office was officially closed when we arrived, but Dr. K ushered us in. I cried tears for Little Orange, for the life he had never had the chance to experience, for the love we’d shown him, for the other
cats who had entered and left my life, and for me. I wanted to save him, wanted him to grow stronger. After all, he had strong lungs and a strong heart, and his kidneys and liver and pancreas were healthy. Years ago, a doctor told me that I’d know when the end was near.

I held Little Orange in my arms as I carried him to the exam room. Dr. K examined him again, said this was best. My roommate and I stroked Little Orange. He never convulsed.

We wrapped his body, blessed him and placed him in a hole we’d dug in front of the azaleas, under the Japanese maple, shaded by the red maple, near the spot he’d rested two months earlier. We marked the spot with a white fence, autumn leaves and a ceramic garden hummingbird.