He was a rake and a rambler from the day he first put a paw into this world. He rambled into our lives on a summer afternoon when we were visiting Joyce’s sister, Linda. Mandala and her cousins were out cycling the sidewalks; the cousins on bikes, Mandala on a Big Wheel. They chanced upon an engaging little pup who came bounding up to them, with a happy smile on his face, seemingly without a care in the world. Of course, he got pets and pats all around. He followed them back to Linda’s house. Mandala was charmed. We all were.
Bob had that effect on everyone he met.
He looked to be a mix of Husky, Collie, and Shepard, probably not more than a couple of weeks old. Did he have a family that was looking for him? Didn’t know. He had a collar, but no I.D. Mandala wanted to adopt him immediately. Joyce thought we should put an ad in the paper asking if anybody was missing a cute little pup of his description. We did. Weeks passed and nobody called. It was a relief to us all. He had already made himself part of the family.
Mandala and I named him, Bob, while setting on the back-porch steps of our old house on Gifford Avenue. Sometimes I called him Robert. Mandala thought I only did that to be funny. Many years later, Linda said she thought we chose that name in honor of her husband, Robert, because Bob, the dog, came into our lives at her house. That would have been a good reason, but it wasn’t the reason. Mandala just liked the name. So did I. But I also had another reason. Robert/Bob reminded me of my Grandad Bill, whose real name was Robert (Bob to his friends). Like our Bob, Grandad Bill was a rake and ramblin’ boy, too. I’m pretty sure he would have appreciated the comparison. Mandala and Joyce rarely called him Robert.
They didn’t call him Bob much either. To them, he was always, Bobby.
We soon found out how it happened that little Bob was out cruising on his own at such a young age. It was his nature. He thought of us as family, as we did him. We disagreed on the limits of our yard. Bob was convinced that the yard was a minimum of 25 square miles. He wandered off anytime he was outside without chain or leash. This happened most often when someone was coming or going through the front door. Bob would seize the opportunity, push his way out, and off he would go. He ran like a Husky. On one occasion, I followed in the car. When I caught up to him, I glanced at the speedometer. We were both cruising at 25 mph. I pulled ahead and opened the car door. He jumped right in. He loved riding almost as much as he loved running.
We put a phone number on his collar, along with his name and legal credentials. After that, when he went walkabout, we would get word of where. People would call to tell us they had our dog in their yard. Often, they would tell us they had put off calling for a while because their kids were having so much fun with Bob. Their yard might be 5 to 10 miles away. When I got there to pick him up, he would be frolicking with the family children in their backyard. As soon as I opened the car door he would hop in, beaming. I suspected he was thinking, “Oh! You should’a got here sooner, when they were throwin’ the Frisby”. Not a trace of guilt. Bob thought he had just gone next door. Maybe that, too, was the Husky part of his genetics.
If nobody called, he would come home on his own after a day or two, usually covered in mud, content, and very pleased with himself. A long nap would follow.
I don’t know what Bob thought about being chained when outside. It didn’t seem to trouble him. He was a skilled escape artist. How he did it I don’t know. He may even have considered the chain as a fun challenge, sort of a game. Once, when we went on vacation, we had to board him at a kennel. Upon our return, the folks at the kennel told us he had escaped into the larger enclosure by climbing a 10 ft. high cyclone fence.
They said he was a very sweet dog. Then, then asked us to not bring him back again. Often the police would bring him home. He was pals with the police. When they came to the door, they would say, “Bringing Bob back”. They never seemed to mind.
Bob had that effect on most folks. He was a charmer, much like my Grandad bill. Also like my Grandad bill, Bob never met a stranger. I sometimes thought that if we were ever burglarized, Bob would probably welcome the crooks in, and ask them if he could get them a beer or sandwich. Bob liked everybody.
Except other male dogs. These he would not tolerate. One day when Mandala got off the school bus, she was horrified to find Bob, still chained to his big doghouse, covered with blood, and with more blood and fur scattered all around. Fortunately, his wounds were few, and none too bad. I guess he won.
He did have an eye for the ladies.
Bob was one of the reasons for building our backyard deck. The deck is fairly large (12x26 ft). It’s attached to our dining room at the second floor. We thought it would allow space for Bob to be outside without a chain. There is a railing all around about 3 1/2 ft. tall. Horizontal boards overlap on either side of the posts. You cannot see through it. When we first let Bob out onto the deck, we were oblivious to two very important bits of information. Bob was only oblivious to one. We didn’t know there was a fetching little tart of a poodle in our backyard, and we didn’t know that Bob didn’t know that he was on the second floor. He came straight out the door and over the deck. We thought he was dead. We rushed to the rail. No Bob. Only his collar and credentials that had flown off upon impact. Glancing up, we could see the happy couple disappear over the horizon.
Days later, he was back, unharmed, tired and satisfied.
I took Bob back out on the deck, this time with a leash. I raised him to a two-legged stance so that he could rest his elbows on the railing. We moved around to each side of the deck. I wanted to convince Bob that even though it seemed like he was at ground level, he wasn’t. He got it. After that, there was no more jumping, and Bob enjoyed many days of unbound freedom on the deck.
Bob thought of Mandala as his sister, and Joyce as his mom. He loved tumbling around with Mandala, but he treated Joyce more as a child would treat a parent. When Mandala was still little and taking naps, she remembers Joyce would sometimes join her in napping. Then Bob would smoothly, “squeeeeeeze between me and Mom. Once, he slowly sqeeeeeeezed me right off the bed”. Mandala thought Bob was thinking to himself, “MY MAMA”, and laughing at his cleverness in dealing with the competition”.
A clear case of sibling rivalry.
When Bob thought it necessary to hide one of his bones, he would usually tuck it under Joyce’s pillow. What safer place could there be than under mom’s pillow? Joyce appreciated the honor. She knew the slimy bone was well intended. Bob was always well intended. At times, his canine notions of gracious behavior conflicted with human notions. Bob thought of himself as something of a lapdog. He would climb up on the laps of guests, this despite the fact that he was about 2 ½ ft. at the shoulder and weighed around 65 lbs. When asked, he would get off immediately. I don’t think he ever understood why there was a problem. He remained a puppy at heart.
Bob brought a lot of happiness to us. I’m sure we did the same for him. Even so, I was never fully sure that we were the only people who could make him happy. I think Bob would have done well with any family, wherever he went. Psychologists might describe Bob’s personality as, “Self-Actualizing". He didn’t require validation of his worth from anyone, animal or human. He was content within himself. He enjoyed pets and pats and attention. If they weren’t forthcoming, he would probably just shrug, and think, ”Oh well, I wonder what’s going on over the hill”? It may be that his ability to be content with himself made him appealing to all.
Because he didn’t need - he was happy to give.
I don’t remember him ever being sick. He was robust in body and mind; happy with everything. He ate whatever was placed before him. Except once. It was little bit of our take-out meal from a Chinese restaurant – shrimp, in clam sauce. Bob wouldn’t touch it. He wouldn’t even eat out of that bowl again, until I had thoroughly scrubbed away the offending odor.
In his elder years he did have a health problem, a mild stroke that left him with damaged use of one front leg. Fortunately, he could still walk, although stairs were difficult. His running days were over. He took it in stride, a sort of hesitant stride. Instead of lifting each foot he would slightly drag the bad foot. When he walked down the hardwood floor, his usual even cadence of clicks became syncopated; click, click, click - tick, click. He spent more time in the house, or on the deck. He adapted, and remained as cheerfully good-natured as ever.
We were blessed with Bob’s sweet company for some 14-plus years.
One day, he didn’t seem to be quite himself. Next day he was worse. Next day, worse yet. He couldn’t keep food down. He lost weight. He got thinner. He got weaker. He could barely stand. He was miserable. We took him to the Vet. The Vet recognized the problem. He said it was untreatable, and terminal.
He gave Bob a shot of something that he said would revive him for an unknown number of hours. He started recovering on the way home. Next morning, Bob seemed back to normal. Of course, he wasn’t. Sadly, both Joyce and Mandala were away from home that day. Joyce wasn’t home because of some ill-fated reason I can’t recall. Mandala was away at nearby Kent State College. I stayed with Bob.
By late-afternoon Bob was as miserable as before. Outside, it was pouring rain, and hot. I took Bob down to the garage. We sat together by the open garage door watching the rain. Despite the heat, Bob started shivering. I wrapped him in a blanket.
We sat awhile watching the rain. Suddenly, Bob looked straight into my eyes. Then he looked above and behind me. The light went out of his eyes.
He slumped and was gone.
I wrapped his body in the blanket that would now became his funeral shroud. I called Mandala at college. She rushed home. We buried Bob together, our tears mixed with the rain. When Joyce came home, there was nothing left to do or say. The sorrow never really went away.
What was Bob looking at? Are there dog angels?
Few souls deserved Heaven more than Bobby.
Bob
Thanks: To Mandala, for remembering correctly what I remembered wrong, and for remembering so much that I forgot.