One of my favorite dog friends passed last week. His name was Yoda. He was ten.
We met a decade ago, on Thanksgiving. He was hidden in the fist of one of my California pals--his "adopted mother".
"Hey Minnsie, look what I've got!" Wendy held out a tiny furred creature for my inspection.
(As she and her room-mates had always had assorted caged animals, I assumed it was another rat baby or a hamster.)
She put the wee thing into my palm.
"It's a dog! A mini Mexican hairless!" Wendy chuckled at my disbelief.
"Look, no way is this a real dog..." I held the trembly dustball under the porchlight.
"His name is Yoda, for obvious reasons!" Wendy opened the screendoor to the party.
Inside, her other two tiny pooches scampered about the guests, tugging on people's pant hems or rough housing with each other. I passed Yoda back to Wendy, afraid he would break in my fingers. She laughed, placing him on the floor with Morgana and Isis. Immediately, he bolted to the nearest human's foot and clung for dear life.
Isis made a lunge, rolling the tinier pup under the couch. Gamely he emerged, but made another dash for the nearest human sneaker.
"Wendy, they are going to kill him!" I picked Yoda up, terrified.
"No way. He's a scrapper. Besides, we want him to grow up and hold his own in this household of women!" Wendy toasted the puppy with warm cider.
Unsure of the wisdom of this approach, I cuddled the little guy off and on the entire evening.
We bonded that night.
Later, before walking me to my truck, Wendy stopped in her bedroom.
"I have to get Yoda's sweater--it's freezing out there!"
It was. Yoda had no fur--just this almost invisible fuzz--like a cheap Bobble-head. (It gets cold by the Pacific Ocean at night, especially in late November.) I waited patiently, trying not to yawn, as several party guests filed past me, into the cool street.
Wendy finally emerged carrying an infant's sock. (About an inch and half, trimmed in blue.) She proceeded to cut little holes the size of dimes on either side of the "foot" area and then took off the entire toe. This ragged "hoody" she pulled over Yoda's strawberry-sized head.
"Okay, he's ready to walk you to your truck!"
Over the years, I would spend many more holiday parties with Wendy and the gang. Always, Yoda ruled. Not only did he enjoy entertaining, he had indeed toughened up, taking no guff from the other dogs--or the newest family members--cats! The only beings he seemed to have a problem with were strange guys who came by and were "unknowns". (Friends dropping in for the first time, whom he did not recognize.) Unfortunately for these guys--and it was always guys--their first instinct was to pick Yoda up off his throne position on the couch (a big mistake) and begin to scream at him as if he were hard of hearing. (Yoda had fine hearing. Yoda didn't like being picked up off his regular position of authority). Before Wendy could warn the men, inevitably, someone would have their nose almost shoved against Yoda's nose--while talking loudly enough to be heard outside on the patio.
Yoda would do what I would have done: he took a bite.
Of course there would be hollaring and jumping around and male screams. Rarely was blood drawn...well, maybe twice...but whomever got the warning never forgot. Yoda,even if he were dropped roughly, would shake himself free of bad karma and return to his post on the couch.
He was indeed, a wise old soul. (For some: a crabby one.)
Whenever I would drop by, whether babysitting the gang of little dogs or simply stopping to hang with friends, Yoda would leap into my lap before the other dogs, demanding I pay absolute attention to him. He would snarl, snap, yelp and howl if any of the "girls" tried to beat him to that spot. All I could do was pat him and laugh.
Still almost bald, with a kind of wee-dog "limp" of the Mexican hairless kind, his skull bulging with brains and machismo, Yoda was--Yoda.
I was so sad when his "mother" called to inform me of his passing.
He had not aged well in these last years, though his care was first rate. His back finally gave out. His bones were full of doggie arthritis. His eyes and ears were the eyes and ears of an old, old man. He was asking to go with dignity.
Wendy, the ever loving caretaker, made the heart-breaking decision and was with him, in the end. But not before she threw a going- away- party for him, the day before, so all his California pals, both doggie and human, might say good-bye and pay their respects.
I'm told Yoda loved it, but was ready.
He knew.
He always knew.
People who follow metaphysics in every form,(at least some of them) say that dogs are meant to break our hearts from the start. We know they will be with us only a short time, and yet, they command our total love. Ask for our commitment. If one passes, they go on to a big cauldron of doggie spirits and then come back...they don't become human...they are dogs...Sometimes they get a long rest between assignments...sometimes it is shorter. The metaphysicians who speak of such things say that if one wants their doggie back, and their dog chooses to come back right away, to look into the eyes of puppies within sixty days of the dog's death--and you will possibly find the dog.
Or, you can release them and thank them for the time you did spend together.
I wonder, and sort of hope, that it is up to the canine...
Vaya con Dios, Yoda.
I would have gone to your party.
We met a decade ago, on Thanksgiving. He was hidden in the fist of one of my California pals--his "adopted mother".
"Hey Minnsie, look what I've got!" Wendy held out a tiny furred creature for my inspection.
(As she and her room-mates had always had assorted caged animals, I assumed it was another rat baby or a hamster.)
She put the wee thing into my palm.
"It's a dog! A mini Mexican hairless!" Wendy chuckled at my disbelief.
"Look, no way is this a real dog..." I held the trembly dustball under the porchlight.
"His name is Yoda, for obvious reasons!" Wendy opened the screendoor to the party.
Inside, her other two tiny pooches scampered about the guests, tugging on people's pant hems or rough housing with each other. I passed Yoda back to Wendy, afraid he would break in my fingers. She laughed, placing him on the floor with Morgana and Isis. Immediately, he bolted to the nearest human's foot and clung for dear life.
Isis made a lunge, rolling the tinier pup under the couch. Gamely he emerged, but made another dash for the nearest human sneaker.
"Wendy, they are going to kill him!" I picked Yoda up, terrified.
"No way. He's a scrapper. Besides, we want him to grow up and hold his own in this household of women!" Wendy toasted the puppy with warm cider.
Unsure of the wisdom of this approach, I cuddled the little guy off and on the entire evening.
We bonded that night.
Later, before walking me to my truck, Wendy stopped in her bedroom.
"I have to get Yoda's sweater--it's freezing out there!"
It was. Yoda had no fur--just this almost invisible fuzz--like a cheap Bobble-head. (It gets cold by the Pacific Ocean at night, especially in late November.) I waited patiently, trying not to yawn, as several party guests filed past me, into the cool street.
Wendy finally emerged carrying an infant's sock. (About an inch and half, trimmed in blue.) She proceeded to cut little holes the size of dimes on either side of the "foot" area and then took off the entire toe. This ragged "hoody" she pulled over Yoda's strawberry-sized head.
"Okay, he's ready to walk you to your truck!"
Over the years, I would spend many more holiday parties with Wendy and the gang. Always, Yoda ruled. Not only did he enjoy entertaining, he had indeed toughened up, taking no guff from the other dogs--or the newest family members--cats! The only beings he seemed to have a problem with were strange guys who came by and were "unknowns". (Friends dropping in for the first time, whom he did not recognize.) Unfortunately for these guys--and it was always guys--their first instinct was to pick Yoda up off his throne position on the couch (a big mistake) and begin to scream at him as if he were hard of hearing. (Yoda had fine hearing. Yoda didn't like being picked up off his regular position of authority). Before Wendy could warn the men, inevitably, someone would have their nose almost shoved against Yoda's nose--while talking loudly enough to be heard outside on the patio.
Yoda would do what I would have done: he took a bite.
Of course there would be hollaring and jumping around and male screams. Rarely was blood drawn...well, maybe twice...but whomever got the warning never forgot. Yoda,even if he were dropped roughly, would shake himself free of bad karma and return to his post on the couch.
He was indeed, a wise old soul. (For some: a crabby one.)
Whenever I would drop by, whether babysitting the gang of little dogs or simply stopping to hang with friends, Yoda would leap into my lap before the other dogs, demanding I pay absolute attention to him. He would snarl, snap, yelp and howl if any of the "girls" tried to beat him to that spot. All I could do was pat him and laugh.
Still almost bald, with a kind of wee-dog "limp" of the Mexican hairless kind, his skull bulging with brains and machismo, Yoda was--Yoda.
I was so sad when his "mother" called to inform me of his passing.
He had not aged well in these last years, though his care was first rate. His back finally gave out. His bones were full of doggie arthritis. His eyes and ears were the eyes and ears of an old, old man. He was asking to go with dignity.
Wendy, the ever loving caretaker, made the heart-breaking decision and was with him, in the end. But not before she threw a going- away- party for him, the day before, so all his California pals, both doggie and human, might say good-bye and pay their respects.
I'm told Yoda loved it, but was ready.
He knew.
He always knew.
People who follow metaphysics in every form,(at least some of them) say that dogs are meant to break our hearts from the start. We know they will be with us only a short time, and yet, they command our total love. Ask for our commitment. If one passes, they go on to a big cauldron of doggie spirits and then come back...they don't become human...they are dogs...Sometimes they get a long rest between assignments...sometimes it is shorter. The metaphysicians who speak of such things say that if one wants their doggie back, and their dog chooses to come back right away, to look into the eyes of puppies within sixty days of the dog's death--and you will possibly find the dog.
Or, you can release them and thank them for the time you did spend together.
I wonder, and sort of hope, that it is up to the canine...
Vaya con Dios, Yoda.
I would have gone to your party.
No comments:
Post a Comment