The big white one
Brent Ware
(I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
____________________________________
There are only a few things we owe our dogs. We have to teach them
good manners. We have to take care of them. We have listen carefully
because they don't have words to tell. We have to love them. That's
the easy part.
And we have to be there when they go. We owe them that.
It's been three days since I told the ER vet on a static-y
international call, "Let him go." I've been carefully walking around
the edges of my thoughts since then because I have another two days of
climbers and airports and hotels before I can be home. It wouldn't do
for allegedly grown man to bawl his eyes out in the airport. I'm not
sure I'll be able to stop if I start. We'll save that personal
breakdown for home.
Where a big 85-pound white furry hole in my life awaits.
I wish I had told the vet, from half a world away, to be there with
him and love him just a little, like she had known him all his life,
because this was a dog that loved everyone, that never met anyone he
didn't like. He was a big soft friendly polar bear, and everyone
wanted to love him. Someone should have been rubbing his ears the way
he liked when he left. It should have been me. But someone. I
didn't think to tell her that until too late. In the shock of making
that last decision years before I had hoped I would have to, on the
side of the road from 6000 miles away, I didn't think of that. She
sounded nice; I hope she did.
I knew these things. I knew what I owed him. I made one more promise
to that dog, after the last month-long trip. I told him, "I won't
leave you again, not for weeks at a time. No more long trips."
("while you are alive" unspoken). I broke that promise. I told
myself that he wasn't really that old, that even though he was slowing
down, he still had lots of miles left on him, and he'd be okay for
three weeks, he'd be with people he loved, and who loved him.
He should have been okay. But he wasn't. I broke my promise. I know
he was just a dog, and didn't really understand, but sometimes the
promises no one else hears are the ones you have to keep.
He was a gift from a friend when I was down in the dumps over a woman
I barely remember anymore. My wise friend said, "You need a dog.
Pick one out, and I'll pay for it." So I found a litter, he crawled
up in my lap, and choosing was that simple. He crawled into my lap
again for the ride home. We spent a good part of the next ten years
with me driving and him co-piloting, after he got too big to ride in
my lap.
And he served the greater purpose that my wise friend had no doubt
intended. It's hard to be clinically depressed when you have to walk
the dog twice a day, have to answer all the questions, have to stop to
say hi to all the kids, and all the adults. This fellow was a real
showstopper. I used to joke that walking him was like dating a
supermodel. No one really pays attention to the person with her. And
he loved the attention. Loved kids, loved adults, came to believe
that everyone he met wanted to pet him, and was a bit put out when he
ran into the occasional person who just didn't like dogs. It was his
birthright, you see, to be universally loved, and to love back.
He wasn't a sappy dog, not a big licky annoying dog. He'd just put
his ears to the side, grin and waggle his whole butt. People just
wanted to touch him. He had the softest fur. Kids especially would
gather in throngs. Even kids who had been taught to fear dogs, and
there are a lot of those. He ate it up. I learned to avoid walking
past schools if I was in a hurry. You can't be in a hurry if nine
kids want to pet your dog.
Through him, I met lots of people, most of my neighbors, learned to
talk to kids and strangers, learned to smile and say hi even when I
didn't really feel like it. It wasn't about me. I was just holding
the leash.
I know that clinical depression can't be cured by a dog. But for me,
at that time, at that moment, a little white puppy was a ticket out of
what sometimes looked like a 9mm-sized hole, after the gas ran out, at
the end of some deserted road in the Mojave.
I left him for long periods several times over the years, for
expeditions, for work, for play, to sometimes try and do things I
wasn't certain I would come back from. He never spent a day of his
life in a kennel - he never lacked for people willing to take care of
him. Exes, friends, neighbors, climbing buddies. He was such a big
happy galoot, and well-behaved. Good with kids, with cats, with most
dogs who accepted that the was the alpha, that was just the way it
was.
I know that he was the reason why I backed off some things, and the
reason I made an extra effort to come home. I make my own choices
about the chances I take, and the people in my life at least know, if
they don't always understand. People get to make choices, and some
chose simply not to accept the risks that I took. He simply trusted
that I was coming back, so I had to honor his trust in me. I knew
that when I drove up to wherever he was staying, I'd get the Happy
Dance, a bit of unbridled joy.
I'm not the only one who got the Dance. When my climbing partners
drove up, they'd get the Dance. You see, the big white one is the one
who got to go. He knew that most times, there'd be room in the car
for him, even if they bitched good-naturedly about the white furry
reminders they'd be picking out for weeks. My ex-girlfriends get the
Dance. We might have broken up, but everyone wants a little big white
dog time. His lifetime vet, Dr. W, who came with treats and pain, got
the Dance, and more. He had known Dr. W since he was little, you see,
and that's all that mattered to him. Here is a person that I
remember, and that I love, and who loves me. I'll dance a little for
him, and talk a little, and if there's a shot, or a surgery, well, it
doesn't matter, I trust my people.
But there won't be a Happy Dance this time. This time, I won't come
home to the little half-playful, half-not bites of "happy to see you,
what the hell were you thinking being gone so long?" He won't be
there to give the sideways look and half-bark and swipe at me with his
paw, then lean against my legs for some good hugs before jumping away
for some more dancing and talking.
I reckon I'll still be picking white hairs out of my clothes for
years. I don't get to say goodbye. I get to know that I broke my
promise, and to know that I failed him in the end. We all die alone.
Humans know this, even if we don't understand. It seems to me that
dogs, since they don't know, can't understand, deserve to not be alone
at the end. To not be alone when they go into the void. To have one
familiar voice there, one last kind hand.
All you can hope to do is live up to the trust that your dog has in
you. I did not. I didn't come back this time. I let him down.
So here's my public apology. Here's to the big white one, and all the
happiness and smiles he brought into the world in ten and a half too
short years; may they outweigh any frowns and weariness caused by me.
To his big happy grins;
To waiting for me to open the front door after dinner so he could go
sit on the porch and watch the world go by. No leash necessary, he
just liked to sit out there in the dark and give little on-guard woofs
when another dog jingled by;
To the way he would use his play-bow and puppy mode whenever he got
into trouble, to try to jolly his way back into my good graces;
To the way he sneezed, regular like clockwork, if you rolled him onto
his back;
To the way he waited in the backyard for me to bike home, so he could
see me as I rode up the street;
To the way he would sometimes, not always, come over in the morning
and stick his head over the edge of the bed for some head scratching
and sweet kisses;
To the way he would stretch out and give a big sigh when you rubbed
his back and side;
To the way he unerringly remembered the trail that we came in on, and
his look of disdain if we chose to go some other way coming back. You
were usually right, you big mutt;
To the way he would save his food and water until you returned,
whether he was leashed up at the base of an all day climb, or just
from a day at work. I kept telling him that he was silly, that I was
always coming back for him;
To the way he liked to feel the sand in his paws, to play and run, and
dig dig dig, and play some more;
To the way that he talked, especially the older he got. The Sheriff
of the Dog Park kept the whippersnappers in line, with his voice
usually, but he brooked no guff from anyone;
To the big long snores, so reassuring on crisp nights in the volcanic
tableland looking down on the lights of an Eastside town, in the snow
at the power station, under the stars in the desert, in the parking
lot at the local crag, or in the bedroom, when he wandered in after
the lights went out;
It'd be a blessing if you could come to me in my dreams tonight, and
sleep at the foot of my bed, and let me one more time hear that snore,
letting me know all is right. Maybe I'd sleep then.
Klooch Man
That is a great eulogy.
One of our dogs looks like a small brown bear and when on walks he
spots another dog he usually starts a happy whine, from 50-100 feet
away, which people at least interpret as, "oh boy oh boy oh boy am I
glad to see you!" He sets a high standard for enthusiasm for the
simple but important pleasures.
When the previous family dog, the one who had looked after the kids
when they were young, grew too old and stiff to get up, all four of
us gathered around her when the vet injected the lethal dose. It
seems to me that most vets would stand in and give some love to a pet
whose family wasn't there at that time.
That said, I wonder whether dogs and other animals feel at all the way
people do about getting old and passing on. There is folk wisdom that
senescent animals will crawl away from all the rest to die.
And r.c. isn't dead. It is in a minimally responsive state. You could
try putting it in a functional magnetic resonance imager and ask it to
imagine playing tennis for "yes" or walking through a room in its
house for "no".
Bergtrage
enable me to retire and the hardest thing was leaving my best friend
for a whole year, even if he was at home with my wife. He lived a
couple of more years until he died in Jan at 13. I keep regretting
the year he was without me taking him to the mountains but I remember
all those years we spent hiking and playing. I could make phone calls
home every day for 4 cents a minute but you can't say "hi" to your dog
over the phone. I got another one two weeks later and he's looking at
me on this computer.
Art
North Bend WA
Jay Tanzman
On Fri, 29 Aug 2008, Brent Ware wrote:
> (I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
> nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
Six. But don't tell anyone.
Jay
kellie
> (I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
> nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
>
Beautiful eulogy Brent. I hope your get your dream visit and some
sleep.
There might even be seven of us around still.
kellie
^,,^
in part these were tears of loss, a loss i too have known. but in far
larger part they were tears of joy as i remembered the depth and magic
of a long relationships that grew to something far beyond mere
words.
you were both fortunate to have each other.
even the best canine souls cannot thrive and show their magic in a
sterile environment, where they are treated like little more than an
appliance or a lawn ornament. but given genuine affection and
attention, the best and most of dogs blossom into something truly
magic. you clearly made that effort and in experienced the remarkable
rewards. a gift to both you and your buddy.
to focus unduly on those few weeks when you were not there is to
demean the magic of all of those weeks and years when you were there
-- that time when your partnership grew into something truly special.
remember that. i am certain that your beloved dog did, even in his
last moments. you are in a unique position to know that your
partnership with him helped defined both him and his joy. he could
count on you, you were his pack, you were his pal.
dogs teach us a lot _if_ we care enough to pay attention. and you
clearly paid attention. dogs teach us about unconditional love and
unconditional joy. they teach us how to 'be here, now!' he brought
you joy. and i am certain you brought him joy in equal measure. that
is the magic of dogs in our lives.
~~~
you wrote, in part:
> There are only a few things we owe our dogs. We have to teach them
> good manners. We have to take care of them. We have listen carefully
> because they don't have words to tell. We have to love them. That's
> the easy part.
amen
> And we have to be there when they go. We owe them that.
in his, i must respectfully disagree. a dog's last day, or any souls'
last day, is not ours to manage or control -- that is nature's domain,
not ours. as a
climber of many years you surely have seen that nature is far bigger
than any of us. love, caring, compassion, simple friendship - now
those are (or at
least should be) our domain. and there you focused and worked hard.
i believe that you were very much with him in his last moments, just
as he is very much with you now. for he passed bathed in the peace of
years of knowing
he was deeply loved. and he left you with a strong sense of that very
same peace, which you described so eloquently. in the end, a gift to
both of you. sad that it passes so quickly, yet truly magic that it
happens at all.
~~~
the Hassidics have a proverb i have often heard them repeat: "No soul
has left us as long as someone who loved them remembers them."
i wish you peace and solace, and many memories of all the magic that
you and your buddy shared through the years.
^,,^
Simon Isbister
Brent, I'm so sorry to hear about your loss. The second of the two dogs I
grew up with passed while I was climbing in BC, on a trip that ended up
being a permanent move. That was the first time my now-wife saw me weep.
> He should have been okay. But he wasn't. I broke my promise. I know
> he was just a dog, and didn't really understand, but sometimes the
> promises no one else hears are the ones you have to keep.
I've been making lots of those promises lately, to my 6-week old daughter.
Hang in there.
-s-
Brian in SLC
> (I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
> nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
> sleep at the foot of my bed, and let me one more time hear that snore,
> letting me know all is right. Maybe I'd sleep then.
Brent, that was a great dog!
We don't always get to choose where to be at "those" moments. Don't
beat yourself up over the "if only" stuff.
You'll hang onto those memories and you had a great dog and a great
dog had you. Both pretty sweet deals, IMHO.
Cheers,
-Brian in SLC
(what is that, like 9 of us now? And, I even got some great French
climbing beta from Guillaume a couple weeks ago on the phone! Wished
we coulda hooked up for a beverage at least...)
Brent Ware
Thanks everyone, the nine left and the Miya-AI.
> Don't beat yourself up over the "if only" stuff.
It's been a very nice summer here, lots of almost chilly mornings and cool
evenings.
-bw
the kind that if you're a big furry dog, makes you all frisky
Sue
Brent Ware <bwar...@NOSPAM.gmail.com> wrote:
> Brian in SLC <bead...@yahoo.com> writes:
>
> Thanks everyone, the nine left and the Miya-AI.
I miss him too. I'm not a dog person, but I was a this dog person.
Hal Murray
I like dogs, but I wouldn't say I'm a dog person.
The non-AI Miya introduced me to a neat dog last weekend.
She is a border collie. At first introduction, she is just a nice
well behaved dog. Next, you find out that she likes to chase sticks,
and demonstrates that by bringing you a stick (e could discuss
the evolunatiarry significance of humans knowing they are supposed
to throw sticks) and bringing it back to you and dropping it at
your feet.
But that's just a reasonably common nice dog. What sets this one
apart is a hose. She goes crazy when you turn a hose on. Crouching,
stalking, running, leaping, snapping.... She really wants to
take a bite out of the stream of water.
About as frivolous as climbing. Probably more fun if you are a dog.
It's neat to see that I'm not the only one in this world that is
(very) easily entertained.
--
These are my opinions, not necessarily my employer's. I hate spam.
Simon Isbister
"Hal Murray" <hal-u...@ip-64-139-1-69.sjc.megapath.net> wrote in message
news:64WdnQ9zDokXQUjV...@megapath.net...
> The non-AI Miya introduced me to a neat dog last weekend.
Non-AI? Oh... does Eugene have a brother?
Eugene Miya
Nope.
--
kellie
Brian, dooood, I'm gonna be in SLC the second week of October. Drinks
are in order; perhaps even some LCC cragging? If'n it's not too snowy
already.
kellie
Brian in SLC
> Brian, dooood, I'm gonna be in SLC the second week of October. Drinks
> are in order; perhaps even some LCC cragging? If'n it's not too snowy
> already.
What dates? I'll be at the craggin' classic and Kor show in Boulder/
Golden from 9-12 October.
Seems like last time I saw you here it poured...
Let me know what dates.
Did you just hijack a dog tribute thread? Man, that can't be good
karma...ha ha.
Woof!
-Brian in SLC
Mark Heyman
"^,,^" <pipwasj...@gmail.com> wrote in message
news:a7ee0651-b093-4ed8...@2g2000hsn.googlegroups.com...
>i was moved to tears reading your rememberence of your excellent pal.
>
So was I, a lot of tears.
It would have been nice to there, but you didn't fail him. You made sure he
had approprite care, and he had had a good life. My wife is a veterinarian
and I know she gives many animals the the kindness and respect they deserve.
I can't imagine your's wouldn't have been one of them.
Mark Heyman
OldEric
> (I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
> nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
>
>
Anorther old timer weighing in. That was a beautiful eulogy Breat
and it hit pretty close to home. I've got an 85 pound dog. We got
her as a puppy over 10 years ago for the kids. The kids are long gone
but it doesn't matter to her - I have always been her human. She is
starting to slow down a lot. I try and accomodate her - no more too
long or too rugged approaches. She still gets all excited and frisky
for the 45 minutes weekday morning walks, but she is loosing her
enthusiasm for longer adventures on the weekends. I hope I can do
whatever she needs me to do in the future
Eugene Miya
>In article
><shopkinsNOSPAM-650EE4.19465617092...@newsclstr02.news.prodigy.com>, Sue
><shopkinsNOS...@ucsd.edu> writes:
>>In article <m0ej3l9n9h....@nospam.com>,
>> Brent Ware <bware....@NOSPAM.gmail.com> wrote:
>>> Brian in SLC <beady...@yahoo.com> writes:
>>> Thanks everyone, the nine left and the Miya-AI.
>>
>>I miss him too. I'm not a dog person, but I was a this dog person.
>
>I like dogs, but I wouldn't say I'm a dog person.
>
>The non-AI Miya introduced me to a neat dog last weekend.
Not me, she was just there.
>She is a border collie. At first introduction, she is just a nice
>well behaved dog. Next, you find out that she likes to chase sticks,
>and demonstrates that by bringing you a stick (e could discuss
>the evolunatiarry significance of humans knowing they are supposed
>to throw sticks) and bringing it back to you and dropping it at
>your feet.
>
>But that's just a reasonably common nice dog. What sets this one
>apart is a hose. She goes crazy when you turn a hose on. Crouching,
>stalking, running, leaping, snapping.... She really wants to
>take a bite out of the stream of water.
What I noticed was how she picked up rocks. I've seen dogs nip at water
streams before. But picking up objects was different.
>About as frivolous as climbing. Probably more fun if you are a dog.
>
>It's neat to see that I'm not the only one in this world that is
>(very) easily entertained.
I think it was reading about the canine ascent of Robson (Kain face).
Some one tried to do a history of dog ascents. But I think for the most
part they are harder to get up rock crags (staying at home might be
close to cruel). Now Rowell was proud of his photos of a mtn goat in
the Logan Mtns which he declared the area to be a 5.9 (different photos
were used and the AAJ photo had a rap sling in it {with a cirle and
arrow in on non-8x10 grossy as the AAJ did} unlike other photos). They
are hard to make pets.
A dog to me might be like an avalanche search dog; or King, Sgt. Preston's
of the Yukon, dog. Bark! Bark! when you hear that name. Or Balto who
led the Iditarod (for real). Or my friend S's wolf (acquired from Eagle, AK),
since died. Or Lassie (naw, too mushy). Harder to explain a bush
kangaroo, a dolphin, there was a show with a bear and another ones with
a pet African lion.... But now that's just getting a bit silly.
--