Creek Running North

Posting here will likely be alternately sparse and unbearably maudlin for the next little while. Your patience is appreciated.

He gave me three extra months. I wasn’t ready for him to go in late September, and he rallied and gave me three more months of morning walks and late-night company. But there are limits even to what Zeke can accomplish.

Man, the next week is gonna suck.

Distracting myself with anecdotes: Zeke never displayed even a speck of food aggression: a toddler could shove him away from a prime rib and he’d just wiggle his eyebrows in a perplexed manner. But he did have food jealousy. Even if he wasn’t hungry, even just mentioning another dog’s name could get him to gobble up whatever dog treat he had been reluctant to eat.

Of course, I blame Nader.

Cody Nader, that is. Cody was a sweet I think lab mix puppy belonging to Jeanne Nader, a local environmental activist (and the daughter of Ralph’s sister Laura) who had an office in the Ecology Center building for a year or so when I first worked there. Cody and Zeke were pals, sort of, but Cody would come into the Ecology Center when Zeke was there and snuffle around for anything Zeke might have brought with him to gnaw on: biscuits, jerky treats, cow hooves, whatever. At first, Zeke would stand by and watch helplessly as Cody devoured his stuff. Then he realized he could eat his snacks preëmptively whenever he saw Cody. Cody would walk in and Zeke would run to his stash and snarf it all up.

For the first seven years of Zeke’s life we lived in an apartment in Oakland downstairs from a woman who collected dogs. When we moved into the place she had two. When we moved out she had five. If I wanted Zeke to eat something, all I had to do was pretend to call Smiley or Brandy or Buddy or Jack or whoever to come get the treat. Zeke would run over to it right away and eat it.

Even after we moved out of that place — remind me to tell you sometime about the stream of week-old dog urine coming through the ceiling from Jill’s apartment upstairs and landing on our dish drainer — into a place with fewer neighborhood dogs, Zeke could still be manipulated that way. After a while, I didn’t even need to name a specific dog. Zeke came with us to the car hospital once and the owner, Paul, offered him a biscuit, which Zeke took politely — he always did — and then dropped a discreet distance away. I called out in a singsong voice. ”Other dog! Come get the treat!” and Zeke leapt on the biscuit like he hadn’t eaten for days.