1) When he was clean his forehead always smelled like corn chips. So did the pads of his feet.
2) He hated any sharp cracking sound. This limited our use of the fireplace we had for four years in Richmond. Our next-door neighbor there had a pool table in his garage, and when he used it Zeke would shivver in the corner. At the previous place, in downtown Oakland, when people brought out their fireworks (and worse) on July 4, he’d hide in the bathtub.
3) I took him hiking once in the Marin Headlands and he almost ate a Mission Blue butterfly, which is critically endangered.
4) He needed to watch the road when I drove. On very long trips of more than a couple hours he’d eventually settle down in the back and snooze, but every time I’d use the turn signal he’d jump up again. He was never one of those dogs who loved to hang his head out the car window: he needed to watch straight ahead to see where we were going.
5) One day, offleash in Sunol Regional Park, he saw a ground squirrel a hundred yards away and covered that distance in about six seconds. He wasn’t even slowed down by the barbed wire fence between them, though he did yelp fairly loud as he passed through it. I never found any evidence of barbedwire-related cuts or bruises, but he only needed to learn that lesson once.
6) Also in Sunol: when he was about one year old we did a long hike off-trail down a canyon that in one spot was choked with poison oak, which he crashed right through. Past the poison oak there was a deep pool, and I pushed him into it to try to get at least a little of the oil off him. It may or may not have made a difference: neither of us got a rash. But it was a number of years before he ever got between me and a pool of water after that.
7) He didn’t swim. He liked to wade, and he liked to lie down in water, but he never wanted to get in water more than about a foot deep.
8) I came home from a week in the desert once and he wouldn’t let me in the house before he had thoroughly licked every square millimeter of my face. I don’t know whether that was reunion joy, or hygiene, or my campfire/salt-flavored skin. Probably some of each.
9) He was scared of some inanimate things, but he assumed almost every living thing he ever met would be his friend. (Exceptions included squirrels, which were for chasing, and rats and mice, which were for killing unless they were family members.) He loved horses and cats and dogs and coyotes and (often) small children, and he greeted strangers with joy all but once. On the two or three occasions when he met a dog who turned out to be unfriendly, he bore a heartrending expression of deep disappointment for an hour after.
10) A body memory: I can still feel his chest leaning against mine as he stood on the driver’s seat of my truck, peering out the window at whoever I was talking to: cops, drive-thru people, rangers at National PArk entrance kiosks, toll-takers, and various other people. It’s almost as if he’s only been gone a few minutes.
What poIgnant memories.
Early February again.
#1: Kelsey is always clean, though he’s had exactly one bath in his life, and he always smells like corn chips all over. Well, maybe not ALL over—there’s about a square inch that I’m not going to test.
#2: Kelsey’s variation on that: any knocking on wood will send him into a fearful, barking fit that takes him several minutes to get over. People who know us ring the bell by our door when they come to visit; others only knock once. While his distress pains me, it does come in handy for discouraging proselytizers.
#4: It is possible for dogs to engage in both behaviors, if properly equipped:
#6: It would take me several years before I’d put myself in that position, too, especially given #7.
#8: Whenever Kelsey has been separated from his faithful Lieutenant Jax for more than an hour or so, he will wash every square inch of the little dog’s face. Not so for any other animal in the house, though, including me.
#10: It hasn’t come down to memory for me yet, but it will sooner than I want. When it does, I don’t think I’ll be able to use the 12 inches or so between me and the edge of the bed when I sleep, the body memory will be so strong. If my Diane pre-deceases me, my sleeping posture will seem oddly constrained to anyone who happens to see it.
Addendum: I evidently munged that first link in my comment (“if properly equipped”). Here it is raw:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sherwoodh/5437607570/
Wonderful memories! It is wonderful that you hold Zeke in your heart still. There can be no replacement as there are never any adequate replacements in life. Only new adventures, new friends, and new memories. Best of luck to you!
Zeke Lives! Hang in there, dude.
i am constantly shocked, and often sad, at this rapid passage of time. Partly because our Chris has been gone now more than three years - it feels like a hundred years and yesterday simultaneously.
And also because that means we have had Jack now more three years and he’s already four or four and a half. I don’t want Jack to be even that old yet…. I want him to stay a young pup forever. It’s going by so fast and I don’t want to get back to that place with a frail old dog tearing my heart out again.
In my brain, Zeke and Chris are linked together, Chris following Zeke’s road a year and a half behind him. Both wonderful dogs who walked out of a shelter into a wonderful life with people who cared deeply for them and who still mourn their passing deeply.
Here I was, all spitting mad about the latest junk about contraception, and you stopped my mind-whirl cold. My Doc Holiday is now 13 and failing fast. But he smells like home.
When it was that February of sadness for Zeke I knew I might be in the same boat before long with the aging dogs but it lasted until last August when we lost one too fast at 13 and now the other is 14 and 1/2. Every waking (and sleeping) moment other than the 8 hour day job is dedicated to helping her eat (everything she takes in is by hand) and walk (she has a shoulder harness that I take every step with her so she doesn’t stumble and fall.) I am elated when she has a good day and wants to take a walk to the end of the block and gives me good ‘face’ that is the face of contentment. And I am depressed and frantic on the days when she doesn’t feel well. But I am proud that we both fight the fight to enjoy every day together possible.
(o)
Our dog’s paws smell like corn chips, too! We call them Fri-toes.
The other night I woke up and at first thought my kitty Natasha was in the crook of my arm. Then I realized it was just a bunched-up pile of bedclothes that kitty Paddy had made to make himself comfortable next to my stomach. Natasha died of old age at 19 in January 2011; her systems were shutting down, giving her lots of pain, so I had to give the vet permission to put her down.
I scritched on Paddy for awhile, which he didn’t seem to mind, in order to get myself calm again and not cry. My boys are wonderful cats; they’re enthusiastic about my company and generally good bed partners.
But I miss Natasha. Oh, how I miss Natasha.