Shaggy dog story?

This falls into the category of trivia writing. I include this "shaggy dog" tribute here only because I recalled that several people, after reading it in a local English language newspaper, urged me to "take up writing." I hadn't ever been much of a "dog person" until Harry, my best pal, begged me to adopt Black Dog. The day he died turned out to be unexpectedly traumatic. After burying my furry pal, I worried how I was going to break the news to Harry, so I sat down and penned this while sobbing inconsolably.

2/25/1992 on the finca

Remembering Black Dog

Harry’s dog died this morning. His name was Black Dog. I inherited Black Dog when Harry left for Panama last September. Black Dog was part German Shepherd and something else.

Black Dog adopted me, because he was Harry’s dog and at the beginning, Black Dog wasn’t at all sure I was going to work out. But somehow he and I soon came to see eye to eye, and we grew to understand each other completely. Maybe it was because the fist night after Harry had gone, Black Dog refused to sleep in his new doghouse, but leaped through a partially open window of our car where he apparently felt more at home and secure.

Black Dog use to look me long and unflinchingly in the eyes—that’s when we talked--sometimes for several minutes at a time. When we couldn't see each other, he used his voice, as best he could, in imitation of sounds he thought I’d understand. And I usually did.

After Black Dog decided I might work out after all, he quickly marked out his territory around our two acres, into which no one could pass without his or my permission. He was big enough to back up his claim if he ever had to. But Black Dog never physically attacked a soul--he never had to, because he knew his own strength. His method was all in the "show" he put on, whenever necessary. Oh, one time there was a wide-eyed boy on a Vespa (Black Dog hated the sound of them) who claimed that he was nipped on the heel of his tennis shoe—I knew that was possible, because Black Dog knew just how to take a delicate nip when he wanted to be seen as “vicious.” But after discussing it with the teenager, it seems the “nip” never penetrated the shoe, no matter how hard we both examined it. So the youngster was out of a new pair of Nikes that day!

Black Dog showed his appreciation for our bond in many ways. He was always by my side, even when it thundered—a sound that otherwise turned him into quivering jelly and sent him diving for the nearest thing he could hide under.

He never demanded anything. He just was. He loved people. He loved other animals. He didn’t even mind when the chickens and neighbor dogs sneaked off with his food when he wasn’t looking. In fact, Black Dog became famous among his animal friends as a connoisseur of find food--my wife, whom Black Dog also won over very quickly, went to great lengths every day to prepare something special for this special guy—something from the garden, along with chicken livers, juicy bones, and cooked with this and the other. And when the smaller dogs taunted him fiercely while they stole his food, he just took it in stride--he never growled or showed a mean streak. I’m sure those little thieves thought Black Dog was just a tad dim, but they didn’t know him.

Black Dog was always smiling, his long, sloppy tongue hanging out--he was already ready to run with me in sheet joy. He loved to show off too-he was a born comic. He loved to chase the tiny lizards, ears flopping, his long tail straight up, quivering with comic excitement. Of course, they always eluded him.

Oh yeah, he dreamed of the day he'd finally catch a buzzard—he didn’t know how or when, but he was certain it would happen some day. There was one ol’ buzzard that used to tease him almost every week. It'd swoop down from its height to about 30 feet or so, and circle slowly until Black Dog couldn’t stand it any more—he’d leap off after it in 10-foot bounds, chasing and barking with unlimited joy at that ol’ buzzard who, when he tired of the game, would head up and out, leaving Black Dog staring up into the sky for several minutes, trying to figure out how he'd do it better next time.

Someone poisoned Black Dog. I don’t know why. I guess whoever did it must be suffering great pain, so they thought they’d find some relief by snuffing out the life of a healthy, uncomplicated, innocent creature.

I'm sorry old guy. I guess I let you down. When you dragged yourself to your feet this morning and tried to wag your tail and smile at me, I knew you must have been in great pain. You tried hard to hang on--even under the vet’s frantic, last-minute efforts. And even then, you didn’t whimper or complain as your life forces came pouring out of you in my arms.

I'm glad you didn't die last night alone, old fellow, but that you hung on until this morning to let me share your death with you, to say goodbye. It was the last real thing you had to share with me. And I know you’d have said goodbye to Harry too, if you'd known how to find him in time.

Thank you, Black Dog. You taught me a lot in six months. You brought life to our lives. And if there is anything else after this go-around, I hope you finally corner that ol’ black buzzard--and when you do, I know you’ll probably let him go, being the gentle soul you are.