By Richard Young
Herald Copy Editor
THERE WAS A TIME a few years back when she never failed to greet me at the door. It didn't matter how late in the night it was; 1, 1:30, she was always there for me, her eyes bright and her mouth smiling.
Now she barely arouses. She raises her head just enough to see that I'm back and promptly goes back to sleep.
I guess that's what happens when you've been together so long, in our case 10 years.
No, I'm not talking about my wife; we've been together for 11 years. I'm speaking of my big, lovable, overweight collie, Flurry, a true friend and award-winning canine. (OK, so it was for ``biggest dog'' in the pet parade at the Jamestown Fair last year; she still got a blue ribbon.)
She's 10 now, which is old for a big dog, but it has only been this year that she has begun to show her age. She no longer hears me and perks up when I pull in the driveway, and the advancing stiffness in her hindquarters reminds me only too well that one day the inevitable will come.
Awhile back I saw a magazine on a newsstand that proclaimed why cats were the preferred pet among Americans. I disagree. Don't get me wrong; I like cats too, but their praises have been sung too much lately. Give me a dog, they're a better pet. Ask anyone who's ever owned one. For a number of reasons I wholeheartedly agree with the observation of my friend and co-worker Joe Wiercinski, who said, ``There ain't nothin' better than a worthless dog.'' (This coming from a cat owner.)
For instance:
How many cats do you know of that ever had their own TV show? Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Benji all have exhibited great acts of courage on countless episodes. Tell a cat ``Go get the sheriff, girl'' and you'll no doubt be answered with the typical cat response: ``Leave me alone.''
Dogs can smile. They can, I swear it. A dog lets you know when it's happy not only when it grins at you, but by the way its eyes shine and the way its tail wags in delight. Cats however, have one expression, that of ``get away from me,'' even when they want petted!
Dogs understand. That is, they're always there for you. When you need them, they come to you when called (usually) ready to share your feelings. Cats, however, are more likely to just look at you and say, ``What do you want?'' Dogs are happy when you're happy and sad when you're sad. I will never forget the two times I actually cried in the presence of my big collie. She was there instantly, nuzzling her snout into my face, consoling me over my grief.
Dogs have great tolerance. This is perhaps their greatest attribute. Dogs can tolerate an awful lot. When my son was born and we brought him home from the hospital, Flurry approached him and sniffed, and somehow knew that he was now No. 1. She was never once mean to him, despite having her hair pulled or being ridden like a pony, or being dressed in a number of silly hats. She simply sighs and puts up with it, knowing that, as a dog, that's her job.
It's tolerance that's at the center of the dog-man relationship. They tolerate so much, but moreover, give so much in return that we love and tolerate them. We as owners are more willing to put up with the hair on the couch, the occasional peeing on the floor and chewing that comes with puppyhood because of the abundant, unconditional love they give.
No sir. The only bad thing about having a dog is that inevitably, when they are firmly rooted in your life, they break your heart. Inevitably, they have to die.
Sam was what my father called one of ``Heinz 57 varieties,'' a mixed breed that often makes the best kind of dog. We got him when I was no older than 4, and we had him for at least 15 years. Sam snored when he slept, and always licked himself in the most embarrassing places (especially when company came over). But in spite of his lack of social manners, he was a gentle, affectionate companion, a friend the whole time we had him. And it was terrible when the cancer that we were unaware of took him so quickly that summer.
He lingered for a week until one morning he couldn't move. I petted him for the last time before I had to go to my summer job at a mill. Later in the morning during my break I called my mother to hear the news I knew she would have. ``Richard, he's gone.''
I was 19 when he died, about to enter my second year of college, a man in all respects. But I cried like a child, it shook me so. I was only too glad that I could hide my tears behind the face shield that I had to wear at work.
Yes, I had known death before, but always from a distant, aged relative; never from something that was so close to me. Yes, he was only a dog, a mongrel, but he was part of the family. It was the first time, the only time, I have seen my father cry.
I realize now that it was more than a dog that died that day. My own childhood died with him. He was the constant friend I had grown up with, and now that had changed. I had changed too, because I was no longer ignorant of the pain of death, no longer unaware of the aching emptiness that comes with it.
Later that night, at dinner with my aunt and uncle, I said I would never have another dog. I never again wanted to be hurt, never wanted to subject myself to loving something only to lose it.
``Yeah, you will,'' my uncle said. ``Maybe not now or soon, but someday you'll have another dog.''
He was right, of course, as he usually is.