Wish They All Could Be California Girls

For Karen and me, not much good came out of Los Angeles in 1984. We'd moved there without a plan, with our two dogs, Lyric and Holden, and were soon overcome by a fear and loathing of the mass of humanity we found ourselves amidst. We decided that the logical reaction to our new found misanthropy would be to increase the canine to human ratio in our household. We decided to get a puppy.

There were two primary rationales for getting a puppy. Lyric, the Seeing Eye dog, was smart, young and strong, everything a German shepherd should be. Our other dog, Holden, was a fat, dim-witted, beagle mix, and he was simply not an ideal playmate for her. Often, in her fun, Lyric would send Holden sprawling, and we didn't want him to get hurt. We wanted Lyric to have as full a life as possible, and we thought that should include a relationship with a dog with which she could have some parity. Forcing her to play with Holden seemed like forcing Bobby Fisher to play chess with Sling Blade (look, he liked fried potatoes, OK?). It couldn't be very satisfying for Lyric.

Furthermore, Sling Blade…I mean, Holden, needed another dog, too, we believed. Though he may have been satisfied with Lyric as a playmate, since Lyric was a guide dog, when we went out, Holden would be left alone. Holden was a bad boy when left alone, prone to tremendous acts of destruction, and we reasoned that if he wasn't left all alone, but had a better behaved dog keeping him company, then maybe that would help him straighten up and fly right. We knew even then that was unlikely, but, who knows, maybe.

Let me say right now that both of the above rationales were based on false premises. After thirty years as a dogman, I'll say, with some certainty, that an intelligent dog does not need an equal for a playmate, and, with total certainty, that leaving a good dog home alone with a destructive one is much more likely to corrupt the good one than it is to mend the ways of the bad. But, back in 1984, we were at the beginning of our learning curve, and those two reasons for getting another dog seemed reasonable enough.

Anyway, Los Angeles sucked and we wanted a puppy!

We found an ad in the paper and decided to get a three month old, German shepherd/Australian shepherd mix, puppy. We figured this would be a dog that could keep up with Lyric and who might be smart enough to reform Holden. We got to the house, and met both the parents. The father, a German shepherd, was a very friendly, stable, fellow. The Australian shepherd mother seemed just a little "off," but to be fair a couple of strangers were looking over her puppies, so I guess she had every right to be.

There were four or five puppies, but we were instantly drawn to one little grey and white female who seemed more outgoing than the others. We named her Chelsea, and took her away in the car to begin her new life.

Chelsea was not only adorable, she was perfect. She was alert and interested, liked the car ride, and didn't cry for a second when separated from everything she'd ever known. She was infested with fleas, so the very first thing we had to do, before we even brought her in the house, was give her a flea dip.

It's easy to forget now just how awful a problem fleas used to be. Whatever horrifying odorless poison is in the Frontline Plus and other flea and tick products we use today is an absolute godsend. Back in 1984, the only way to de-flea a dog was to immerse it in a fluid that stunk like kerosene, let it dry, and then dip the dog again. When we first saw Chelsea, we thought she had some small scabs on her. On closer inspection, we saw they were flea colonies, massed so as to appear solid. The flea treatment had to be traumatic for a three month old puppy, but Chelsea went through the ordeal with a happy dignity.

I haven't thought about Chelsea as a puppy for a long time, and now the memory of her is flooding me with warmth. The pictures that appear with this article are not Chelsea, but they show basically what she looked like then. She was so smart, and happy, and bright-eyed, and eager to join her family.

Lyric and Holden both accepted Chelsea at once, and she was thrilled to have two other dogs to play and live with. Everyone was happy, at least for a while.

Lyric, Holden and Chelsea would live together for the rest of their long lives. Other dogs would come and go, but those three remained the core of the pack for their entire lives. Going to California might have been a bad idea, but when we left, we had our Chelsea, so, as it turns out, something good came out of us being in Los Angeles that awful summer of 1984.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Apocalypse 1984

To engage in a little understatement here, it was probably not the best idea for me and Karen to move to Los Angeles in 1984. We didn't know anyone in L.A. and we had no jobs at a time when unemployment was at levels comparable to today. We were thousands of dollars in debt to student loans, which were taken out at 17% interest. Really, all we had that was worth anything was each other, and Lyric, Karen's Seeing Eye dog, and Holden, our little mutt.

Twenty-five years later, it's hard for me to imagine what we were thinking. We had one bachelor's degree between the two of us, a junker car, and absolutely no plan. Nevertheless, we rented a house in Glendale that we couldn't afford, and we set out to conquer the world.

These were great times for Lyric and Holden. Karen was going through a phase of custom cooking for the dogs, and homemaking biscuits. We had a huge yard they could play in, and we lived a few blocks away from a massive dog park that we took them to daily.

One of the reasons we got Holden in the first place was so that when Karen got back from training with Lyric, there would be a playmate waiting for her. Lyric adored Holden from the start, and once he got used to her, Holden reciprocated. Lyric loved spending time with Holden, and even took to grooming him daily. She knew he was still basically a puppy, and she loved mothering him.

The mothering didn't extend to the dog park, though. Lyric lived to go to the park. She would chase sticks endlessly and also just run with the exuberant energy of a German shepherd in the prime of her life. While she was doing this, Holden would leisurely wander the park, mainly sticking to the perimeters. Holden wasn't a dog who enjoyed vigorous exercise. For him the park was mainly an opportunity for a good sniff, followed by a poop, which he always took while as close to the road as possible, so he could look at cars as they whizzed by and be sure the drivers were looking at him while he produced his little masterpieces. But I digress.

There was just one problem. Almost every time we went to the park, at one time or another, Lyric steamrolled Holden.

This is another example of what I would call a dog's sense of humor. Lyric thought it was funny to see Holden at a distance of 25 yards or more, when Holden was sniffing and paying no attention. Then Lyric would charge him like a bull, and just smash into him, sometimes at full speed sending him flying and sometimes at a glancing angle simply knocking him down. Holden would get to his feet, dazed and confused, while Lyric laughed like a maniac and pranced away.

She never injured Holden, and he didn't hold it against her, long-term, anyway. It took him completely by surprise every time, which is why Lyric thought it was so funny. There was nothing mean-spirited in this steamrolling game, and at home, after the park, Lyric would gently groom her little brother before they both enjoyed their dinner that mom had made them.

At the same time, Karen and I began exploring L.A. In 1984, at least, there was a definite air of the apocalypse to Los Angeles. The summer Olympics were in L.A. that year, so the city was jam packed. It was also the year crack began appearing in cities. AIDS was still new, and seemed like a possible plague precursor. Unemployment in LA was higher than 10%, and it seemed that an air of sinister violence hung over everything.

We were out in Hollywood one hot and sticky weekend night. The street was full of weird, scary looking, people. A young Hispanic man was shouting to a soft drink vendor, "Put plenty o' coke in that Coca Cola, man!" and it seemed violence might be eminent if he didn't. There were bright lights and 80's clothes and music everywhere, and the air stunk from pollution, patchouli and piss.

I don't know what it was about that particular night, but it affected both Karen and me profoundly. It seemed impossible that Armageddon wasn't right around the corner, perhaps as close as Burbank. We saw that night, as if for the first time, just how bad people could be, and what a fragile hold "society" had over them. The world seemed violent and dangerous and full of people we didn't want to be around, or, worse, become.

Lyric and Holden brought us so much happiness, and society was letting us down. We decided to get another dog. We rationalized that Holden wasn't really a suitable playmate for Lyric, who was so much smarter, bigger and faster than he was. We thought it would be nice to get a third dog, one who could keep up with Lyric. Holden wouldn't get steamrolled anymore, and, we asked ourselves, are three dogs really any more trouble than two? (The answer is, "No." However, it's a slippery slope. Four dogs really aren't any harder than five, and so on. That's how we eventually ended up with six at a time).

There is one difference in having three dogs instead of two that we didn't know about, but which wouldn't have stopped us had we realized. When you have two dogs, you have pets. Once you hit three, though, you're part of a pack. That summer of 1984, in a strange city, repelled by humanity, we added a German Shepherd/Australian shepherd mix we named Chelsea to our family, and the group of dogs I refer to as our first pack was completed.



© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
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Levi's Issues, Part 2

Part 1


One bright November day, Levi and Esmé went out to swim and hunt. Levi came home alone, obviously traumatized. We looked for a week, but never found her body. Given where we lived, we knew she hadn't been hit by a car, or stolen. The coyotes of the area, though, could be dangerous. 

Together, Levi and Esmé were big enough to deter an out and out coyote ambush. But if a group of coyotes, in the guise of playing, attracted one of them far enough away from the other, that puppy would have been easy prey. I'm fairly certain that's what happened to Esmé, and I'm also pretty sure Levi saw it.


Levi fell into a serious depression. Arthur was heartbroken, and in order to cope with his loss, took to punishing Levi more frequently and randomly.

Ordinarily, I would have been more on top of the situation, protecting Levi from his bully of a brother, but Karen was getting increasingly sick during this time, and my attention was more on her than it was on caring for Levi. I have no doubt that's as it should have been, but the result was Levi remained in what could only be described as an abusive home environment. Arthur never hurt him to an extent where vet care was needed, but he did what he could to see that Levi's natural high spirits were repressed.

Levi recovered from losing his sister and began to be a happy puppy again. There was an old woman who lived across the way from us named Ethel, who Levi would visit every day. She'd give him cookies, and talk to him, and let him graze cherry tomatoes off her plants. Ethel was Levi's grandma, and she helped him get over the terrible loss of Esmé. Since Arthur wouldn't leave the yard, Levi could visit Ethel by himself, and have an opportunity to feel confident and good about himself.


Ethel died suddenly and unexpectedly in December. Levi went to her house day after day, but grandma never came out to play with him again. His depression returned, and despite Levi's obviously damaged state, Arthur never let up on him for a second. Nevertheless, Levi carried on. He loved Arthur, I suppose in much the same way battered wives love their abusive husbands. Erica was a great comfort to him, and he adored his mom and dad. 

Then, in January, his mom died.

Within a few months, Levi, Arthur, Erica and I began a kind of vagabond existence. We moved from the only house he ever knew into a small trailer with a friend in Taos. I worked as a waiter, and Levi and Arthur would spend the day together. When I would come home from work, Arthur was usually protecting his Frisbee, while Levi was running to the car to greet me. I can only imagine what their days alone together were like.


Then the pack moved from wild New Mexico to super civilized Scottsdale. Despite all the upheaval, Levi was becoming happy again. He'd become an adult, and there was much less corporal punishment delivered by Arthur, who Levi still seemed to worship. We started going to the dog park, where Arthur would, of course, obsess over his Frisbee, and where Levi finally had the opportunity to behave as a quasi-independent adult dog.


For about nine months, things at the park were fine. We spent so much time there that Levi began to see it as his territory. Once he determined that he was in charge of the park, he naturally assumed that keeping puppies in line was one of his responsibilities. I'm not saying Levi didn't enjoy the small cruelties he inflicted on the puppies (click for a short film of such abuse), and I'm not saying it was right. I'm just saying I understood.

Eventually, Levi started to be too bad to bring to the park anymore. This was hard on him, because he loved his large group of park friends, but I couldn't stop him from being a bully, so we stopped going. Arthur didn't care; he could fetishize the Frisbee in the back yard as well as anywhere else, but Levi's social circle was again reduced to insane Arthur. At least now he had Rocky and Chi-Chi as friends, as well as Erica, but his primary companion remained Arthur, who that good boy, Levi, still loved like crazy, despite everything. Then Arthur got bone cancer and died.

Soon after that, my father, who Levi had of course loved, had to be moved out of the house due to advanced Alzheimer's. Levi's grandpa died about a year later, though Levi had many opportunities to visit with him in the assisted living facility. When my dad couldn't remember what relationship he had with my mother or me, he never forgot how much he loved his dogs, Chi-Chi, Rocky, and now, Levi. Then grandpa was gone.


In the first year of life, Levi was abandoned by his original family, lost his sister, his "grandma," and then Karen, his mom. He was bullied by a much older, much bigger dog, who he nonetheless worshiped. He lived in four different homes. Additionally, during all this time, he had a dad who was going through hell, and wasn't in a good mental state himself. 

That Levi has survived, and turned out as well as he did, not only amazes me, but it inspires me, and helps me get through some of my own bad times. He's been my best friend, and my crutch, since Karen died, and I'm content to know that whatever road life leads us down, we'll travel it together.


So, there, Levi is not a perfect dog. I said it. Just be sure you don't say it. Nobody talks about my boy like that.




© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Levi's Issues

As much as I love Levi, it pains me to admit that he's not a perfect dog. Like a lot of us, he has issues. Unhappily, the one issue that's ever come up with Levi that I consider serious is an occasional display of unwarranted aggression aimed at other dogs. Though he lives harmoniously with his pack, in a dog park situation he can be a  bully. Making the problem worse is Levi's ordinary choice of victim. Levi likes to beat up puppies.

He never injured a puppy, but he liked to roll them, and stand over them in a dominant manner, that demanded my immediate intervention. You'll note the use of the past tense, because I sadly can't take him to the park anymore, even though he plays entirely appropriately with almost every other dog. But puppies bring out the worst in Levi, as do German Shepherds, who he tends to react to with fear-based aggression. Being significantly smaller than a German Shepherd, this often didn't work out well for Levi.


Levi is an extremely sensitive dog, and in all other matters, he really is incredibly nice and well mannered. I haven't exactly trained him, but he'll usually obey any commands issued in a conversational tone by me, or anyone else he knows. The primary "trick" he knows is to "be a little gentleman." When he's getting overly excited or rowdy, all I have to say to him is, "Levi, you be a little gentleman now," and he settles down immediately, lying down and crossing his arms in a surprisingly dainty manner.

He's never shown an ounce of aggression towards people, and is unusually gentle with little kids and old people. He good naturedly takes abuse from Rocky, and occasionally Erica and Chi-Chi, treating the smaller members of the pack with patient indulgence.


Coming from the esteemed Abeytas breeding grounds, Levi should be a perfect dog. He has the genes for it, the nature. Like everyone else, though, Levi has been shaped by both his nature and his nurturing. Though the crying puppy at the park doesn't know or care, there is a reason Levi acts like he does. 

As with most delinquents, or psychopaths, for that matter, the problems stem from an extremely difficult childhood. That might sound like a cop-out, but when you hear Levi's story, you'll not only understand why he does the bad things he sometimes does, but you'll marvel at how he turned out to be such an overall splendid dog despite his early adversity.


Karen and I got Levi when he was about three months old. He had been weaned from his mother for a couple of weeks, and in late June of 2001, he and his sister, Esmé, had been taken by my friend Rick's irresponsible daughter and her boyfriend. On July 4, Rick asked me if I would help him clear out the trailer his daughter had abandoned. When we got there, besides a trashed trailer, we found Levi and Esmé curled up, together, scared, hungry, and ditched.


Karen seemed to be recovering from her cancer, and the only animals we had were Arthur, her German Shepherd Seeing Eye dog, and Erica, the cat. It didn't hurt that Levi and Esmé were the two cutest puppies you ever saw, but I had no real choice. They were coming home with me and joining the pack.


Karen was delighted. Levi and his sister were not only adorable, they were smarter, more sensitive and more responsive than any dogs I've ever known before. There was never a housebreaking issue, or, indeed, any issues beyond the most casual of puppy shenanigans. Erica loved them instantly, and they would play with her with the kind of unfettered joy that only puppies really know, and that maybe only cats can really appreciate.

And then there was Arthur.


Arthur was absolutely enchanted by the puppies. He put aside his Frisbee obsession enough to be instrumental in raising them, and in teaching them how to act right. The thing was, though, Arthur was in no way temperamentally qualified for the job of raising puppies. In fact, as I've written earlier, Arthur was half-crazed by this time, after having been involuntarily retired due to Karen's illness.


Initially, Arthur treated the puppies well. He clearly loved them, and just wanted to teach them right from wrong. Unfortunately, "right" and "wrong" were rather fluid concepts in Arthur's head. What might be fine on Monday would merit a harsh correction on Tuesday. Though there was little consistency to his rules, Arthur vigorously enforced them anyway. This led to Levi getting beat up, a lot, for doing things he had no way of knowing Arthur considered wrong.


By mid-August, Arthur was head-over-heels in love with Esmé. She was sweet, and coquettish, and was the first dog Arthur had ever truly loved. Despite his feelings for her, though, Arthur knew he had a duty as her teacher. When she misbehaved, when she broke one of his ever changing rules, punishment still had to be meted out. But Arthur could no longer bring himself to discipline Esmé. So whenever Esmé did something Arthur considered wrong, he would promptly punish poor Levi.

Esmé never acted with intent to get Levi in trouble. They were almost like conjoined twins, connected at the shoulder, and Esmé would no more have done anything to hurt Levi than she would have to hurt herself. They slept wrapped up in each other, and when they were awake they were almost always touching each other. 

We lived in the country, and Levi and Esmé would go out every day to swim in the arroyos and hunt rabbits. Arthur never joined them, because he was too busy guarding and worrying about his Frisbee. I'm not sure how often the hunt was a success, but a number of times, Levi would come home with a juicy rabbit leg, and deliver his tribute to King Arthur. Arthur would take it, happily, though not gratefully, and later that night would punish Levi for some imaginary infraction that Esmé committed anyway.

Imagine your crazy Uncle Arthur beating you up every time your sister did something he didn't like. This injustice began to make Levi, this perfect, joyful, puppy, a little jumpy and submissive. Meanwhile, Esmé, his shadow, enjoyed total immunity. Even Levi knew this wasn't fair. 


He was about to learn how unfair life really could be to a little yellow puppy...


Tomorrow: The Conclusion of Levi's Issues
(I promise to only infrequently write two-part stories. I don't like them, and I don't intend to regularly have cliffhangers, but this particular story was just too important and too involved)




© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Weekly Recap and Message from the Dogman

                                              The Dogman begs:

Read my blog. Please leave me comments, complaints and compliments. I am responsive to feedback.

Pass this blog along. If you like a particular piece, send it, or a link, to a friend. Post it on Facebook. Twitter it. Give it a thumbs up on StumbleUpon. Write your thoughts in the comment section. If you dislike a piece, I'd like to know as much as if you like one.

The blog's look has changed due, in large measure, to reader input. I stopped running random Google ads and switched to Amazon, so I could personally recommend my favorite dog related books and products. I've also added Amazon's Dog Blog, because it seems to nicely complement the den. As always, I remain open to your ideas.

It's Halloween weekend, so please make sure your cats, especially, and your dogs, are indoors or somewhere safe.

Again, thanks for reading, and now, without further ado, the weekly recap!

How to Breed the Perfect Dog

An article detailing a model breeding program in the tiny town of Abeytas, New Mexico. This is the ancestral home of Levi!

Dogs and (Pole) Cats

The peculiar relationship between dogs and skunks. Why do dogs seem to like smelling like that? A theory is presented.

Cerberus Meets Caligula, a play in one scene

Unintentionally, one of the Dogman’s more controversial pieces. A.K. of S. California hated it. V.R. of Madison, WI, loved it. I think it’s…alright. A light hearted look at the three-headed dog who guards the Gates of Hades, and his encounter with deranged Roman emperor, Caligula. An affectionate nod to Monsieur Sartre's great plays, No Exit and Caligula. Read it and voice in with your comments. Warning to sensitive readers: Cerberus, guard of the nether world, spends a good deal of time cleaning his nether regions! Make sure children don’t read it, because they might giggle at the idea of a dog licking himself, and we must discourage that kind of frivolity!

“Look Out, Cat!!! ™

A description of, and rules for, the favorite indoor game for two or more dogs who live with a cat. Read it. Leagues forming soon in your area.

Coming Saturday: Dog News and, hopefully, your pictures of your dogs in Halloween costumes.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Let Us Sit Upon the Ground and Tell Sad Stories of the Death of Kings

Arthur was Karen’s third, and final, Seeing Eye dog, coming to us in early 1999. He was a German shepherd and was coming in to replace Vinnie, the black lab, who was retiring due to advancing age and chronic silliness.

If Vinnie was more concerned with comfort and culinary misdeeds than his job, Arthur was, to put it mildly, a reminder of what the other end of the guide dog spectrum was like.

Like Karen’s first dog, Lyric, Arthur was a long-haired shepherd. But while Lyric had been the runt of her litter, Arthur apparently came out of the birth canal an alpha dog, and never looked back.

When Karen was training with Arthur at the Seeing Eye, the reports I got were very different than those I’d received about Lyric and Vinnie during their training periods. Lyric hated Karen, Vinnie loved everyone, and Arthur, well, Arthur was essentially perfect. He accepted Karen instantly as his new mistress, and from the first day of training rarely, if ever, made even the slightest mistake.

There were a few problems unrelated to their work.

Arthur didn’t seem to like the other dogs at the school, and this could be seen in his attitude. He would become visibly impatient when he and Karen had to wait for the rest of the class to catch up with them, as if he were thinking, “What is the matter with those guys? I trained with them. They know how to do it. Why won’t they work right?”

At the Seeing Eye the students and trainers all eat at round tables for five or six, to simulate a restaurant, and the students keep their dogs under the table, out of sight. On several occasions, Arthur started a fight with another guide dog under the table, for reasons unknown to Karen, but seemingly quite clear to Arthur. Since he was the biggest dog in the class, as well as the smartest, the fights were very quick, ending with the other dog, unhurt, but as submissive as a puppy. Naturally this behavior was a little worrisome to Karen, and to the Seeing Eye, but in reality, situations where five large dogs are crammed under one small table are pretty rare, and the school felt Karen was a strong enough guide dog user to control any potential problems he might exhibit.

She was, generally, although when she and Arthur first came into our house, where Vinnie and four other dogs already lived, he immediately set the ground rules according to Arthur. Vinnie was so delighted to see Mom after her three week absence that he ran to her to throw himself into her arms and kiss her. Arthur couldn’t have mistaken Vinnie’s approach for aggression, but he nonetheless brought the ten year old lab down in a flash of fur and teeth. We were horrified and tended to Vinnie, who was completely unhurt but terrified and baffled. What had happened? Arthur watched our solicitousness towards Vinnie without a flicker of regret. He nicely met the other dogs and cats, and, a couple hours later, he approached Vinnie and did what he could to make up. It was as if he was saying, “Hey, nothing personal, man, it’s just that there’s a new alpha in town!” Vinnie, who couldn’t hold a grudge, accepted the apology, and his new role in the pack, with cheerful equanimity.

To watch Arthur and Karen work was to see a miracle. There’s always something magical about watching a good human-guide dog team, but Arthur was like nothing I’d ever seen before. He was fast, and precise. None of her dogs would have let her stumble over a curb; Arthur wouldn’t let Karen hit a crack in the sidewalk. He guided her around overhanging branches without breaking stride. When they crossed the street, Arthur made eye contact with the idling cars at the intersection, both, I suspect, to make sure the drivers saw them, and also to communicate to the drivers exactly what would happen to them if they broke their idle and attempted to move before he and Karen had crossed.

At home, Arthur became a pretty nice guy. No more fight or displays of dominance were necessary. He was King, and it was good to be King. He enjoyed playing with balls or Frisbees, and was a pretty normal, if intense, kind of dog, never displaying the kind of neurosis that tortured Lyric through her life. He was a good dog, a world-class Seeing Eye dog, leader of a pack of six, and at peace with the world.

Within nine months of Arthur arriving, Karen was diagnosed with breast cancer. The first component of her treatment was a modified radical mastectomy of her left breast. Because you work a Seeing Eye dog with your left arm, the surgery crippled Karen from being able to work Arthur. Well before she was healed from that she began chemotherapy, and between the chemo sickness and the surgical pain, she found that she could no longer work a dog. On days she felt well enough to try, she’d put Arthur’s harness on him, and he’d stand there, refusing to move. He could sense her lack of confidence and comfort, and if his teammate couldn’t work, well, then, neither could he. The Seeing Eye sent a trainer out to work with them, but, in Karen’s condition, nothing could be done. If and when she recovered, retraining work would begin.

Around this time, Arthur’s life began to focus on his daily trips to the park and his Frisbee game. He became as dedicated a Frisbee dog as he’d been a Seeing Eye dog. He had no interest in other dogs at the park, unless he thought they might want to steal his Frisbee, and then he’d chase them off and bark at them until he was secure his treasure was indeed his.

The Frisbee became Arthur’s life. He slept with it, carried it around, offered it to you, or teased you with it, on a constant basis. He had unbounded enthusiasm for the Frisbee. Playing catch itself became secondary. Holding the Frisbee, guarding the Frisbee, I suppose, in a sense, working for the Frisbee, became Arthur’s life.

In January, 2002, Karen and I were living in New Mexico with Arthur, Levi, who was just a puppy, and Erica. Karen’s pain from the mastectomy never abated, and she never worked Arthur again. She’d take him when she went out, but she’d hold my arm and Arthur had no decisions to make. His work as a guide dog had come to an end, and he was beginning a second career of his own choosing, that of a deranged, obsessed, Keeper of the Frisbee.

On the morning of January 18, 2002, I was in the living room with Levi, while Karen was in bed, sleeping, with Erica. Arthur was outside somewhere with the Frisbee. At sometime around 10:00 AM, Erica came running out of the bedroom terrified, as if she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she had. Karen had died.
I went into the bedroom with Levi to check on her. She wasn’t breathing and had no pulse, but she wasn’t cold. Levi sniffed her, startled. He jumped on the bed and examined her face, carefully, without licking her. He didn’t howl, and I didn’t see tears, but Levi was crying, his puppy-heart broken.

I called Arthur into the house. He was carrying his Frisbee, and wanted me to please covet it. I took him into the bedroom, where his mistress had just died. He looked at her, sniffed her, and then turned to me. At this terrible moment there was only one thing on his mind. He wanted to go outside and play with his Frisbee.

When the paramedics came to take Karen’s body away, Levi and Erica were hiding. Arthur was making friends, seeing if one of these nice men wanted to play with his flying disc, please. Despite my grief, I was acutely embarrassed that my wife’s Seeing Eye dog was acting so indifferently to her death in front of strangers.

Erica, Levi and I all took a while to process Karen’s death. We clung closer to each other. Levi didn’t eat for days. Erica would never come in the bedroom again. Arthur, happily, had his Frisbee, and that was all he needed.

Arthur was a magnificent dog, handsome, strong, and brilliant. He’d been born to be a Seeing Eye dog, and his entire life was a build-up to that important job. Then, less than a year after he began working, he was laid off, permanently. His incredible energy and concentration were no longer focused, and his deterioration was fast and heartbreaking. He had been born a King, with his future assured, living in the world of humans, leading his mistress, and being a universally beloved and admired dog. Now he was a half-crazed German shepherd with but a single thought in his expansive brain: Look at my Frisbee! It wasn’t just Karen who was dead. The King was dead, too.

Arthur lived five more years faithfully serving his Frisbee. At age eight, he developed metastatic bone cancer. Though he was limping, we played a last game of catch, and I made him a steak. Then, full, tired from our game, and long deposed from his throne, we drove to the vet, with the Frisbee. He lay down, and I lay down next to him, my arms around his chest. When I told him how much I loved him, he looked up from his Frisbee and into my eyes. He gave me a single sweet kiss on my lips. I told the vet we were ready, and the needle slid in. Arthur’s eyes opened wide for a second, he inhaled, and then he put his great head down and went off, to find Karen waiting for him at Rainbow Bridge. I'm sure that when they met in heaven, she had the grace to throw his Frisbee for him, first thing.

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands
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Pictures of Arthur not available. Pictures provided for illustrative purposes only.