“All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.” – Charles M. Schulz
When Cal, my Golden, died, it took me about a year to finally stop expecting him to come out of the sunroom and greet me when I returned home. It took a year to stop expecting it but, to this day, I still wish for it to happen. Some days, on my way home, the train rumbling under me, I think, it’s going to be nice to get home, pour a drink and just put my feet up. Then the thought, if only Cal were waiting, will slip into my plans and I will find myself looking out the window, watching a familiar world go by on my commute, wondering if Cal is doing okay and missing him the way you might miss love, a special time in your life, but really, missing him in the way you only miss your dog.
I have logic, I have reason and I understand the cycle of life and death and yet, I still cannot get over being without Cal. Imagine what it was like for him, no logic, no reason, no ability to read a clock or understand time, when I was gone for hours in the day. Doing whatever it was I was doing. Without him. When he was younger, not a puppy any longer, but at an age where he had learned some things, where he was aware of the routines, he would still sit in the middle of the room as I went off to work or out to see friends with a look on his face that said; “without me?” I would pause, assure him I’d be back soon and close the door. When he was young and still able to, he would stand up, his paws on the window sill and watch me walk down the street toward the train station. Some days, I wondered how long he stood there, watching. I always thought I should go back, check, make sure he wasn‘t hanging out there for too long. then I’d think, if he does see me and think I’m coming back, it would just be cruel of me to turn around and walk away again. So, I never found out.
I recall a day in early November when I was heading off to work. Cal had long since stopped asking “Without me?” and accepting that this is what we did and knowing that I would always comes home. Of course, Cal didn’t know about death and train crashes or hold ups with gun fire in convenience stores. He just knew I would leave and I would come home. So, that November morning, me at the door, Cal giving me a “see you when you get back” look, I closed the door started my walk to the train, looked back and … he wasn’t at the window watching me. He wasn’t paws up on the sill, looking at me go. I stopped in my tracks, waited, thinking maybe he needed a minute and when he didn’t appear, I went back into the house.
I always thought of myself as taking care of Cal, explaining the world to him, feeding him, keeping him healthy, that November day, I realized that Cal had been taking care of me as well. I went back into the house and Cal wasn’t in sight. I was about to call his name when he stuck his head around the corner of the sunroom. I asked him if he was okay and he hesitated. Then he came into the living room, walked to the window, looked up at it, made an attempt to jump up and look out. He couldn’t do it. It looked painful and I understood. I got down on my knees and patted him, he nodded, licked my face and started back toward the sun room. He stopped half way, turned around and woofed at me, telling me to get going, I was going to miss my train, he’d be here when I got back.
I knew about train crashes, hold ups with gun fire in convenience stores … I knew about death.
I had two more good years with Cal after that November morning. Yes, he had a little trouble walking, he slept more but, they were good years because, Cal was there.
Then Cal was gone.
I refused to throw his toys, his bed, his bowl away. I didn’t eat for a few days. I escaped from the house, not going straight home after work, stopping in my local pub or going to a movie instead. I refused to go to the park where Cal and I loved to walk, meet other dog owners. When I did see a dog, I either ignored it or crossed the street, ducked into a shop to avoid contact. I didn’t want to meet any other dog, I just wanted Cal. This behavior went on for I’d say about six months … probably more.
Outside of Calareso’s, a deli and market down on main street, is a post specifically erected for tying up your dog when you go inside. There’s also a bowl of water in the summer and inside, a cookie jar with dog treats in it, just reach in grab one or two. Cal loved going there. The treats, the water, the socializing with other dogs, Cal was a great one for socializing. He was much better at it than I was.
Abby, this woman I once dated, used to joke that Cal was the matchmaker that brought us together, I knew it wasn’t a joke. Cal and I sat on a bench at a diagonal across from Abby in the park for three weeks, on our walk home I’d tell Cal how pretty she was and how crazy she made me. One day, Cal just walked over to her as she sat reading her book and woofed. It wasn’t a bark, Cal rarely barked, it was this deep, breathy woof that said so much. She put her book down and petted him and we spoke, across the walkway, I didn’t dare get close. Cal did. Every day after we’d sit and he would walk over to her and woof. Eventually, I joined her on her bench and one thing lead to another. Abby thought I sent Cal over to her. Not true, he brought me to her.
So, it was about eight months since Cal had died and I was at Calareso’s. I looked at the jar of dog treats and, instinct I suppose, I reached in, plucked out two and put them in my pocket. I got a few things, walked out of the shop, turned right to head home when I heard it. The woof. The deep, breathy woof. I turned and there was a Bernese Mountain dog tied up at the post. He was quite handsome, sitting up, proper, regal
“Did you say something,” I asked.
“Woof.” he said.
It was Cal’s woof. No doubt in my mind. I stood, few feet away and stared at this dog. A young couple appeared and started to untie him. I took a few steps forward, complimented them on their handsome dog, they were very proud of him.
“Woof.” He said. They apologized, as if they had spilled beer all over my tuxedo. They assured me he never barked, he was very friendly to strangers.
“He didn’t bark,” I told them, “he said woof.” I took a dog cookie from my pocket, asked them if I could give it to him, him being Abner, they said yes. I came close, got down on my knees and held the treat out. Abner took it very carefully, very gently from my hand and munched it down. I patted him for a good long time, not wanting to stop, remembering how much I got from giving Cal a good pat. I finally stood up, sensing the young couple wanted to leave.
“Woof.” Abner said. Again the couple was a flurry of apologies and shock.
“It’s quite all right,” I told them, “Abner can count.” I pulled out the second treat and flipped it toward him. Abner did a slight leap, a slight lengthening of his body and snapped it out of the air. The couple was astonished. They didn’t know he could do that. They must try that at home. We exchanged pleasantries and they started away. Abner stopped, turned his head.
“Woof.” he said. Cal’s woof.
My intention, when I sat down to write this piece, was to give you some information about separation anxiety in dogs. Most dogs have some form of it. Dogs rescued from a shelter or dogs that have had many families will experience it more often than dogs who have been with you since they were puppies, as Cal was with me. If you want information about it, the symptoms, the treatment, I cannot recommend more highly the work of Dr. Karen Overall on separation anxiety and other issues you may have with your dog. She is tops in the field.
I will say this; be patient. Above all, be patient. When your dog chews up the door frames or, tears up the couch, he’s not misbehaving, he’s missing you. Missing you and not knowing about time clocks and lunch dates and … life. So, be patient and he will come around. Dr. Overall has great ways to help your dog with this anxiety, so read her and be patient. Don’t yell or punish, be patient and take time.
I know about clocks and lunch dates, life and death and still, I pluck two dog treats from the jar in Calareso’s every time I go in, for Abner …. for Cal … we’ve been separated quite a long time now and still …
Be patient.