Why am I telling you about the dogs who’ve been part of my life? It’s a way to set the scene for the Be the Dog project, which begins shortly! Be the Dog is a means to improve my life (and, perhaps, yours as well, if you decide to join me on this quest), by emulating the positive qualities in my dogs.
So let’s continue this intro!
Cassidy (She of the Starter Marriage)
I won’t spend an inordinate amount of time telling you about Cassidy, the sweet and gorgeous German Shorthaired Pointer who lived with my ex-husband and me.
Cassidy and I were incredibly attached to each other, which made it all the more excruciating when I arrived home one day after my ex and I had decided to split, to find her locked in the outdoor pen where we sometimes kept her. The usual lock had been changed, and I had no way to open the pen to free her or to reach in and pat her.
I sat outside the pen on the wet grass for almost two hours, my rear becoming both wetter and number as the time ticked on, Cassidy and I both wailing uncontrollably while I attempted to tap her sweet nose and ears with the tips of my index and middle fingers, the only parts of my hand small enough to fit through the chicken wire that enclosed the pen.
Sadly, I don’t know what became of Cassidy after the split. I can only hope my ex treated her well and that she enjoyed a long and healthy life.
Elsie (the First Born)
And then came Elsie! Or, more correctly, “L.C.” (as I’ll explain anon), the girl I consider my “first born” (emotionally, at least).
After the dissolution of my starter marriage and the heart-wrenching separation from Cassidy (ha! You thought I was going to write, “from my husband,” didn’t you? Truthfully, I do still miss one of them. But it’s not the human), I was adamant that (a) I’d never marry again; and (b) I absolutely had to have another dog in my life.
After six years on my own, living in a basement apartment where dogs weren’t permitted, I felt the itch to experience both a human and a canine relationship once again.
What began as a summer fling with my HH (“Human Honey”) surprisingly evolved into an actual relationship, which has now evolved into a 25-year cohabitation. And so, after about four years into what was already a relatively stable relationship, I was finally able to convince the spouse to get a dog.
Even before we began to scour the papers and internet, a few facts had already been established:
Our pooch had to be a rescue;
She had to be a puppy (not only infinitely cuter, but also infinitely more pliable);
She had to be black (Why? I have no idea. Was it my extended dour mood after the divorce? Maybe because black dogs tend to be adopted less frequently, and we could save a dog that way? Or possibly that my wardrobe at the time was 99% black as well, and I’m freakish about color coordination? Most likely, all of the above); and
Her name was predetermined: it would absolutely, positively, unequivocally have to be “L.C.,” the commonplace expression of which would, of course, become “Elsie.” On this point, there was no negotiation.
You see, after my marriage broke up, I swore off men for quite some time. I was determined to work on “self development” to the point that I’d be able to function effectively in a relationship again (after realizing that goal might never be entirely achievable, I relented and decided to work on self-development until I met someone with whom I could function. . . at all).
During that interlude, I decided I’d get myself another dog no matter what. And that dog would be my companion, my soul-mate, my movie-night buddy, my best friend. I could trust a dog to be there for me, to remain loyal and supportive, to offer a (soft and furry) shoulder to cry on. Basically, all the things my ex-hubby was not.
And, because it took over six years to reach that point, I had plenty of time to ponder a name for said pup. One day, it came to me: L.C.! That’s right, the letters “L” and “C”--as in, Life Companion. The one I would choose to spend my days with. The one who would replace the awful, temporary, break-your-heart, human companions. Here, Life Companion! Sit, Life Companion! Who’s such a good girl, Life Companion?!
Of course, I loved the double entendre. Secretly, I’d know that it actually meant “life companion” when, in fact, if said aloud, it would sound like the simple name, “Elsie.” And so our Girl’s moniker was born—long before she was, and long before my relationship with the HH.
I must admit, she lived up to her expectations. Steadfast, loyal, snuggly, sweet and super smart, Elsie was everything you’d want in a first born. A mix of black lab and border collie, she had both the intelligence of the latter and the friendliness and insatiable appetite of the former. This made for a very endearing and quirky personality.
Because I treated her almost like a human, Elsie understood a huge range of words (at one attempt to chronicle them, we got up to 163 and lost count) and was also incredibly trusting of her humans. As a result, she allowed all manner of physical manipulation, which made her great with children prone to pulling ears and tails.
It also meant she was the perfect mascot for my then-food blog, as I could dress her in any type of costume and she would invariably comply.
My favorite image of Elsie was taken on the patio in our back yard, a bright red apple between her paws, smiling at the camera as the cover girl for my “Wellness Weekend” food roundup. The thought bubble above her head reads, “Mmmm, food!”
She also made appearances as a princess in a tiara, a fairy in pink tulle, Lady Gaga in her meat suit, an acrobat balancing a hoop on her nose, and too many more to count. In every instance, she was game to give the costume a try (as long as a treat made its appearance after the camera clicked).
We both loved Elsie to the very end, three months before her 16th birthday, when the vet she adored arrived at our home and ushered in our last goodbye. I still miss that sweet life companion, every day.
Chaser (the Side Kick)
And speaking of companions, after a couple of years with Elsie in the house, I began the campaign to acquire a second dog. “She’ll be a sibling for Elsie,” I suggested to the HH. He wanted none of it.
This one took some wrangling, but after promising to manage the dog’s entire puppyhood, from waking four times each night during house training to covering her feeding, vet visits and daily training, the HH finally capitulated.
Finding a name was another story.
As I’d already pre-determined Elsie’s name before the HH and I even met, we agreed he could christen our second dog. Unfortunately, he had no ideas.
What ensued were a series of frustrating discussions in which he vetoed every suggestion I had. Until, that is, I decided to broach the subject one day in the car. I’d read it’s easier to have sensitive conversations with your spouse while driving (after all, you’re in close contact, it’s quiet and private, he doesn’t have to look you in the eye–oh, and he can’t escape).
So here’s a short excerpt from our discussion:
[The scene: Ricki and her HH. Mid-morning, on the way to an errand, circa May, 2007].
Ricki (from the back seat, keeping the pup at bay): Oooh, look at this little angel! Isn't she just the sweetest little thing?? Ohhh, hello my little fuzzy wuzzy, ooooh you are so cute you little darling, what an adorable little puppy!” Kiss kiss, pat pat.
HH: She hasn't shut up since we got in the car. Can't you make her stop crying?
Ricki: Just ignore her. Besides, we can't really get her attention until she knows her name, now can we?
HH: I still don't have any ideas.
Ricki: Well, then, let ME pick one!
HH: No.
Ricki [after a pause]: Okay, well, let's brainstorm together. I'm sure we can come up with something. How about related to your hobbies. I know, what about a cute car name, like Bentley, since you love cars?
HH: You mean, like, "Come here, Ferrari!" Naw, too stupid sounding.
Ricki: Well, what about a famous musician's name, then?
HH: What, like, "Come here, Rachmaninov!" Really stupid sounding.
Ricki: Okay, let's look at some of our favorite television shows. What about Star Trek?
HH: Oh, sure. You mean like, "Come here, Seven of Nine!" Right. Mega stupid. As if we're going to find a name in a television show!
Ricki: Hmmmm. What about House? Who are our favorite characters. . . . let's see . . . . Gregory House, Dr. Foreman . . . .
HH: Really, this is not going to work.
Ricki: There's Dr. Chase. . . Hey! How about Chaser?
HH: Hmmmnnn. [Pause]. Perhaps, perhaps.
Ricki: Yeah, that's kinda cute, actually, little Chaser [wiggling the pup’s ears] . . . .
HH: Sort of like a "chaser" after a drink . . . yeah! Hmm! VERY cute!
Ricki: Yes! And she's so energetic and bouncy, I bet she'll be chasing Elsie all over the place--
HH: Okay. I think I like it!
TV with a shot of alcohol–how could you go wrong? And so, Chaser found her name.
As it turns out, Chaser is thus far the sweetest—there’s just no better word for her–of our canine crew. From inauspicious beginnings, she grew into a somewhat timid, generally quiet and incredibly obedient dog (she does boast 50% German Shepherd genes, after all).
From the get-go, Chaser embodied her name. Put a rolling ball, a dropped chickpea, a bird, a squirrel or a wayward garbage bag in front of her, and she just went for it.
As it happened, during the first week she lived with us (at only six weeks old), she must have spied something moving on the lawn one morning when the HH let the dogs outside. Without realizing she was six steps above ground on our deck, Chaser simply launched herself toward whatever it was and went soaring out towards the item, sailing forward horizontally through the air and landing in a tumble onto the grass.
“She literally flew through the air,” the HH marvelled. He couldn’t get over it. “She didn’t even think about it, just leapt out across the steps!”
I will forever hold that vision of our tiny pup gliding across the lawn, plunking to a halt when she hit ground and rolling a few times before she got her bearings.
Chaser spent many years of her youth repeating this same death-defying leap in pursuit of Frisbees and balls. At her fittest, she was able to jump almost ten feet in the air before seizing the Frisbee in her mouth and floating back to earth.
Chaser never walked down stairs; she blasted off across them. And even now at 15-1/2 years old, she still attempts one last leap just before the base of the staircase, her back legs often folding neatly underneath into a sitting position because she simply doesn’t understand that her body is no longer capable of flight.
Through it all, she has remained our Doodle Girl, the sweet darling who learned her lessons the first time, never required a verbal reprimand more than once, who shares her toys and food without the need for encouragement, who comes when called and stops when told, who curls up in a corner and snores in dreamland, startling at the touch of a human hand reaching to caress her silken ears.
In the end, Elsie and Chaser loved each other for almost ten years. And then, we lost Elsie.
It turns out dogs aren’t always the way you think they’ll be or the way you want them to be. In fact, the HH and I were both rather shocked when Chaser didn’t seem to react to Elsie’s departure at all. She remained calm, obedient, playful (as much as she was ever playful with humans), and even-tempered.
Yet . . . I couldn’t get it out of my mind how she and Elsie grew up together, how much they loved each other, how they were inseparable companions, how often they romped and nuzzled, how much dogs are pack animals.
So the campaign for yet another puppy began.