Gordon

I look at my daughter's dog, Gordon, whom she's left with us. He's at least 17 years old. My aunt named him the week we got him, Gordon, because he's likely a Gordon Setter.

Gordon Setters are hunting dogs. They're meant to find birds hidden in brush and point them until the hunter sees the dog and fires. They're large dogs, the size of an Irish setter. My daughter was ten when her father took her to the SPCA to pick out a dog. We already had 2 dogs, but he thought she needed her own. Gordon was on doggie death row. He had less than 24 hours to live. And Katie fell in love with him and so he came home to became another member of our boisterous household. Our vet told us Gordon was at least 2 years old then.

From the beginning, Gordon wanted to leave.He ran away every time some child left the back gate open.He ran away whenever he could sneak his way out of Katie's grasp. He ran away and turned up miles from home over and over again . He loved, though, to hang out in the parking lot of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. "Partying at the Pig!" we used to laugh as we drove up to retrieve him. His favorite hang out.

Wikipedia gives us this: "The AKC describes the Gordon Setter temperament as "alert, gay, interested, and confident. He is fearless and willing, intelligent, and capable. He is loyal and affectionate, and strong-minded enough to stand the rigors of training." Gordons are intensely loyal to their owners; thrive in an attentive, loving environment; and are good family dogs."

Maybe Gordon isn't a Gordon Setter after all.

During my divorce, the children and I lived at the beach. We were 3 blocks from the small beachside downtown and the police station. Gordon would sneak out when someone forgot to lock the front porch door and head downtown. The police must have had my number on speed dial. Gordon was always turning up there. After the first few times, they stopped fining me. I'd show up after a phone call and the police officer on duty would take me to the back where Gordon would be resting in a large dog kennel just for the purpose of containing stray dogs.

I told them Gordon's story. How he had lived at the SPCA for a very long time before we got him. The police officer shook her head and smiled. "Incarceration syndrome," she said.

Wow. That explains alot. How, when we would pick him up from his wanderings after a call from a concerned citizen, Gordon would act like he didn't know us. "Are you sure this is your dog?" we were asked repeatedly.

And now he's old. And walking a little stiffly. When I wake up in the morning, I check him to see if he's breathing. He's deaf. He's lost weight. He doesn't grimace or make any noise when he gets up from his bed- where he lies most of the day- so I don't believe he's in pain. But boy, is he ever incontinent. I'm glad we have wooden floors. He doesn't know he's gone to the bathroom and the vet tells me it's because spinal arthritis is affecting important sphincters.

So the question invariably, every day is "Should I put him down?" Is being incontinent enough of a problem for him to warrant the 'blue juice'. I look at this dog whom I never really liked. This dog which I have taken to vets and hunted down after escapes. Which I have to bathe alot now. This dog which is sort of like a piece of furniture to us... just... there... not interacting more or less with us. I had just about talked myself into doing this thing when someone left the gate open.

At first I didn't know it. I came home from work and all of the dogs were home except for him. I convinced myself that Gordon had died under the house. I mentally prepared myself to crawl under there with a flashlight. Then there was a knock at the door. And the manager of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store stood there. With Gordon on the end of a ribbon used for balloons.

"He's been hanging out in the parking lot," he told me, handing me the ribbon. "His address was on his tag."

Gordon looked happy. His tail was wagging. He was tired but rightfully so. I thanked the nice man and brought Gordon in. He might not have been happy to be home, but I like to think he was happy that he still had it in him.

Alpha Dog Omega Cat

A pack lives in my house right now. Not just a small gathering of furry creatures. A pack. Children come and go but their pets stay forever.

My fault, I know it. No excuses from me. And these gypsy children of mine do claim (most) of their pets when their living situations permit. Otherwise, it's granny-day-care for them. Even my sister-in-law, moving across country into military housing, has taken advantage of the service- I now have a Shih-Tzu.

When my children were much younger we always had a dog. Then two. Then a manic episode from my husband... and we had three, four and almost five. But I realized recently that none of them then, and none of them now, are dogs of my own choosing.

Then the children were grown and my ex-and I became, well, ex's. I took the Huskie that no one wanted. Her name was Tasha. She had always been the family dog but when she and I started a new life together, we fell in love. We moved to the beach and walked at the ocean's edge twice a day. She nudged her doggie bed against mine so she could sleep as close to me as she could get without having to haul her arthritic bones up onto the bed. She became deaf and we developed our own sign language. We were sympatico.

I look at the pack gathered around me right now: Boykin Spaniel (hubbie's), Kai (belongs to my son in Costa Rica), Shih Tzu (sister in law's left overs), Gordon Setter (manic rescue belonging to my daughter), Mini Schnauzer (daughter's rescue) and Tortoise-shell cat (again, daughter...). And Fred, the shrimp, living in a biosphere on my kitchen table, but he was a birthday present from my pet-loving daughter.

I still don't have a dog that's mine.

I take care of them. I feed them and cut their matted hair. I give them treats and take them to the vet for shots. I buy them doggie beds and doggie Christmas stockings. But I don't feel they are mine.

Soon my children will be really and truly on their own and will come to re-claim their pets. The Boykin is nearing 12 years old- aged for a Boykin Spaniel and I shudder to think what will happen if my husband has to take him to that last vet's appointment.

When all the pets are gone, will I feel the urge to get a dog of my own? Have I become super-saturated with pets and rejoice when every fur-shedding, doggie-smelling, expensive 4 legged creature disappears?

Or will I fall in love with Cali, the Tibetan goddess of destruction, also known as my sister-in-law's Shih Tzu?