Finneran: Oh How I Loved That Dog….

Friday, January 23, 2015

Tom Finneran, GoLocal Worcester MindSetter

My mind raced back in time last week, back to endless days of endless summers. The trigger was a dog.

He was a Rhodesian Ridgeback and he was being walked near a city park as I happened to be driving by. I almost pulled over just to scratch his ears and look into his eyes but I decided not to alarm his owner with any such strange obsessive behavior. Had I pulled over I would have gently suggested that the owner let him loose to run in the park. They are a sight to see, a special breed. Strong runners, strong swimmers, as gentle as a lamb around babies and children and as tough as nails in protecting a home.

My dog’s name was Val, named after the Transvaal of Africa from where the breed originates. He was a beautiful tawny brown with a darker brown ridge of hair down the middle of his broad strong back. Thus the name of the breed, Ridgeback. They are also known as African Lion Hounds for their special function is to keep marauding lions at bay, protecting livestock until hunters can arrive. Talk about tough and fast, we’re talking about lions here, not mice and not rabbits. The occasional neighborhood tough-guy German Shepherd really didn’t stand much of a chance in the thankfully infrequent dogfights. Val was about 100 pounds of lightning fast muscle yet my little sister would crawl all over him yanking his ears, poking his eyes, and generally abusing him as only a toddler can do. Val loved her and watched over her like a guardian angel.

That strip of dark brown fur on a Ridgeback actually runs in the opposite direction of the rest of his tan coat and, when angry or alert, the ridge stands straight up almost the way the hairs on your neck react in tense or threatening moments. It was something to behold. While the regular mailman and milkman were “known” and accepted as frequent visitors, the occasional substitute, as a stranger, would get the full “intruder” treatment—raised ridge, a deep throaty growl, and full chested barking. Pity them. Everyone agreed that on those days the milk and the mail would be left on the first stair of our front steps, virtually on the sidewalk, rather than carried up onto the front porch. All parties, Val included, thought it was a wise solution.

Full moons were a special occasion. It was if Val was back on the plains of Africa with his forebears, baying at the moon with a wonderful wolf-like howl. Consideration for the neighbors led us to limit Val’s evening excursions when those full moons rose in the evening sky.

What is it about dogs and the bonds they develop with their owners? I’ve yet to meet the dog owner who doesn’t sense the wisdom, love, and loyalty of these special animals. I can still tear up at a million memories of Val and all of my brothers and sisters have their own special stories about him. My wife’s family dog was Bozo. He too was a full-fledged member of her family and, more than forty years on, Bozo stories are still shared as part of the family lore.

Dogs’ lives are notoriously and heartbreakingly short. Whether a year for them is the equivalent of nine or ten or twelve years of human life I do not know. What I do know is that a twelve year old dog is on his last legs and that the endings are very sad occasions. That was the case for Val and Bozo and Mittens and other family dogs over the years. As beloved family members, memories of them trigger every human impulse—laughter, story-telling, and tears.

And so it was last week as I drove by that city park. I saw my Val once again. I smiled at the cherished memory. And I cried like a baby. Oh just to run with him once more………….. Oh how I loved that dog.