A Boy and his Dog

Nobody came and put their head in my lap as I put on my shoes this morning. Nobody took it for granted that me lowering my head meant I needed a smelly-breathed dog face in mine, or that I should stop tying my laces and administer a good ear scrunch instead. Because today there's a big hole in the house where Wiley the dog used to be, and it's exactly the same size as the one in my heart.

Many, many years ago when we were still desert dwellers, Dear Wife volunteered for one of the local animal rescue shelters. Occasionally, one of the other volunteers would bring a new arrival over to our house and they'd stay with us for a night or two until space opened up at the shelter. This all worked very well until one time we received a call asking if we could foster a dog for a little longer - two weeks this time as she couldn't be put up for adoption until she'd recovered from being spayed. "It's an Australian Shepherd," they said, "just like your other two."

No problem there; we did indeed have a matching set of Aussies in the house, two medium-sized incredibly well behaved dogs, so the idea of having a third for a while was quite appealing. Until the car door opened and this enormous great beast of a dog fell out. We could see immediately that while she was almost certainly part German Shepherd, quite possibly part Belgian Shepherd, and who knows what else, there was nothing to indicate even a scrap of Australian Shepherd in the mix.

No matter, there's always room for one more dog in the house so we welcomed our new guest and prepared to be a three dog household for a couple of weeks. Of course, you know where this story's going. By the time the two weeks were up, this big hearted, clumsy, noisy and incredibly goofy dog had wormed her way into our lives and there was no way we could give her back.

The first thing to change was her name. Her previous owner had, for reasons beyond my comprehension, named her 'Lady'. I have to wonder if they'd even met her because whatever other qualities she might have, a lady she was not. We decided that her scrawny, half-starved appearance made her a dead ringer for the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote and within days she was answering to her new name of Wiley. Lady - bleh.

With love, a healthy diet and lots of exercise she soon filled out and her short, dry, scruffy coat grew long and silky. Her energy level was incredible and despite spending many long days hiking the local trails while she raced back and forth, I never saw her really tired. Everything about her just exuded life, from her habit of talking in a rurr-rurr-rurr voice when excited, to the noise of her tail thumping against the wall echoing around the house, to her endless curiosity and love for all. The concept that some people might not actually like dogs, never entered into Wiley's head and every human was just another friend to whom she needed to introduce herself.

But the most frustratingly endearing aspect of Wiley's personality was her perpetual belief that she was on the brink of starvation. No matter the quality of the dog food we gave her, or how much she managed to steal, or beg from strangers, poor Wiley's hunger was never satiated.

We learned early on that no food was safe. A dirty plate on the coffee table, bread on the kitchen counter, a bag of powdered sugar one Christmas Eve, a whole bag of premium dog food belonging to our friend Kris, whom we were visiting - all fair game. We had the cleanest kitchen floor in the world because dropped food never hit the ground. Wiley wasn't fussy - if it fit in her mouth it was food and it mattered not one whit how long it had been dead or whether something else had already eaten it. The stuff that passed through that dog's trash compacter intestines without apparent harm was phenomenal.

Although there were many scares. The first came early in the relationship when she dug up Dear Wife's newly planted roses to get at the bone meal mixed into the soil. What we didn't think about at the time was the bug poison mixed in as well. That resulted in a late night race across town to the emergency vet, with a thunderstorm crashing around us as we ran every red light hoping that no cops would be around to slow us down. The vet told us she was lucky to be alive, and indeed for several days, it was touch and go. But in a week or so, the spark returned to our new pal, and soon after, the irrepressible joy of life was back.

Another time she snagged an entire 5 lb jar of peanut butter; all but the bits around the dimple at the bottom where her tongue wouldn't quite reach. No, she didn't go to the bathroom for several days, and yes, I nearly threw my back out cleaning it up when she finally did.

As you can tell, learning from experience was never Wiley's strong suit and over the years we spent many worried hours sitting next to her on the floor, massaging her stomach and wondering if the latest ingestion would be the one to do her in. Mushrooms were nearly her downfall on several occasions after we moved to Colorado. We never really learned which were the poisonous ones but in the spring they grow in the yard faster than we can clear them. After finding her drooling and panting too many times, we resorted to putting a muzzle on her before letting her outside.

It's really a miracle she lasted over 14 years especially as that's a ripe old age for a dog her size in the first place. But over the last few years it's been hard to watch this boisterous, noisy and tireless dog grow slow and stiff and old. Eventually, I had to stop taking her on my long hikes and it broke my heart to leave the house with Sasha, The World's Most Irritating Dog™, while Wiley stared at us through the door. Still, most days I walked a mile around the neighborhood, while Wiley plodded gamely along beside me.

I didn't have a dog growing up and the Aussies were in Dear Wife's life before I came along. So while we always talked about Wiley as being 'our' dog, she really wasn't; she was my dog...my first dog. My hiking partner, my camping buddy, my therapist and my best friend.

Wiley passed away, peacefully in her sleep on Tuesday night, almost certainly as a result of something she ate, and I've hardly stopped crying since. And yes, I'm crying right now.

So happy trails and so long Wiley, my greedy, goofy, lively and loveable friend. Wherever you are now, I hope they're feeding you right. Thanks for everything...I'm going to miss you so much.