“When the kids are gone and the dog is dead, you’re my people.”

A Dog Named GAGE

I’ve often said, “When the kids are gone and the dog is dead, you’re my people.” This no longer applies in my home. At the suggestion of my doctor and family, I notify our condominium board members, I am acquiring a new family member who was named Gage on 27 June near Henrietta, Texas, where he was born. Not one to challenge Texas wisdom, Gage it is.

 

Arriving home from Israel/Jordan, I meet Gage

Gage flew to the Northwest on 21 September; an officially registered ESA city dude pup. He sees a great vet, has had all his shots, and is learning just how far it is along the hallway to the elevator, down the elevator to the lobby, across the lobby and out the back door to take care of things. (Considerably farther than where he was born).

He and I are now in puppy school. Who knew?

 

Gage is a Labradoodle, a mix of the Labrador Retriever’s keen sense of direction and the Poodle’s non-shedding coat. This designer breed was originally developed in Australia to be a hypoallergenic guide dog. Gage is friendly, knows no strangers, will welcome burglars and point out for them all the best stuff, and is excellent with kids (though his ‘puppy’ enthusiasm can be a bit overwhelming for children at first; we’ll work on that). And, yes, you can pet him if you want to.

 

Who’s the master now?

My daughter, Michele, texts me half way through Gage’s and my first week together: “Did you sleep well last night?” she asks. It is the right question. Delicately put. Not, “Are you both still alive?” What should I tell her? I know how much she wants this to go well for us.

Truth? To end each of our first days, Gage and I fall in an exhausted coma in front of the TV by 7:00. Really? We’re doing this every day from now on? I wake Gage up at 9:00, much to his distaste, and get him upstairs to his new ‘crate bed’ next to mine. We fall into a deep sleep.

At 12:30 a.m., we’re off to do his thing … which he decides to do in the hallway near the elevator. He views this as an innocent accident. I see it as retribution. Further proof we are all “born into sin.”

I think he should clean it up and tell him so. He just looks away and makes no move. So I do it. When we return to our bedroom, he promptly goes back to sleep, a satisfied smile on his puppy face. I take some sleeping tablets, pick up Marley, the book made into a movie about a rascally, but lovable dog adopted by a young Florida couple, and begin reading from where I left off weeks before. About 2:30 I turn the light out. We get up again at 5:30. Still dark outside.

 

Age comes with wisdom; sometimes age comes alone

The next night at 12:30, I decide to carry him to the elevator, so as to avoid any ‘accidents” like the night before. Have you ever tried carrying a twenty-six pound wiggling, hairy pair of eyes, with four huge puppy feet attached to all the other connecting parts? Well, I can tell you it doesn’t work. So down he goes and we walk together … very quickly … to the elevator … to the first floor … across the lobby and out the door. So far so good.

He proceeds to eat grass … like it’s a doggy salad of sorts … something he seems to prefer over the idea of sniffing around like a normal dog … pees … eats more grass … and then does his “big deed” in the darkest possible place he can find! He knows where it is. And he’s sure I do not. What kind of animal is this? I manage to step carefully, however, and scoop it up in a plastic bag suitable for the Vet, who for reasons unknown to me, seems to want it as a sample. One more reason the veterinarian is well paid.

(Note to self: remember the telephone next time. Not in order to call someone. No, tonight I want my telephone because there is a light in it.)

Although now that I’m fully awake, I realize it isn’t a such bad idea to be able to call someone, since … well, standing outside our condo building in my robe and pj’s, I realize I do not have my keys! Gage looks at me like, Really? You want to be the boss of things and you can’t even remember the keys?

 

Bad things happen to good people … and pups

So we walk around the block, thinking what a police officer may say if I’m found wandering around the city in my pajamas. At last we make it to the front entry area where there is a bench. Here I ponder who of my neighbor’s entry numbers I might dial at one o’clock in the morning, and I wouldn’t care if they never speak to me again. I decide I like them all too much and prepare to sit it out until someone happens by, or the sun comes up.

Gage sees this as an opportunity for us to have a “bonding time,” and goes to sleep on my lap. At 3:30 someone comes through the lobby, sees us, and opens the door.

 

All’s well that ends well

It’s 8 o’clock now and Gage is a well-fed happy hound in his new “city digs.” He’s heard me declare it’s not all about him, but figures responsibility comes later, and perhaps he is right. At the moment, as I begin writing, he’s enjoying staring out the window watching cars go by on the street below.

 

 

By the time I finish, he’s taken up what may become his most dutiful position. The pastor/writer and his pup. Gage opens one eye, “You are a pastor, too? I didn’t see that coming. Not even.”

Gage a good dog. Except when he’s not.

Yes, Michele, we’re doing fine.

 

 

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