Can a dog save a life? Redux

An early post from two years ago—one of my first.

When I started out on Substack in February 2023, I had four subscribers, including myself. I had very little expectation or aspirations. It was an exercise in seeing if I could indeed write consistently. My coach

Bill Small

had suggested it as a way to get unstuck from the resistance I was encountering with the book about my small-town radio station.

Now about 26 months—108 weeks—later—and over 140 original essays published—I’d say that yes, I can write consistently. What I’ve found is that I can write effortlessly about emotional topics that weigh on my head and heart. What’s harder is telling a documentary-style story about other people—other times—with dates and names and facts that must be aligned and organized. I don’t know about the process of other writers, but for me the flow is harder to find in that way than it is when writing from my own heart.

Today I’m republishing an essay about the first dog I ever called entirely my own. From 7 weeks to 15 1/2 years. Because it was early, very few read it. Here it is again—unedited—and in it’s entirely for your review.

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Very little in the 15 + years of Bogey’s life was normal. Most all of it was miraculous. He was a survivor in the truest sense. A companion of the highest order. Emotionally intuitive and highly intelligent. Relentlessly playful and kind. He could pull a Whammo or a Discraft out of the sky at 70 yards at a full gallop. He was the first Golden Retriever I’d ever had as my own pet, and he had a high standard to live up to. I’d been introduced to the ways of the Goldens by a gentle canine named Sante, who was the family dog of my girlfriend Amy and her siblings (another story for another time). Both dogs rescued me by healing and re-opening my calloused and battered heart.

Bogey came to me in a rather pedigreed and unusual way. At that time in my life, I was traveling like a carnie and had been for a decade. 45-48 weekends a year I was somewhere besides my beautiful home alongside Gore Creek in Vail, Colorado. One of my newer “gigs” at the time was as MC and site announcer for the Purina Incredible Dog Challenge, a series put together by Paul (Rest in Peace friend) and Kathy Carson. I had been in their employ for several years co-producing and commentating the Cuervo Gold Crown beach volleyball events, the Cuervo Ultimate Championships, and other event series. Now there are several different dog competitions on television, but the Purina IDC was the first and is still running today after several decades.

To kick off the series, the inaugural event was held in the Fall of 1998 at Purina Farms outside St. Louis. This amazing facility played host to frisbee dogs, dock-diving dogs, agility dogs, racing Jack Russells, breeders, and thousands of spectators. At that event I met a local St. Louis area breeder who had two massive and athletic Goldens participating in the Diving Dog competition. He mentioned that two of his AKC Champion females were having litters in the Spring and that he was taking reservations. I put my name in for a pup. Second-guessing myself many times over the coming months, I nevertheless was eager to bring home a pup when I arrived the next Spring for the 2nd IDC event back at Purina Farms.

April 1999. The crew arrived as usual many days before the start of the event to do setup and preparation. John the Breeder had two litters consisting of 13 little Golden pups, all about 7-8 weeks old. He had them all, along with their mothers, out in the shaded grass in a makeshift pen. Each of them had a number on their little bellies, made with a Sharpie…1-13. As I stood silently and observed them all feeding, one pup spotted me, jumped up from his teat, and climbed over his brothers and sisters to come greet me. I picked him up and saw the number 3 on his belly. As the beautiful little creatures were all feasting on two very tired and passive moms, he was the only pup of the 13 to pay me any mind. Several hours later I took a break and went back to the pen. The exact same process repeated itself. One pup…number 3 came over to be held.

I told John the Breeder of my experience. He said, “well you did put in a reservation for a female, and all of the males are spoken for.” I told him that #3 had picked me, that I was the first one on-site making my selection, and those two things should count for something. He smiled and said, “let me make a call or two and see if I have any wiggle room.” The next day he informed me that I could purchase number 3 and take him home at the conclusion of the weekend. I was in new puppy-owner-heaven the rest of the week. We staged a Puppy Chow scramble for the crowd later in the weekend. All 13 puppies were held by handlers, then released to run about 50 feet across the field to a few bowls of Puppy Chow that had been put down on the field. Of course, #3 won the race. I was smitten.

Crowned “Vail’s Sir Humphrey Bogart” in accordance with his AKC lineage, he was Bogey. Many friends who know my passion for golf always assumed it was Bogie, but why would a golfer name his dog Bogie? Maybe Eagle or Birdie, but certainly not Bogie. It would be like naming your son “Whiff.” Bogey and I flew home to Vail, and he began his assimilation into a Colorado mountain dog. He was the only purebred I’ve ever had in my life. I’m a committed dog rescuer now, but as I said earlier, Bogart picked me. I had little choice in the matter.

Bogey established his independence early but simultaneously needed very little training. He listened and he responded to commands immediately once he learned their meaning. My Vail home was in a cul-de-sac at the far west end of Vail. A little street of duplexes named Bellflower, it ran alongside Gore Creek and was surrounded by BLM and US Forest Service land. There were elk and bear and lots of smaller critters. We had plenty of dogs on the “sac” willing to play and get in trouble together. He learned fast that freedom came with a price. He could be outside sunning on the porch with a view. He could even venture down the stairs to the street, as long as he stayed within my sight and my call. When he would venture beyond that, he’d get an earful and rarely pushed the boundaries again. Being a Golden he was a natural born swimmer. The immediacy of Gore Creek was a looming temptation, and the first time he surrendered to it he was only about 16 weeks old. It was June, which is runoff and mud season in Colorado ski towns. The creek was a river…turgid, brown, and very rapid. The two of us were walking down the little road when a squirrel dashed across the cul-de-sac ahead. Over the edge and down the bank went Bogey in pursuit. I took off after him. The last thing I saw was his little golden head bobbing down the river away from me and around the bend. “Oh shit I’ve lost my dog.” I knew he was collared and chipped but at that moment I wasn’t sure what to think. The fear built quickly.

Freaking out, I walked and ran downstream as best I could. Not easy. The trail was submerged and the brush thick. I was bushwhacking. Never did I catch sight of my 4-month-old puppy. After 10-15 minutes of this, I head back to the house to get my mountain bike or car so that I could swing around by road and check spots further downstream. As I’m mounting the stairs to my deck, I hear his little bark coming closer. From out of the woods comes Bogey the wonder dog, soaked to the bone in snow runoff. I swear he’s grinning. It wasn’t the last time he would survive my lack of proper supervision.

Our adventures were many. Long car trips all over the West. Moving to the city in Denver. Living through 7 homes in 10 years as I indulged my fix and flip fantasies. One time, in a home I was remodeling in South Denver, he pooped out an intact latex glove. Apparently, he’d ingested it from a box left in the driveway by the tilers. He was a comfortable across the back seat of my Tahoe as he was anywhere. As long as I was nearby, Bogey was at home in our vagabond existence. In the early days of our Denver life together, he and I locked the front door and moved to San Francisco for nearly a year. I had taken a “Head of Business Development” job at a creative startup, run by my eventual business partner Jason. We rented an expensive 650 sq. ft. studio apartment in Bernal Heights over top of a garage. No dogs allowed at the office, so my well-adjusted pup stayed home all day, interrupted twice a day for a nice walk with a hired neighbor woman and her pack. It was at Ft. Funston beach where he met Pacific Ocean waves for the first time. Going after his beloved Penn tennis ball, he was flipped, tumbled, and nearly drowned by a breaking wave. Of course, he got the ball. Another time he took off down the beach and completely out of my sight, chasing a sea bird flying low across the sand. Fifteen minutes later he comes back the other direction at full speed after another bird.

I took a weekend trip to South Lake Tahoe for Final Four weekend with 6 other guys. Bogey came along for the trip. We’d rented a home on the Nevada side up on a hill surrounded by tall pines. One night we left him behind in the house as we all headed for the casino sports book to watch the action. Returning home in separate cars at different times, I returned to find the front door standing open, 3 inebriated guys sitting in front of the television and an open sliding door to the deck off the back. “Where’s my dog?” They glanced up and said “Outside somewhere. We chuck the ball out the slider and he runs out the front door and brings it back. He’s amazing…it’s been going on for two hours.” Sure enough a few minutes later here comes Bogey, panting like he’s run the Boston Marathon, ball squarely in his jaw. I closed the door and the slider and called off the game. He slept for 12 hours. The next morning, I went outside and around the house to take a look at the terrain. The hill sloped steeply away from the back of the house for hundreds of yards. You could almost call it a cliff. I threw the ball down the hillside, and it rolled for a quarter mile out of sight in the pine trees and moss-covered ground of fallen logs and branches and rocks. The previous night Bogey must have fetched 20 times…in the pitch black…and covered thousands of feet of vertical both down and up.

Dog people have told me, “When I die I’d like to come back as your dog.” OK fair enough I spoil my dogs to this day. I cook them steak or hamburgers for dinner. Rotisserie chicken for breakfast. Cookies for dessert. Actual cookies. In my view, we get so little time with them in their relatively short lives, and they give us so much unconditionally, why wouldn’t I spoil them. But Bogey was the first…and he was with me when I was struggling with my addiction. There were times when I slept off a weekend bender, through both breakfast and dinner. Times when I shouted and threw stuff across the room in anger at myself. Times (most nights) when I’d pass out in my living room chair with the television blaring at me. And partway through his life I introduced him to Pistol Pete, a rescue off the street in downtown Denver, who would become his brother and playmate for the next 10 years. They became pals, but at first Bogey was pissed he had to share.

Sooo…one night. Wait, let me lay down this disclaimer first. I am now 13 1/2 years clean and sober. Bogey got to spend 6 of those years with me. That night however, I was deep in the shit. I was convinced that either I would stroke out and die, or that someone nefarious would be coming through my front door. It was bad. As intense as the paranoia was, I still didn’t stop using. So, I did what any person completely out of their ever-loving mind would do. I got my passport out, my driver's license out, got out my Ruger 1911 pistol…loaded of course, and my medical insurance cards. I arranged them all on my bedside table and I laid down. I wasn’t suicidal…that’s never, ever occurred to me. My drug and alcohol-fueled paranoia had me convinced of a bad outcome.

I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, sweating my sheets. Both Bogey and Pete were on their beds on the floor alongside. Something about my rapid and shallow breathing, or my scent of fear, must have alarmed Bogart. Next thing I knew, the big Golden was lying across my chest and licking my face. It was uncharacteristic of him…he’d never done it before. Anyone who has shared a special bond with a dog has experienced their ability to sense our moods. This was no mood. Bogey was alarmed for me, and I was clearly in a troubled state. He locked eyes with me and simply would not move. We somehow made it through that night without any of the possible disastrous outcomes that I had expected.

The last 6 1/2 of Bogey’s amazing 15 1/2 years in my life were in a calm, clean, and sober household. Bogey, Pistol Pete and I hosted two-legged and four-legged friends alike for pool parties, barbeques, game watching nights. Lots of hiking and travel to the mountains. On the 8th of July in 2014, Bogey looked at me from his beddie. His eyes told me everything. “I’m done.” I don’t recall this 100 lb. purebred Golden Retriever ever being sick or hurt. He always rose to the challenge. This was the beginning of the end of our time together. I bathed him in warm water in the claw-foot tub and called the home-visit veterinarian that I’d lined up just for this eventuality. She would come over the next day. I set aside everything else I had on the calendar so that I could spend one last summer day with my best friend. We went to his favorite park and sat in the grass together under a tree. He had his trusty tennis ball along. Pete somehow knew this was a somber moment and was uncharacteristically calm and just laid there beside us. Bogey got hamburger for lunch, steak for dinner, and ice cream for dessert. He loved ice cream. I took him for an assisted swim in his beloved backyard pool that evening. We lounged on the couch watching the Colorado Rockies…one of our favorite pastimes. I could barely function. Tears in my eyes and a catch in my throat all day and night. I tried with all my strength to stay present with my pal.

As we went to bed, I prayed that he’d pass in the night, and I wouldn’t have to make that awful but necessary decision of grace to end his suffering and his life. I hardly slept. Listening for his breathing all night. After carrying him out to do his business in the morning, he and Pete were treated to a crispy bacon breakfast, which they inhaled. Bogey could eat like a Champion right up to the end. The kind vet came to the house. My dear friend Karen joined me for the ceremony. Frankly that’s all I can write about that day. Nearly 8 years later, that goodbye is the hardest of my life.

Bogart saved me in acute ways. He saved me in so many intangible ways. At my darkest moments, it wasn’t my company or my partners or my family or my employees or my friends that made me get up in the morning and face another day. It was knowing that I had my dog(s) to care for. It was my greatest responsibility and also my greatest reward to provide the home, the adventures, and the love I was able to.

Even today I see little behaviors in my current pack of 4 rescues that remind me of him. Luke stares at me like Bogey did. Oliver barks directly at me when he has something to say…just like Bogey did. Willie is nearly his equal as a ball hound. Mikey comes in and finds my hand very intentionally when he wants a rubbie. Just like Bogart used to flip my hands off the keyboard when I sat at my desk too long. For Bogart, dog heaven consists of endless cans of fresh Penn tennis balls, tall grass, a pool or a pond…he’d take either, sunshine, bacon, ice cream, and Steely Dan in the background. One can certainly hope.