Sixteen Paws

Rescue Me!

Greetings sober-minded ones! I’m a little late to my Friday work today. We had a whopper of a storm blow through last night. Baseball-sized hail flying sideways. 70 MPH winds with some rotation. I’ve always thought that it was a tad hyperbolic when I’d hear someone say baseball-sized hail—but I can confirm after having thrown tens of thousands of the little cowhide suckers in my youth—these were indeed as described. Picking a couple of them off the pillows of our bed after the bedroom window blew out was all the proof I needed. Sorry no pictures—I was busy picking up glass all night to save the pups’ feetsies. Speaking of puppies—today’s offering is all about my current pack of 4 beasties. Oliver Twist, Willie Beamon, Happy-go-Lukie, and Handsome Mikey. Last night as we cowered together in our safe area listening to the bombardment and the roof shingles coming off—Ann and I marveled at how calm they were—right at our feet and watching our every move. What a blessing we’re all safe. I’ve been picking up stuff and filing claims all day and now I offer today’s rumination: 16 Paws.

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I’m a half-century past 16 candles. 16 paws is more my style now. A recent essay by my good friend

Bill Small

sparked me to finally share an essay about my current pack of rescue mutts. Every single day I learn from these animals. Every single day my heart leaps with love—and a giggle or belly laugh comes from deep down. Every dog owner knows the personality of their dogs. But in the contrast of close pack proximity—one can truly see the nuanced differences.

I’ve had and loved dogs most of my life. In a previous essay I outlined how my beloved golden retriever Bogart—who passed in July 2014 at the age of 15 1/2 literally saved my life.

My current pack started that year with the loss of Bogie. I promise to write more about my dog Pistol Pete—named after Pistol Pete Maravich for his hops and his quickness—in future essays. Bogie and Pete were a pair—hard won bonding had finally broken through any initial resistance—and they spent 10 years together.

When Bogie passed Pete was inconsolable. Mopey and uninterested—constantly searching the house and yard for his constant companion and behavior mentor. Pete had been through a chemo cycle already for his lymphoma that surfaced around age 10. The successful treatment had graced him with another 3 quality years by my side. But without Bogie he seemed lost. The cancer had returned—and I wasn’t going to put him through the 16-week cycle again.

Instead he got a buddy. Pistol Pete meet Oliver Twist. I had not planned on immediately re-loading my canine family. Plans to travel without the cost and coordination of dog-sitting was appealing to me. None of my dogs have ever been kenneled. I’ve always been fortunate enough to find someone trustworthy who loves them and has the ability to move in and stay overnights when I was gone—which I was often during those years in my career. But anyone who has had dogs knows that we don’t actually find them—they find us.

Oliver found me through a friend who knew I’d lost Bogie. She had a potcake dog. I’d never heard of such a thing. She told me about one dog in particular that wasn’t working out for a young family who’d recently adopted him. Would I like to go see him? When it comes to dogs—particularly rescues—I am what sales professionals call a “lay down.” Off I went to spend my Labor Day Saturday morning with a very pregnant mom chasing a screaming 18-month-old toddler in diapers—a 4-year-old trying to pull the ears off an older dog—a hungover and not-so-pleasant husband who came out of his garage for 10 seconds to grunt Hey at me—and Ollie. I settled in on top of a picnic table with my coffee mug and I just observed. God Bless this young family but my first impression was—if I was a dog I’d do anything to get the fuck outta here.

Oliver—it wasn’t his name when I adopted him—was tearing around the small fenced-in back yard trailing a baby blanket behind him doing that head shake thing that dogs do with a toy they’re trying to destroy. It was utter chaos in all directions. Mom proceeded to tell me that this DOG had nipped her 4-year-old when the ruffian had been applying his earache technique. I continued to sit on the table and nurse my coffee and observe. After about 15 minutes Oliver’s circles around the yard began to close in around me. Finally he stopped in front of me with the blanket remnants. Then he eased his way up onto the top of the picnic table and gave me a good sniff which I studiously ignored. I stood up—looked right at him—and in my deepest alpha voice said SIT. He immediately dropped to his hind legs and froze. I told the woman I got him from here. Have a nice life. He piled in the Tahoe and wagged his way home from the front seat.

From his paperwork and my friend, I learned that Oliver Twist (my name for the crafty bugger) had been rescued originally from Grand Bahama—lived as a stray puppy—like hundreds of other dogs—on the rice and meat mix found at the bottom of the cookpots of the island locals. After being picked by a rescue operation and flown through Houston eventually to Denver and the young family—where I picked him up on Labor Day weekend in 2014—two months after Bogie passed.

Pete was immediately smitten by the younger dog and it lightened his step by measurable degrees.

And so it was. Oliver became the living link between my old pack of two and my current pack of 4.

Pete finally succumbed to the lymphoma 9 months later in April 2015 at the age of 13. I won’t even go into the grief I suffered through in that year of losing both Bogie and Pete. Anyone who has experienced it knows. Part of my heart and a portion of my prayers still live somewhere with the spirits of those two wonderful dogs. It is the hardest thing.

I turned my focus to Oliver—another rescued dog worthy of a forever home that I intended to provide. Despite all the walkies, hiking, and attention—he and I both grieved and pouted.

My friend called once again after Pete’s passing and told me of this pair of female vet techs who on their vacations would travel the Southwest in their camper/trailer on spay and neuter missions. They’d occasionally pick up strays along the way and place them in foster homes in Denver upon their return. The kindness and mercy of their mission was powerful and on Memorial Day weekend—what is it with Holidays?—I drove down south to meet a woman who was fostering a dozen such rescues at her ranch in Parker.

Amongst the high Colorado grass of their pasture emerged a bright-faced and brindled star. He tore across the yard and hit me with a well-placed leg tackle. He’s a little wild-eyed and fearful but he’s really fun. Gentle with my kids and runs all day long, the smiling and caring vet tech informed me. In the Tahoe and off we went to form a larger family.

Oliver was in store for his number 2—his wingman—his enforcer. Willie Beamon was right for the job. Named by me for the Jamie Foxx character in the 1999 movie Any Given Sunday—depicting the back up QB to Dennis Quaid’s veteran starter—Willie and Ollie started in on each other as two-year old male rescues do right from the jump. That first night—after hours of harassing and wrestling one another for pack position—they ended up spooning on the wood floors following dinner. Oliver had successfully defended his position as O.G.—Willie seemed satisfied with his status as muscle.

Willie’s origin story indicates a wild childhood on the Navajo reservation near the four corners of CO, NM, AZ, and UT. When the ladies picked him up he was starving, had a broken tail, a chewed-off ear, and some significant damage around his neckline indicating some pretty vicious scraps with something. They brought him back to Denver and got him some basic veterinary care to remove the tail and sew up his neck to a functional degree. More surgery and care would be required after I adopted Willie monster.

So within 10 months of Bogart’s journey over the rainbow bridge we were two again—I had a new pack of ruffians. Both 2ish—they were past the puppy stage and into their maximum exercise years. We spent the summer exploring and hiking and swimming—Willie’s Catahoula blood on display as he plunged into every body of water he could find—including my pool. Bogie and Pete would have been proud.

That summer of 2015 I resigned my position as Vice President of Customer Engagement with PR Newswire—a role I’d assumed after selling my company to them and getting sober in 2009—in that order. It was time to find something new. I wanted to help non-profits. I wanted to work the 12th step of AA: Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs. I found both with Hazelden Betty Ford—the organization that helped me get well six years prior—and that I still do significant philanthropy work with.

Meanwhile I was ready for a change of residence. Twenty-five years in Colorado—15 of them in the city of Denver—I wanted to try living a more rural and pastoral lifestyle. I visited my younger brother down in Wimberley Texas for my niece Karina’s graduation from Texas A&M and was immediately smitten. Two months later in early June 2016—Ollie and Willie and I packed it in—sold the historic house in Denver’s Montclair neighborhood and headed for our new ranch. Saying I own a ranch is a bold statement in Texas. 10 acres does not a ranch make. Many Texans would call that a backyard. Big hat—no cattle. But it was the biggest slice ‘o dirt I’d ever paid taxes on—so Happy Dogs Ranch was so named. I even got a vintage rusty metal sign for the front gate.

The three of us lived in a complete remodel for 6 months. The boys explored the acreage. I killed two large rattlers—Willie got up close and personal with a porcupine—I shot a rabid racoon out of the top of an oak tree—and Oliver met the two next door pit bulls through the hog fence. If you don’t know what a hog fence is—it’s simply a wire fence with 4X4 inch squares so that the numerous feral pigs can’t get through it. What Ollie—and later Mikey in our story—discovered is that you dogs can in fact get their jaws through the holes. The neighbor pit got the Ollie locked in his jaw at 8 am on the 4th of July. That kind of screaming by a dog was something I was unfamiliar with. I quickly covered the 100 yards in my flip flops and separated them by poking the Pittie in its nostrils. The fracas resulted in 78 stitches for Ollie and middle finger surgery for me. Welcome to Texas boys!

A survivor now turning 12 years old—Ollie is calm and stoic by nature—his loyalty and his way of communicating is quite special. There’s rarely a doubt about his intention. We could all learn from Oliver. He is the quiet alpha and the senior member of the pack. He’s got an aloofness and an old wisdom that came from somewhere special. When the rest of the dogs are going crazy about this, that, or the other—Ollie sits back to see if its worth engaging. Like the old bull on top of the hill looking down at the field of cows—I’m just gonna walk down. Ollie has a saunter.

Willie is a different sort—all frantic energy and motion. As the biggest of the pack—you’d better know where he is. Make sure you’re not between him and where he wants to be. He knows his place as number two—and the enforcer—but always tries harder and has more raw talent than any dog I’ve rescued. His eyes are on me 100% of the time. Ann sez If you want to find me, just find Willie. My water dog. The best hunter—even when you’d rather he didn’t find what he was hunting. He’s a magical soul with a lot of fear. Anything in a man’s hand like a stick or shovel—and any loud noises get him fired up. Oliver’s best pal.

Within a couple of months I began volunteering at a wonderful local rescue organization called WAG—Wimberley Adoption Group. Their efforts and their 7-acre refuge are a wonderful short-term residence for dozens of dogs looking for their forever homes. As part of the daily activities team I walked and played with the doggos. I met Luke right away and those eyes won me over quickly. Like all my rescue dogs he had a checkered past—rescued off the street and given back by an adopter for some minor crime. He came home to the ranch and quickly settled into his role as chief activator and number 3 in the food chain. No battles—just playtime all the time. Luckenbach—Lucky Luke—Happy-go-Lukie—Luke is quick with a smile and a hug—always wants to be touched or touching. His morning bark signifies it’s a beautiful brand new day—get up get up get up!

We were three.

Apparently 3 wasn’t quite enough. In the early Spring of 2017, Ann and I met at a conference. My now wife—but then wielding no influence over my choice of roommates—could not and would not—intervene. I met Handsome Mikey as part of my thrice weekly activity volunteering at WAG. He was a tough one. The senior female volunteers had posted a sign on his kennel that said only strong people can walk or play with Mikey. He had a habit of wrapping his very strong front legs around you when he didn’t want you to leave. A pit mix of about 60 pounds—Mikey was a beauty and also very willful. I quickly bonded with him on walks and adoption days for several months. He would leap 3-4 feet in the air when he’d see my truck rolling into the parking lot. I wanted desperately to find him a forever home—resisting taking him home to mine—until I could no longer. I brought him home to meet the other boys despite the vigorous protests of the ladies at WAG. Oh we need to supervise that introduction—he’s a tough guy—could be a fight. I winked and accepted their guidance. Once the 4 or them were tearing around the property together the ladies left satisfied that I wasn’t launching the canine version of WWF. That night Mikey quickly made himself at home in my favorite reading chair—which he still loves to this day 7+ years later. Of my pack he’s the one you’d least want to piss off. Lightning fast and relentless on the attack. The neighbors all know him as the one who runs the fence line in greeting with his ever-present Penn tennis ball in his mouth. He occasionally challenges Ollie for the top spot but it’s rare and it’s quickly resolved—Mikey wins.

We were now four.

Since then Willie has taken a rattler bite between the eyes—Mikey discovered the pit bulls even through the new fence that we’d constructed after Ollie’s fracas—and Luke keeps us up through the night occasionally with his tender tummy. And as I’ve written about before, we lost our precious Oreo—who made 5—in May two years ago to another large Diamondback rattler. It’s been a journey and none of us would trade it for a minute.

These knuckleheads—with my bride Ann—make up our family. Last night as we were hunkered down together listening to the roof coming off and the baseball hail blowing out the windows—I felt great love and gratitude.

Dogs teach us things no other human being can. Rescue dogs don’t understand the concept of gratitude—they simply live it—for their preciously short time here on earth with us.

We now have dogs aged 12, 11, 9, and 8. They’re aging gracefully—but still aging faster than I can even imagine. None of this would be possible without my sobriety 14 years ago. Since Bogie was 10 and Pete was 8—and all through the lives of these 4 ever since—my dogs have a dog dad that is fully present and accounted for.

Lucky boys are we.