He was a little fellow, but never acknowledged that fact. A small mostly white Rat Terrier with a black patch over his left eye who reminded me of the Our Gang dog, and so it was that he was christened Petey.
He literally dropped into my life one cold November night as my wife and I were returning from a show downtown. Traffic was heavy for that time of day, gaining speed as it moved from one signal light to the next. As far as we could tell he was pushed out of the passenger side of a car ahead of us, for he hit the pavement, rolled, and then was up giving chase northward.
“Did you see that?” she asked, and then screamed as he darted across the two southbound lanes, barely being missed by an oncoming Cadillac. I pulled into a parking lot, jumped out, and instructed her to follow me, then took off running after him. For three blocks he raced, and then turned west down a dark alley. I stopped for this was not a particularly good part of town, and I could see nothing save the light from the intersecting street at the far end. Mustering my courage I pocketed my wedding ring and watch, then plunged in, calling for him as I ran.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw him in the next block north, and on I ran. He seemed to have lost whatever trail he was following, and was pacing anxiously back and forth on the sidewalk. I called to him and he looked up, then made to run again, but only went so far as to put 10 feet or so between us.
My wife took station in an empty parking lot across the street from us, and waited in the dark car as I tried to talk away his fear and calm him. Bathed in orange from the streetlight he seemed even smaller than I first guessed. Some ribs showed, and he shivered in the cold. I sat down on the sidewalk, talking quietly to him, and plotted my next moves. If I grabbed for him I was certain that he would run again. If I caught him, then there was the distinct possibility of being bitten. And so I just talked.
In the pocket of my coat was a half-eaten bag of M&Ms. I took it out and rattled it, extending it his way in offering. He looked at me and sat down, but made no advance. On I talked, trying hard not to look directly at him for fear of scaring him further. I don’t know how much time passed thus, but he eventually looked up and across the street, and so did I. An elderly gentleman with a cane was on the sidewalk, passing quietly to the west. He gazed at us, but said nothing. I imagined him shaking his head and wondering what this fool was doing, sitting on the sidewalk at midnight talking to a dog. Probably drunk. This area was right for it.
He moved out of sight, and the dog again turned his attention to me. On I talked, low and soothing as I could manage, although I was now shivering, too. I noticed that his ears stuck straight up, the right one all black, and that between them on his white head he had a black smudge. On his rump was a black patch that resembled Africa in outline. He had but a stub of a tail.
My monologue was interrupted by a low, warning growl. I looked up and saw what he did: two dogs, a Chow and a Pit Bull, both dragging chains, and which had appeared from a north-south alley across the street. They stopped, took us in, and then started to cross the street. The little dog growled again in challenge, and the hair along his spine stood up. I stood, too, wondering what to do. Surely there would be a fight, this little man would be killed, and I might be injured. Now what? In the deepest, meanest, growliest voice that I could muster I looked straight at them and shouted, “You go home!” They stopped, turned as one, and then went back up the alley, disappearing in the dark.
The little fellow whined and kicked with his back feet as they left, but again sat down, so I did likewise, and resumed my patter. Time seemed to stand still as I cajoled and praised him for his bravery.
Eventually we were again interrupted, but this time by a police cruiser. It came to a stop in front of us, and the passenger window lowered. Inside a female officer peered from the driver’s seat and asked, “Are you ok?” “Yes, Ma’am,” I answered, “I’m just sitting here talking to this dog.” The absurdity of my response hit me before I had completed the sentence, and so I quickly explained to her the events which had led to this pass. As I did, I noticed that the dog had moved closer to me. She smiled and wished us luck, then departed. As she did I imagined the conversation later in the locker room at the end of her shift. “You won’t believe what I saw tonight…”
Once again the street was empty, save us two. The dog had risen to his feet, and watched the cruiser fade into the dark. It was late and I was running short on conversation, and so looked at him and said, “Little dog, I’m trying to help you, but it’s time for you to make a decision.” As the words left my lips he sat down, with his back to me, and so I rolled over onto my right side and gently wrapped my arms around him. He made no struggle as I pulled him to me, but as I got up and lifted him to my left side his head wheeled toward my right hand which was on his chest. “Great,” I thought, "I’m going to get bitten." But he didn’t. This was simply a display of what I was later to learn was classic Terrier bluster.
I carried him across the street to the warm car where my wife had patiently waited all this time. As soon as we were situated in the passenger seat, the dog vomited, but I couldn’t be mad at him. I knew just how he felt. On the trip home weariness compounded by sadness overcame him, and he nodded off periodically as I held him close in my lap.
As we learned to love each other I discovered that he was terrified of brooms, enjoyed playing a roughhouse game of tug-of-war with a braided rope toy which I purchased for him, and would not sleep atop the bed, but had to be with my wife and me under the covers. When particularly joyful he would jump up and down, and seemed to delight in my catching him in my arms in mid air.
He was an excellent watch dog, and I could tell from his bark if what he saw was something which should concern me, or if he was just editorializing on the passing scene. Once when we were on the floor together playing he got a bit too rambunctious and accidentally pinched my hand with his mouth. I yelped, and he stopped short, then came to me and put his head upon my shoulder as if to say, “I’m sorry!”
From the start he was a good listener. No matter what slings and arrows the ensuing years volleyed my way, he was always excited and happy to see me, and could lift my mood with a glance. Our love wasn’t predicated upon toys or play, but simply the joy of being together. When my Father passed I poured out my grief to him. He understood my sorrow and responded by snuggling close, quietly wicking away the pain.
Age came suddenly on Petey. Forever he seemed a sprightly, bright-eyed youngster, and then he was old. He died in my arms the day before my birthday, his valiant heart completing the course for which fate had set it some 15 years earlier. We never really knew how old he was. He sleeps on a sunny hillside on my wife’s family’s farm.
Do animals have souls? I cannot answer the question, but it is my fervent hope that when I get to heaven Petey will be there waiting, jumping up and down in greeting. And wouldn’t that be just like God to arrange it so?
