He came in like a lion, mangy, disheveled straight off the Serengeti streets of somewhere in Oklahoma. That’s what the adoption papers said. He was underweight, unwanted, probably abused and most definitely, not anxious to jump into the mini-van with us, because he had just spent the last 10 hours in a crate in the back of a bus. He was wild and unbridled and ready to bolt at the first opportunity, so my teenage son and I let him ride in the middle of the front seat, jumping from driver to passenger side with all nine months of puppy energy, and urban anxiety that his scrawny frame could manage. That was ten years ago.
We didn’t even know what color he was, some version of filthy, I guessed. We introduced him to the other adoptee of the house and within a day they had sorted out who was top dog- there wasn’t much doubt or discussion, the new guy was anointed and appointed and even though younger, skinny, clearly not full grown, he grabbed the gavel and never let go. After a minor skirmish at the breakfast bowl order was established. From that point on, it was ‘hail to the chief.’
We’re a dog family so we’ve had a lot of dogs over the decades and every one of them was loved, but this one was special. He came with a strange name, Bishop, but it hardly mattered because he didn’t answer to anything if it didn’t suit his particular circumstance. If he wanted your attention, he was direct and unequivocal. He was equally adept at ignoring you when the occasion called for it. As you would expect through the years, he trained us to be excellent attendees and with his hierarchy established the bond between us grew; and so did Bishop, into a hundred-plus pounds of pure joy.
Our children turned into adults and Bishop became a majestic beast. At the end of every work day we took his long awaited walk about the neighborhood where he would tell me his stories and I would tell him mine, and when we returned to the sanctity of the house with beer and food and family in revered routine, where we were both reprieved, refreshed and glad to be in each other’s company.
A Dog For All Seasons
When I walked through the door from wherever I’d been, he and his dog servant, a big mastiff mutt by the name of Rocky, were there with eyes up, front feet prancing, and lethal and dangerous tails wagging against furniture and door frames and each other, if they happened to be within range. A cacophony of thumping and scratching, whines, and muffled barks ensued, emotional chaos rained down and we soaked it all in. Every day, it never got old, same greeting, like the sun rising or setting, constant as the north star.
In my office, there is a two sided “partners” desk with a ‘tunnel’ for your feet. In winter, it’s a warm spot, and in the summer it’s cool, but winter, spring, summer, or fall, he was there at my feet, guarding (or sleeping) and always ready.
Over the years, he claimed more and more of the furniture. If he could launch himself onto it, he would. Outdoor tables, indoor chairs, couches, all his. Most nights, when the lights were out and I crawled into bed, I would find him sprawled at an oblique angle occupying every possible approach. It was fruitless to ask him to move, as he offered a spurious growl and made no attempt whatsoever to accommodate you. He had his spot, his actions suggested that I find my own. As he grew older, he allowed us to share the bed, but maintained his boundary with a low, primordial warning that if you made him get up, there could be consequences. Deputy Dog was on the job.
Some Plans are Better than Others
We had planned on taking the boys with us on our road-trips across the range in the big van, but to our surprise, neither of them wanted any part of Diesel Van Camper. Not for lack of creature comfort or accommodations, they just didn’t want to go (thank you very much). Instead, they preferred to wait behind the door, practicing, and then performing, their four legged dance of appreciation when we returned. This summer, the second of a long, painful pandemic, on one of our longer trips, ( Sun Valley Idaho) we learned about Bishop’s cancer. He needed surgery immediately so we turned around and made the 15 hour drive back to Boulder. We were able to find a vet who could do the procedure the following day. We took him up to Ft. Collins and that was the first, and last time he ever rode in the van. We waited for him all day in the parking lot and late that evening, we were able to take him back home, not knowing if he would make it.
It was at this time that my mother, 91, contracted Covid. She and I had our routine too, which was calling her every day to check in or tell her that I was coming over with peanut butter and cheese crackers (yeah, really). I told her about Bishop and of course, she cried. She had a dog named Prince who was her northern star who had died about 10 years earlier. It was one of the many things we shared, from beginning to end. They were both too sick to travel to see each other, but Bishop and my mother were on the same wave length and I was the tether between them. Both of them lasted through most of the summer, we all spent time crafting our goodbyes and tooling up for the final send off.
Bishop was first, and he shattered our hearts even though we knew it was coming. There’s a hole in the yard, the furniture, the floor, the front door. My mother died the next month. She told me how sorry she was that Bishop had gone just before she did. That’s the kind of person she was, putting others first, which meant she always had your back, and as I look in that direction, I can’t help but think, “That was one sad summer”.
And now, winter is here, and when I open the door, there’s still one lonely old dog laying on the floor, his tail still wags, but we both know it’s not long for one, or maybe both of us, as well.
So go the seasons.
