Fast forward to last week and this less than sophisticated ape, albeit one who owns an old Mac computer, found himself staring into the eyes of a lost dog out in the front yard. There are a lot of loose dogs in Big Pine, not to mention loose people, in this town of 1,300 souls or so. And this being a decidedly rural county, many people have a dog or two. It cuts down on the loneliness.  

I slowly walked up to the dog and stuck out my hand for the dog to smell. If I’d been more in tune with the canine mind I would have bent over and let him smell me properly. But thankfully my sense of smell spares me from such intimacy with strange dogs. The dog didn’t bite. It simply wagged its tail and lifted up its paw to shake.

Around the dog’s collar was a piece of rope, frayed and dirty. I figured it was a stray from the Indian reservation across Highway 395. The dog himself (after looking under the hood) was mottled grey and brown with big paws and an oversized head. I gave him a drink of water and he lapped it quickly, looking up at me with such thankfulness that I felt, at the risk of slipping poorly on a balmy patch of sentimentality, nothing short of an instant connection with the dog.

I figured the dog would have some water and then be on its way to wherever it was going. Leash laws? What damned leash laws? Most local dogs are often seen doing what they wish, which to my human perception consists of a cat chase or two, a dip in a glacier-fed creek and running hither and thither for the good feel of it. This is probably entirely wrong. A lot of dogs, no doubt, are simply (or sophisticatedly) on the hunt for a good smell off a light pole or a fence, sniffing in the smell of estrus of a heated and perhaps amenable bitch, or the acrid testosterone levels of  a male indicating intent of territory. The 220 million scent cells per all-powerful nose (in comparison to our mere five million) must blissfully rapture them into the nimble world of dog.

But instead it stayed and followed me to my office in the backyard of the cottage. There, it lay down with a great sigh and preceded to ogle me while I worked. I looked over its coat (clean), its heavy tongue (healthy) and its glassy, somewhat foggy eyes (jaundice?).

I Google-searched the internet for “dogs’ glassy eyes.” A few pecks down I noticed a small picture of a dog that looked much like the dog before me.  From an animal shelter website advertising the dogs they needed to give away, it pictured a catahuola hound. I’d never heard of the breed before, since I possessed a childhood bias toward shepherds, having experienced the honor of knowing three of them growing up. For good reason I’d resisted the urge to get another dog after witnessing my Karla, a German Shepard, die a long painful death due to hip displacement. With dark thoughts now I hear her back claws dragging on the sidewalk. Even though there was no doubt of the intense discomfort, even terrible pain, Karla insisted on taking a walk with me. We walked slowly at dusk, she behind me while I talked to her in quiet, reassuring tones. We found some grass and sat down in the near darkness while I rubbed behind her ears. It was the last walk we would take.

That heart-wrenching story aside, dogs are a real hassle. It always perplexes, even dismays me a little, to see a guy walking his dog with a plastic bag and a pooper-scooper—or whatever they’re called. It calls into question about who’s the owner, the master/dog continuum and human dignity. Of course it’s the right and proper thing to do if you’re a dog-owner, the latter a term that completely justifies the good deed of picking up shit.

My internet search for catahoula hound yielded more information than I could take in one sitting, but I did learn a few things that stuck out. For one, the hound is Louisiana’s state dog and they have webbed feet, making them premier water dogs. The Spanish Conquistadors liked the Indian dogs so much they tried to trap the Indian-owned dogs and take them home to Spain.

 That day I coaxed the dog into the truck and went climbing at the Buttermilk boulders above Bishop. The dog was hesitant at first, but soon was pulling off moves that would give a bighorn sheep pause. I began to really like this dog and by late afternoon gave it a name: Birkie, after Birch Mountain that rises above Big Pine. I wanted to keep it local. By nightfall I found myself negotiating the pet aisle at Vons where I found a confusing cornucopia of dog food for sale. What would my waiting dog like?

For the next four days we climbed, played fetch, swam in creeks and lakes, played fetch some more. I never became a dog-owner because Birkie insisted on taking a crap once he was on Los Angeles Department of Water and Power land. Birkie was never short of pure loveliness, and at night he slept at the foot of our bed where we could hear him dream.

In case I was accused of dog-nabbing, I put up Found Dog signs at the grocery store and gas station. Finally, on the fifth day, in an effort to do right and perhaps get Birkie some shots and a license for his collar, I took him to the dog shelter. As it was someone had called, someone who knew his name, someone who would be right over to pick Birkie up. I threw a stick across the dusty parking lot of the shelter and then sat down waiting for Birkie to run back to my side. He liked to be petted on his large cheeks, then across the top of his head between his floppy ears. I sadly obliged.

When the owner arrived in a Ford pick-up, Birkie didn’t even move when his rightful name was called. In fact, even though it’s only been a few dog-less weeks, I can’t recall what the man called his dog. But eventually Birkie was persuaded into the back of the truck and didn’t even look back as they drove away. I went inside the shelter and the two women in the office recognized my sorrow. “We’ve got a few really nice dogs up for adoption,” one of them said. They trotted out some big dogs, the size of Birkie. “Let me think on it,” I said.

And I did. But I was unable to get Birkie out of my thoughts. Friends come and go, some for a few weeks, some for decades. It’s the sad truth of it all. Birkie had visited for a little less than five days, but in that time I could feel the earth going around the sun and had smelled the sagebrush with more clarity and perhaps more canine clairvoyance than I had ever mustered. To me Birkie will always be lost in the sense of the J.R.R. Tolkien saw, “Not all those who wander are lost.”  Only now I find it necessary to stop myself from walking the neighborhood in the chance I discover Birkie tied up with crusty bit of rope, and in case I find myself embracing my wandering friend in someone else’s backyard.

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Mary-Kay Gamel   |148.63.19.xxx |07-09-2008 18:23 This article touched my heart, not least because a wonderful dog came into our lives in this way. This dog had parasites, no shots, and was not neutered. We learned that [ ] belonged to homeless people who used [ ] to help them beg for food. We decided it was in this dog's best interests to stay with us, and years later we are all very happy together. THIS IS INTENDED FOR THE AUTHOR. IF YOU CHOOSE TO PRINT THIS PLEASE DO NOT IDENTIFY ME!!! Reply | Quote 0   0

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