Gone to the Dogs
Don Coldsmith
Monday, February 26, 2007
HAVING GIVEN SPACE to cats in a previous column, it seems only fair to comment on dogs. And, by sheer coincidence, a recent item in the “News of the Weird” newspaper feature caught my attention. It dealt with a dog which wandered into the emergency room in the Kaiser Permanente Hospital in California. It had been hit by a car and refused to leave. Local animal control personnel were called and the dog’s broken leg was treated and his owner notified via the implanted microchip that the dog was wearing.
That sort of technology is astounding, of course. But to me, the really significant thing is that the dog realized where to go for help.
In a similar case which I wrote about a few years ago, a family’s pet dog had been hit by a car, resulting in a broken leg. He was treated at the veterinary clinic in the area and healed well. A few months later, the vet was amazed to see the dog at the office door, accompanied by a stray dog with a broken leg. It had been struck by a car on the nearby highway.
There are intelligent, well-educated people who will insist that mammals (other than humans) have no capacity to think or reason or feel emotion. These are obviously people who have never had a pet. The rest of us know better, because we have seen our pets display happiness, sadness, remorse, pride, anger, even embarrassment when they’ve goofed.
Many years ago a fellow Appaloosa breeder thought we should have a spotted dog. Our Irish Setter had been killed by a car in front of the house. Spot soon ran the ranch, about which there was no question. He was a good friend with our kids, some of whom had not yet flown the nest. Their job assignment was to feed him. He allowed me to assist in running the ranch, and he could always tell, when I’d start to the truck, whether I was going to the north pasture or to my office in town. If my office was the destination, Spot wouldn’t bother to get up. How he knew, we never figured out.
Edna, however, was Spot’s person. He was very jealous. If I would walk across the yard with her, Spot would crowd in between us. If we happened to be holding hands, he would very gently take her hand out of mine and hold it in his mouth. He was especially jealous of the horses, however. If Edna happened to petting a horse, he would bat at the animal’s nose with a paw.
The ultimate occasion was a day that there were none of the kids available to feed a mare and her new foal. They were in an enclosure we called the “maternity ward” near the front lawn. Somehow, Spot had not noticed the situation until Edna had fed the mare and was petting her across the fence. Spot came loping across the yard toward them. At that moment, the rural delivery person drove past and tossed the evening paper into the driveway.
“Get the paper, Spot!” Mom called. Spot changed his direction and went for the paper. But, instead of bringing it to her, he picked it up and ran on down the road to where a small stream passes through a culvert. There, he accurately dropped the paper into the creek. He ignored Mom’s plea not to do so. He returned to the house, even turning his head away from Edna.
Animals can’t reason? Ridiculous! We have a special animal friend, to whose house creatures in trouble find their way. Nearly two years ago an ancient dog turned up there, crippled, nearly blind, “on his last legs.” I wouldn’t have suspected he’d live out the year. He could hardly walk. I have never seen an animal receive such care as he continued to deteriorate. Most people would have “put him down” to begin with. He became unable to walk and she would carry old Spunky outside to defecate. I didn’t see how he could hold on any longer.
Recently, “his person” was called out of town with a serious illness in the family. Spunky was failing rapidly, but held on — Arriving home, she found the dog not eating and semi-conscious. She picked him up and Spunky seemed to perk up — just for a moment — a last effort of recognition, an attempt to lick her hand and he was gone. She likes to think he waited for her OK. Who is to say otherwise?
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.