the dogs

There may or may not be a point to this post, but I have been very nostalgic of late and felt like writing this. I may do more of these in the future, I'm not sure. I am using this blog as a record of our family story as well as a tool to keep in touch with far-flung family and friends, old and new alike.

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I was not terrified, although maybe I would have been right to be. The dog came tearing across our back yard and sunk his teeth into my father's forearm. The 80 pounds of pure muscle came off the ground as my father lifted his arm, the dog dangling by glistening teeth, growling in a low, gutteral tone that sounded like nothing short of the death of the man in his grip would satisfy him.

"BRAVO!" my father commended the dog, Bobo, a highly trained Belgian Malinois. Bobo instantly let go, my father smiling and Bo grinning, I swear. My father tossed a hard rubber ball for Bo, and took off his jacket and removed the bite sleeve that had protected him from serious dismemberment. "See, Bailey Sue? He all but bit through!" My father held out the jacket with the holes through it and the bite sleeve with huge gashes along it. He was proud, and I was pleased that he was showing me.

Bobo returned the ball to my father when told, and ran around the yard like a puppy, yanking on the rope that was wedged into the fork of a pear tree for his enjoyment. The dog could kill a man in an instant, and a child even quicker then that. I was only 8 or so, but I had no fear. I used these dogs for pillows when they were allowed in the house, and at that young age I was beyond certain that my father could stop any bad thing from happening, ever, anyway.

Bo was only the 2nd Mal that we had, but many more quickly followed. Drug dogs, cadaver dogs, bomb dogs, anomaly dogs. Bo even had a fun side specialty...he had been trained to alert on fatlighter. That was a fun surprise when walking through the woods with him, according to my father. The dogs were life itself, cleaning the kennels, mixing the wet and dry food precisely, adding everyone's medications....fish oil for everyone-a smell I can call to mind instantly although I have avoided it for years, aspirin for Bo (arthritis), lamb only food for Monto (allergies), and it goes on and on. Calling out commands in Dutch to your dogs and then having your friend look at you like you are nuts....all a part of being the kennel master's daughter.

An unusual part of childhood, but I enjoyed it very much. I have met interesting people, heard sensational stories, and been privy to "palace guard talk" that I could never divulge to my friends but that made me feel extremely special. When there would be drug searches at school, I loved the buzz around me "Bailey, isn't that your dad? Bailey, how does it work? Bailey, are those dogs going to eat my lunch?!" And I could answer those questions because my father had taken the time to carefully explain, and my mother had encouraged my interest, and, indeed, been interested with me.

The dogs also taught me about death. Those were hard losses, over and over again. Elvis had a heart condition, Bo got old. Monto was old and had been abused in Holland before we got him, Spock twisted his intestine and bloated grotesquely before our eyes and died shortly there after. Tessa had cancer. Reza, a tank of a dog, died of old age. Walden, my favorite. He was older then me. He lived and lived....he was 16 when he died, ancient for such a large dog, 100 lbs.

But he didn't just die. He turned gray, his muzzle and head almost completely. He stopped being able to climb onto the couch with me. A dog that could find an escaped convict in a swamp now couldn't always make it outside before going to the bathroom. Finally, it was decreed by powers higher then me at the time (I was 14 or 15, my parents were divorced and my father was out of town) that he live outside in a kennel. He could barely lift his head.

So I sat in the just-above-freezing temperatures in a light drizzle and told Wally all about the stories I knew of how he had helped people. With his head in my lap, I recounted the time he had found a farmer who had drowned in his cattle's water tank and the time a deer in the woods had leapt over him and landed squarely on my father's chest. When I ran out of stories I crawled into his little "Dogloo" with him and sang songs. Then I was just quiet. I buried my fingers and face in his coat...soft and thick, not wiry like some of the dogs. I had to go to school, and eventually I was made to come in out of the rain. When I went out next, he was still and cold.

The hole was already dug, and I buried that dog. I can't explain it, but I did a lot of growing up that day. I had loved this dog with all of my heart, watched him get old and sick, sat with him while he lay dying, and when the thing that made him Wally was gone, I placed his body in the ground and buried it myself.

Lots of lessons, some very hard, learned with those dogs. But I really loved that part of my childhood.