Who can resist a shaggy dog? Not me; not ever.

My first shaggy dog came to me when I was 18. He was the only purebred dog who ever kept company with me. Humphrey, the product of a divorce, was in need of a home. My mom found out about him at work and she offered to take him on a trial basis. This was a generous act given that we (my mom, younger sister, and me) lived in a trailer.  There wasn’t much wiggle room in that trailer, especially when my older sister came home from college for a visit.

On the evening of February 12, 1976, Humphrey bounded into our lives.  Not the shy or bashful type, he was one huge ball of gray motion from head to hindquarters.  Since he had no tail, his whole back end waggled as he investigated the trailer, our cat’s food and bed, and our crotches.  The only thing not gray on him was his lolling pink tongue.  His owner didn’t stay long, leaving some food, a toy, a dish, and a leash.  There were no sentimental goodbyes; she just left. I think she forgot the “trial run” part. So did I.

Upon closer inspection, we found that Humphrey was gray all over because he was filthy and matted.  A week later, we got him to a groomer who had to sheer him down like a sheep.  A full-coated, groomed OES is a regal sight indeed; an OES shaved to the skin, however, looks a lot like a goat. I tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help it—naked was not a good look for him.  When he was clipped, I told people he was an Austrian Elk Hound, just to avoid questions.

Mom decided it was time for this little bird and her big dog to fly the coop. Humphrey and I moved to the 3rd floor of a very rundown building in the “city” in which I attended college. City living took some adjusting. I had to go down 3 flights of stairs and walk him and then go back up 3 flights of stairs several times a day. We both got lots of exercise. His leash manners were abysmal and he wanted to crotch-maul every person we passed. Humphrey was everyone’s best friend; I was the girl with the sore arms at the other end of the leash.

On one of our walks, Humphrey decided I was his “one and only.” We were walking in the alley behind my building and Humphrey stepped on a piece of glass from a broken beer bottle.  He yipped in pain, sat down, and lifted his paw. Stoic he wasn’t. I carefully extracted the glass fragment while telling him that he was fine.  He put his paw down and must have felt immediate relief.  Then he looked up at me between the locks of hair covering his one brown and one blue eye with a look that said: “You are my savior!”  From that moment on, Humphrey was loyal only to me.

Humphrey was both eccentric and had oodles of charisma. Walking him was like walking with a movie star. If he could have given autographs, he would have. The most common question people had:

  • “Can he see?”—Yes, he needs all that hair to protect his excellent vision from bright light. Humphrey would immediately walk into the side of a building or a signpost.
  • “Does he herd sheep?—Not that I’ve noticed since he hasn’t been around sheep, but he once stalked and knocked the head off a snowman he thought looked sketchy.

This goofy dog with his big, happy bark protected me from break-ins–every apartment around me was robbed, but not mine. He waited patiently for me to wake up when I was passed out drunk or when I came home late from dates. His greetings were always the same: eager eyes, wiggling butt, and tongue hanging to one side in a goofy grin. There was no one better than me in Humphrey’s world. We loved each other unconditionally, like in the movies–complete with my flowing blonde hair, white dress, and a tender kiss. Fade to a dark screen and dreamy music…

*****

I could teach Humphrey to “high-five” and deliver notes to specific people, but I couldn’t get him to walk on a leash without risking a dislocated shoulder. He had the natural exuberance of any 125-pound happy dog, and his spirit moved him without reservation.  It didn’t matter if I was attached to the leash or not.

One of us needed obedience training.

The class had about twenty unruly dogs of all breeds, ages, and levels of obedience potential.  The same could be said of the well-intended owners. The teacher told us that the last class would be a mock obedience trial, complete with an independent judge. We were expected to invite family and friends to this show. I was worried because I knew that Humphrey needed more than a 10-week class to master basic obedience, which required his focus while other dogs and people were in the vicinity. He needed sedatives, blinders, and earplugs, even though his hair looked as if it muffled every sense he had.

On the evening of the Obedience Trial, only five of the original 20 had the audacity and optimism to show up.  My boyfriend, mother, and younger sister came to see a beautifully groomed Humphrey enter the competition ring along with a pristine Irish Setter, a handsome Rottweiler, and two other small dogs. My boyfriend and I got there extra early to tire my boy out. Explain.

The judge lined us up to assess her field. Our first challenge was to heel on the leash around the ring.  One small dog trembled uncontrollably and wouldn’t move forward.  The only motion he made was peeing on his owner’s leg. And then there were four.

Humphrey and I heeled like champs.  Next was the off-leash heel around the ring.  The other small dog, when released from the leash, dashed out of the ring and out of the building. And then there were three. Given the way Muffin bolted from the show ring, I’m guessing she’s still out there running at a pretty good clip. Maybe not. The obedience trial was in 1976.

During the off-leash heel, the owner is not supposed to look at the dog and simply take it on faith that you will both finish at the end of the runway together—dog sitting, watching the owner attentively. Irish Setter and Rottweiler executed the performance perfectly. Humphrey and I started together, but when I stopped at the end of the runway and looked down, there was no perfectly groomed Old English Sheepdog looking up at me.  I looked behind me and saw him about halfway back, seated and scratching himself.  After he finished his ablutions, he got up, casually plodded over to me, and sat down next to me. Lady Judge took serious notes. I glanced over at my cheering section in the audience. They were suffering fits of laughter—the kind that blurs your vision, makes you gasp for air, and doubles you over. The others in the audience seemed more serious.

The last part of the obedience trial was a five-minute off-leash sit and a ten-minute off-leash down.  Given that Humphrey’s attention span was the duration of a sneeze, I knew this would be tough.  The three dogs were lined up next to each other. Each owner gave the “sit and stay” command once, then stepped back about ten feet and watched.  Humphrey was in the middle of the other two dogs. This is when I hoped all that pre-show exercise would hit, make him tired, and he would enjoy a break. Those other dogs had their eyes trained on their owners; it was eerie.  Then there was Humphrey who kept shifting his weight and looking around, scoping out the arena.  He looked at one dog, then turned his head and looked at the other one.  He looked my way every once in a while to see if I was still there.  He may have lifted his paw and started checking out his nails. Somehow he managed to stay seated for five minutes.

After a short bit of praise and a chance to move around, the dogs had to lie down for ten minutes. Again, Irish Setter and Rottweiler responded as if they were already professionally trained dogs for Hollywood movies and sent there for the sole purpose of making us look bad.  Humphrey made it to about Minute 6 with the same enthusiasm and focus he had demonstrated for the five-minute sit. He shifted around, looked back and forth one last time, and sat up. I held my breath wondering what he was going to do next.  He just sat there. Irish Setter noticed that Humphrey sat up and decided that sitting looked like a good idea regardless of his owner’s tractor-beam eye-to-mind control. Rottweiler never budged. That dog wasn’t human. For real.

There was no surprise in the outcome of the judging: Rottweiler got top honors, Easily-Swayed Irish Setter got second place and Nonchalant Humphrey captured the coveted third place honor. Remember, this was a class of 20.

*****

“Love me, love my dog” is a well-worn idiom. In Humphrey’s case, the reverse was equally true, “Love my dog, love me.” Humphrey saw the parade of men that entered and exited my life. Breaking up with Humphrey was harder on them than breaking up with me. “I’m sure going to miss Humphrey,” they invariably said as they departed—the guy I was sure I was going to marry and Brian the canoe-proposing lawyer both regretted giving up custody of Humphrey when our relationships ended. The guys interested in me for sex who were the more fleeting romance types seemed oblivious and less attached to either of us.

Chuck embraced us both with open arms. Humphrey reciprocated. When Chuck married me, he adopted a big shaggy dog, and that was hunky-dory with all parties. When our family of three expanded to a family of four with Alex’s arrival, Humphrey was curious, but accommodating. He was delighted when I finally came home from the hospital but confused when I brought back this little critter that demanded so much of my attention. True to form, Humphrey adapted. If I loved this little creäture, he did, too. Our common space looked as if a toy store exploded. Often he would have trouble trying to make room to lie down.

Large dogs, especially purebreds, are notorious for hip problems. Humphrey was no exception. Long before Alex came on the scene, Humphrey showed signs that his hips were giving him trouble. While I couldn’t afford hip replacement, I did all that I could to ameliorate his pain and postpone the inevitable deterioration of his hip joints. All those stairs for six years couldn’t have helped his hips. I moved to a first-floor apartment. We stopped playing frisbee and tug of war, much to his disappointment. I eventually gave him low doses of anti-inflammatories and painkillers. I started pre-mourning his death when he was about 6 years old. But Humphrey had a lot of spunk left in him and I tried to not forget that.

Humphrey was never much when it came to typical canine instincts. I always called him a “human in a dog suit.” But as he aged, his dog-sense sharpened. On walks, he “found” his herding instinct, making sure Alex and I were close. He guarded us like our lives depended on it. His usual habit was to check on all of us before he settled in for the night on my side of the bed. I could always reach down and feel him; it was reassuring.

About 8 months before he died, he had a stroke that left him deaf. He stopped sleeping by my side of the bed. He started there and moved to the front door of the condo, with his back pressed against the door so he could feel potential intruders. He was determined to keep me and his family safe. But it became clear that he was wearing out. The old Humphrey sparkle was rarely in his eyes; it appeared briefly at the smell of his dinner and precious snacks. Vet visits confirmed what I knew in my heart: his organs were failing.

Humphrey took such good care of me for over a decade, giving me love and laughter when I needed both in heaping helpings. I owed him the honor of taking the best care of him when he needed it most. I vowed not to let him die alone and without dignity. He deserved at least that much. I made the decision to have him euthanized in our condo so he wouldn’t have to suffer getting into or out of our car. I wanted him as comfortable as possible. Finding a vet who would make house calls in the D.C. area was difficult and expensive, but I found one.  Our appointment was one week away.

That week was both long and short. It was a week of “lasts”: our last Monday, our last walk, his last meal. Humphrey’s coat was perpetually soaked in our tears. It was just as hard on Chuck. Even 18-month-old Alex knew something was wrong with “Hummy” and Mommy. Sometimes it’s easier not knowing when a loved one is going to die.

I wanted to call it off the day it was scheduled. I kept feeding Humphrey snacks and he looked content. Maybe he could stay with us a little longer? The vet arrived. He was very pragmatic and got right down to business. Humphrey died in my arms. The last thing he felt was my tears dripping on his face and my arms hugging him. The last thing I felt was peace as he left his broken body and entered my heart, where he still lives.

So when I said “My dog died,” that was no small event. It left me both empty and full, weakened and strengthened. Like every inch of my bumpy journey, I learned a little more about myself and life from unexpected teachers—this time, a goofy shaggy dog who held my heart and kept it safe for as long as he could.