Some of my best friends have always been dogs, and you know, a person could do a lot worse. Every one of them liked to hunt, could sit quietly and listen to my problems and stories without interrupting, never offered bad advice, tolerated my friends, never bit the hand that fed them and never offered a scathing opinion. All except one…
Shadow was the result of his English pointer mother having an unwarranted tryst with a philandering springer spaniel. John, their owner, had a penchant for bird dogs and had trained them to cover two upland hunting styles.
He spent some effort carefully planning a nice double-run kennel attached to his pole barn. One side had a dog house attached to the inside wall and housed the springer. The pointer lived in the roofed kennel, which also allowed her to have the run of the barn’s interior. They were built to be a secure place for his dogs and to protect the pointer when she came into season — at least John thought it was secure.
One morning, readying for a little training session, he got a surprise. Standing inside the pointer’s capped kennel was the springer, leering at him with a lascivious grin. Knowing the jig was up, the springer dashed into the barn. A search inside the building turned up dogless.
Puzzled, John walked out to find the springer staring at him from inside his own kennel with a shifty look in his eyes. After a check of the kennel system confirmed its integrity, John walked to the house shaking his head in bewilderment.
Later, glancing from a kitchen window, John spotted the wandering Romeo again visiting his Juliet. Sneaking out the back door, the ruse was discovered. As soon as the springer spotted his master, it bolted inside the barn and, using apparently practiced parkour moves, he sailed out a window left open for ventilation and scaled the 6-foot fence with a grab-and-leap method, landing nonchalantly in his own kennel — the image of sheepish innocence and purity. About two months later, that springer’s virility was proven.
The pups were given away to anyone showing an interest. I was struggling to pay off a college loan but I’d also just lost my old beagle. Still, free was barely within my budget. I examined the puppies in their high-sided whelping box, the same one John had built in the hopes of nurturing thoroughbred pointers. One of the 6-week-old pups backed up, made a running dash and landed on the backs of his siblings before smoothly somersaulting out of the enclosure.
“That one’s just like it’s dad,” John murmured with concern. He seemed relieved when I chose the little male, quickly naming him Shadow.
The situation should have served as a warning. Apparently, the springer’s genes were the strongest in the pairing. All of those pups were carbon-copies of their father, though their tails remained undocked. From the time Shadow came home, he proved to be his father’s prodigy. He was soon bouncing from floor to sofa, to end table, to chair like it was an obstacle course.
If in the kitchen, he would sit patiently in a chair while waiting to be served, wearing down my resistance with those soulfully sad eyes. Shadow was just too full of personality not to love.
I was assuming things were developing into a normal dog-master relationship. What I didn’t realize was what a tenaciously precocious dog Shadow was becoming. Using Richard Wolter’s books “Gun Dog” and “Game Dog” as guides, I yard-trained him to whistle and hand commands.
The book instructed the reader to work slowly and be patient. Shadow must have already read the books and was very kind while I made plenty of mistakes, only taking time to correct me with barely perceptible eyerolls.
Within a week, he had that game mastered. He also began climbing an old apple tree and learned to walk up steps backwards.
It was probably about that time when he became interested in gambling, or at least watching me play a weekly Euchre game. Unbeknownst to me, but with the help of a friend, he was simultaneously developing a taste for beer.
On one particular game night, he managed to sneak far more than anyone noticed. He camped out under the kitchen table for the night and I had trouble rousing him the next morning. He spent the day drinking water and finding dark places to sleep. Afterward, showing wisdom beyond his species, he became a teetotaler for life, growling at even the smell of the beverage.
That didn’t keep Shadow from wanting to be the life of the party. Many a bonfire was made complete with him choosing a seat beside the prettiest girls in attendance, wowing them with his self-taught tricks that he knew would result in being hand fed hot dogs, marshmallows and potato chips.
During one gathering, I felt he was becoming a bit of a pest. Much to his audience’s displeasure, I put him in my old two-story rental farmhouse and went back to the bonfire. As folks continued talking and laughing, I heard a gasp, “Your dog! He’s on the roof!” someone exclaimed.
I turned to find that Shadow had gone to the second story, nosed open a window and was perched on the porch roof 12 feet above us. I instantly understood that he was about to rejoin the party.
When our eyes met, I saw both a twinkle and trust as he leaped like he was hopping off a curb. I caught him and was about to admonish him but his fan club was already swarming with hot dogs, praise and scratches. Later that night, he demonstrated his musical talent by singing along with one fellow’s guitar, changing pitch better than most rock bands.
Some time later, while meeting a friend for a pheasant hunt, he suggested I bring along Shadow. I explained that it had been a while since I’d worked with the dog but we both agreed it would be good to get him some experience. There were three of us plus Shadow.
A rooster cackled skyward, falling to a shot at the end of our short line. Shadow ran over to investigate the commotion and inspected the bird. I swear I watched a cartoonish lightbulb flash above his head. At the end of our half-day hunt, each of us had taken our limit of two birds each — all but the first, Shadow flushed and retrieved to my hand. Interestingly, I’d never taught him to fetch, unless tennis balls count.
One day, while splitting wood while Shadow supervised, a professional retriever trainer name Cal stopped. We stood on the porch while he expounded the virtues of Labrador and Chesapeake Bay retrievers.
“Those are real working dogs. You should consider getting yourself a pup, I could help with that,” Cal offered.
The price was close to a month’s salary and I just shrugged and thanked him. “You should really think about an upgrade,” he added.
As I glanced down, a little embarrassed, I noticed that Shadow had jumped onto the porch behind Cal and was watering his coveralls like a potted geranium. I let him finish.
During some shared health issues, Shadow developed a pen pal named Spike. Having met during several social gatherings, the two developed a friendship — or truce — and Spike, with the help of his owners, would drop notes of encouragement to Shadow, and he would return the favor. That continued until it was time for him to leave me.
I often said that I hoped Shadow never learned to talk — he knew too much — but in his own way, I believe he could. I hope he understood how much he taught me about the five most important Ls: life, love, loyalty, laughter and loss.
One day, we’ll meet again next to a crackling campfire and share a hot dog. I know he’s waiting to show me his newest tricks.
“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.”
— Orhan Pamuk
