” Dutch ”

Turning grief’s corner one man discovered a helpless,

old dog waiting on the other side.

She was never a ‘best of breed’. In fact her AKA papers seemed suspicious to me.

‘Madge’ – for that was the name of this wonderful oversized under-optioned

Golden Retriever – had grown from a standard ball of irresistible puppy-fat

and over-sized paws into one of the most ‘awkward’ adolescent retrievers,

I had ever seen! I called the pet shop where she had been purchased and

reported my dismay. “Well I only buy from the best breeders” was the

response of the owner. “I tell you what I will write to them and if you send

me a photograph perhaps they’ll replace her.”

Replace her? Replace a companion who had been the centre of my daily life

for over seven months? A living creature who had never known any

other ‘family’ for most of her life? The idea was monstrous!

“This is not a broken toy I am talking about here lady!” I responded. “

I don’t want her ‘replaced’. I want you to know that I think your breeder

likely belongs to one of those despicable ‘Puppy Farms!

I want you to promise me you’ll never do business with such people again!

The Pet Store owner mumbled something about her guarantee promised

me she would ‘look into it’ and I never heard from her again.

That was in February of 1987.

For some reason this same thought ran through my mind on the morning

of February 11 1998. I was holding the greying head of my wonderful

irreplaceable Madge. My mind was flooded with memories of the years

and special times we had spent together.

She had been as much a part of me as my right arm. Never more than a few

feet from my gaze this great awkward dog with the most beautiful face

and most wonderful soul was now lying beside me in eternal sleep.

Words always seem cheap when death comes visiting. I was grateful that

at this moment those who surrounded me had the good sense to avoid them.

They already knew what Madge meant to me. I did not have to ask to be left alone.

Quietly my next door neighbours – a couple who had loved and known

Madge for most of her life – walked into another room. They had come running

when I had called an hour before.

” I think you’d better come over.” I had said with a shaking voice.

” I’m afraid Madge is dying.”

Her illness had manifested itself suddenly a week before. The dreaded word

Cancer had been uttered by her doctor. “Take her home.” he had advised.

“Spend the last days together.” Sadly those last days turned into a single night

and a morning. I gently laid her head on her paws. Her veterinarian then nodded

to his two technicians. We had already discussed what I wished to be done.

Madge would be privately cremated and her ashes interred under her

favourite tree on the back lawn.

I don’t need to describe the emptiness to the reader. Anyone who has had the

wonderful good fortune to share a part of their life with an extraordinary

animal knows the dreadful feelings of emptiness which fill every waking

hour after they have departed.

I have had other dogs in my life. All wonderful worthy companions in their own way.

But somehow Madge was one of those rare creatures who crosses the bridge

between Man and God’s other living wonders. She had taught me as much as

I had ever taught her…more I think. She had let me in and shown me

life from the perspective of standing on four legs.

In her own way and in her own time she had demonstrated to me a sacred

covenant which Man holds with God.

For we have been entrusted with the care of the creatures of God’s earth.

I have come to believe that God intended some animals to live with Man.

And I have come to believe that God speaks to us through these special creatures;

reminding us of the perfection of nature and our duty to respect and care for it.

Three empty weeks after Madge’s death a small granite casket arrived.

Inscribed on a small brass plaque was Madge’s name and the dates of

her birth and death. It was still the dead of winter here in Canada and

I carefully placed the ashes on a bureau awaiting a time in the spring

when I could place the little stone box in the earth.

I work from my home most of the time. The bureau sits across from my desk.

And so through the remainder of those winter days Madge’s ashes were

never far from my view as I worked. To think that such joy and life was

now rendered into a handful of grey dust lying in that cold stony container.

Or was it?

The more I would look the more I would be reminded of all the things this great,

awkward dog had taught me. All of the simple pleasure I had shared with this

special being. Again and again the word ‘share’ would come to mind.

How I had shared this… how Madge had shared that. Shared.

I cannot say the thought came to me as some startling revelation.

There were no sounds of trumpets or angelic choirs. But in a very common

ordinary way my daily musing while sitting at my desk and staring at

‘the stone box’ brought me to a very important decision.

Perhaps…just perhaps there was a greater purpose to all I had

shared with Madge. Perhaps she had taught me about her life for a reason.

Perhaps sharing did not end in a cold piece of granite sitting on a chest of drawers.

Somewhere out there there was another dog who needed my understanding.

This thought took me in a special direction. I did not intend to ‘replace’ Madge.

That was unimaginable. To any of us who have had the great fortune to

establish a close and loving relationship with a particular dog or cat – or

for that matter any animal – we know that they can never be replaced.

Madge was Madge. It was her spirit that I had loved…not her breed!

What could I do with the knowledge I had gained in my years with Madge?

The answer to that question had already begun. Three years before Madge’s death,

and several miles from where we lived happily together another story was unfolding.

In the darkness of a summer’s night a woman and her youngest child were

travelling homewards in the family station wagon.

The suburban road was abandoned at this late hour. The rolling fields and

occasional stands of trees drifted by as the driver navigated along the

unilluminated single-lane highway between two small towns outside

of Toronto Ontario. Suddenly the headlights caught the flash of two tiny

golden orbs staring out from the ditch at the side of the road ahead.

The driver slowed…unsure of whether a wild animal…perhaps a racoon or

fox…was about to make a dash for the other side of the highway.

The two eyes glowed steadily in the headlights never moving.

Coming to a crawl the 38 year old mother looked to the side of the road

as the car passed by. Lying there was a dog. The driver applied the brakes

and pulled over to the shoulder a few feet ahead. Was this an injured dog?

Had it been hit by some heartless motorist and left to die?

Or was this dog sick…perhaps rabies??? She glanced into the back seat where

her 3 year old daughter was blissfully asleep in her car-seat.

Cautiously she put the station wagon into reverse and moved back to where

the dog continued to lie motionless. He was a handsome dog. His noble

head and beautiful round eyes stared back at her through the side window.

Throwing caution to the wind the motorist got out of her car and immediately

went to where the dog lay. At first she thought it was a Dalmatian but as

she came closer she realised that the spots were a rich dark liver-colour against

a coat of white fur. Bending down the dog licked her hand and attempted

to stand up. She quickly looked over his body. Covered in dirt and

small wounds it appeared this dog had been out on his own for some time.

Shivering and tucking his head against her thigh the young mother quickly

concluded this was a gentle creature in need of immediate help.

A dirty cloth collar around his neck carried no information.

“Why do people do this!” the woman mumbled to herself.

“Come on you poor old guy let’s see if we can get you some help.”

It took some time and gentle persuasion to get the injured dog into the back

of the station wagon.

An hour later the glare of the examining light of a local veterinary ‘s surgery

made the English Pointer wince. A kindly hand ran over his body carefully

examining the multiple surface wounds which dotted his white coat.

The veterinarian looked towards the young mother holding her sleepy

daughter in her arms.

“Well he’s certainly been through the wringer!” he said.

“But it’s nothing we can’t fix. Looks to me like he’s been out on his own

for quite some time. Would you like us to take care of him?”

This was all going too fast thought the woman. “He’s a beautiful dog”

she answered “but I’m not sure what to do here. I mean I don’t want him

to just end up in some animal shelter.”

The vet suggested that perhaps he could be of some help. “I’ll tell you what.

I’m going to take him in and make sure he gets the care he needs.

Why don’t you think about it and call me tomorrow?

Then we can discuss what we should do here. I’m sure that a beautiful

pure-bred like this has a family somewhere nearby. We’ll make some

inquiries and take good care of him in the meantime.

What do you say?”

And so began the interesting journey of an English Pointer

found in 1995 miles from where Madge and I were happily oblivious to

an event that would one day lead directly to our own door.

No one ever claimed the English Pointer. The kind lady with the infant daughter…

and a husband and two other older children at home…decided to temporarily

‘foster’ the abandoned dog. The clinic tried to trace his family through the

Humane Society while the new foster parents placed ads in the local and

big city papers. No response. The veterinarian admitted he was quite surprised.

“This is a beautiful animal!” he exclaimed shaking his head. “I just don’t get it.

If he was just an old mutt it’d be easier to understand.

But this dog is a beautiful specimen of his breed.

I imagine someone paid a great deal of money for him.”

There were however some ominous things about the case.

The Pointer was badly malnourished when he’d been found. And his injuries

suggested he had been beaten. Older wounds and scars indicated that he may

have come from an abusive situation. While never mentioning it to the new

foster family the vet quietly wondered if this shy gentle-natured dog had

not simply been abandoned. Perhaps he had even fled from his owners!

In a way the doctor was glad. At least now this fine dog might experience

a decent loving family life.

Soon the dog with no past became part of a new family.

Realising it was now unlikely anyone would claim him the family adopted

the Pointer and named him ‘Dutch’. The name was chosen by the oldest child.

He said that it looked like someone had spilled ‘Dutch chocolate’ over a white dog!

There are in this world people whom I call ‘Dog People’.

They’re a special breed of human who have an instinct about dogs.

I cannot tell you the number of times I have observed other dog owners in

the nearby park. They just simply don’t understand dogs. I feel a bit sorry for

these animals. It’s not that they are in any way abused but their owners

I think look at them as ‘things’ or ‘possessions’ rather than living breathing,

thinking creatures. They lack that ‘special awareness’ which seals the

bond between dog and human. They simply don’t get it!

And so in my opinion the poor dog is left to fend for himself as best he can

constantly frustrated by owners that completely fail to understand or

meet their dog’s emotional needs.

‘Dutch’ seemed to have been saved from an ugly abusive situation.

Whether abandoned or whether he had simply run away the fact remained

he was now better off than ever before. But better off in my opinion,

was still a long way from ideal.

All the enthusiasm with which Dutch’s new family had ‘adopted’ him soon waned.

While certainly in better circumstances than he’d likely ever experienced before

Dutch was eventually left to his own devices his family either too busy

or too tired to bother much with the needs of this remarkable animal.

And so Dutch continued his journey through this world alone.

His meals came regularly he was safe and warm and every once in a while

the kids would remember to take him for a walk. But there appeared to be no real

and lasting bond. Just maintenance. Dutch was if nothing else

a very lonely old dog.

Some three month’s after Madge’s death I began to conceive an idea.

I knew that each year thousands of wonderful dogs found them selves

without homes. Well I had a home. And I also had the knowledge and experience.

My life would not be turned upside down by the presence of a dog.

Indeed as I looked around me I realised my entire household was ‘dog-ified’ already.

The only thing missing was…?

I phoned Madge’s veterinarian. John Reeve-Newson and I had been friends

or several years. His practice was a large one and his reputation was

highly regarded. A former President of the Ontario Veterinary Association

and a permanent member of the College’s Review Board no person received

or held a license to practice without John first reviewing them.

Madge’s former doctor was an impressive man and a entirely fine human being.

I told John of my idea and asked if he would mind posting a message in the

reception room of his clinic. He agreed. And so in May of 1998 a notice

appeared in John’s waiting room. It stated simply that there was an

experienced dog owner who would be happy to consider adopting an

older dog I made it quite clear that ‘age’ was no deterrent.

Indeed this is what I had in mind. What more difficult situation could a dog face

than having lost his home and the family he had known for all of his life?

The thought made me shudder.

Two months were to pass before I received the first and only call I would

have from my posted message. A woman introduced herself telling me that she

was so happy when upon visiting John’s clinic she had read the notice.

“I have a friend who is very upset. She has a wonderful 9 year old

English Pointer and her new circumstances are preventing her from

keeping her dog. Do you think it would be all right if I had her call you?”

I quickly agreed.

What would transpire from that telephone call was the beginning of a new

and entirely novel experience.

Staring suspiciously from under a patio table in the backyard of a

fashionable home in one of Toronto’s finest residential areas a handsome,

pure bred English Pointer looked me up and down then slowly got up

and moved towards me with an uncertain step.

I introduced myself to the owner. During the next two hours an attractive

and refined woman in her early 40’s told me the story of ‘Dutch’.

I listened as well as she confided that her own life had not gone

smoothly over the intervening years since she and her daughter had

picked Dutch from the ditch at the side of the road.

Divorce had reared its ugly head leaving Dutch’s rescuer in

circumstances which required her to move to a much smaller,

rented home and to take on a full-time job. She had been trying for

nearly six months to find Dutch an appropriate new home.

People would inquire but the moment they heard of Dutch’s age the conversation

would end. Indeed one caller had suggested that Elizabeth

(not her real name) have Dutch ‘put down’.

The caller was given an elegant piece of Elizabeth’s opinion of that idea!

We concluded our visit with an agreement.

She would bring ‘Dutch’ to my home. If everything seemed all right she

would agree to allowing me to care for Dutch for a period of two weeks.

If everything went well perhaps Dutch would have a new home.

admired her caution. Caught in circumstances which placed her in a new

and very uncomfortable situation Elizabeth still regarded the happiness and

safety of Dutch as essential. She would not simply allow Dutch to go with the

first stranger who expressed a willingness to take him.

With all of her problems I was pleased to see that these did not affect her

desire to ensure Dutch was placed in a good home.

It is a year now since Dutch came into my life. A year filled with growing trust

and new discoveries. Dutch was a complex animal and not one to quickly reveal his

likes and dislikes. A cautious quiet loner confronted me for the first few weeks.

He seemed aware of his circumstances and was hesitant to do anything which

might make his presence too obvious. So unlike Madge who would bound

with complete abandon into any room to make herself known

Dutch would tentatively stand at the threshold of the room in which I was seated,

waiting to be asked to come in. The behaviour was so consistent that

I began to call him Mr. Hall. My years with Madge had made me much

more observant when it came to communicating with a canine.

I therefore rushed nothing. I would let Dutch know that he was safe and

that I was an ally upon whom he could rely. But beyond that I was careful

not to push anything. I simply observed. And through this I learned.

And learn I did! I learned that here was a beautiful animal who had never

really been wanted. He had developed an acute self-awareness and

that awareness told him that the best way to make himself welcome was

to make himself scarce.

He knew nothing about play. Presented with a ball or rope he would look

up at me in complete confusion not at all sure what he was expected to do.

Any sudden movement or noise would send him cowering into a corner.

Often I would look around and discover Dutch was nowhere in sight.

I would find him standing or sitting by himself in an empty room.

He seemed to be always waiting…waiting….He needed to be loved and slowly,

in his own time he began to let me know that he was as curious about me as

I was about him. Perhaps the first sign of this came when I went out

one day for a short period of time.

Returning to the house I opened the door and Dutch came bounding up to me.

In his mouth he carried one of the toys I had bought for him.

He presented the toy to me proudly then stood back. Never quite sure

what a toy was for he knew I had given them to him and somehow now

I was left with the impression that he valued these gifts.

From that day every time I return home Dutch goes to where his toys

lie unused selects one and gives it to me. As far as Dutch is concerned

toys are tokens of esteem to be presented back to the giver as a special

acknowledgement. No one else receives these toys but me.

It’s a special little ceremony he reserves for the two of us only.

In the year now passed Dutch has grown into a much different dog than the

one who greeted me suspiciously on that first day.

He has learned – on his own terms – that it is alright to enter a room without

permission. From a shadow he has become a presence less self-conscious

and more trusting.

I can only guess what occurred in Dutch’s life. Certainly I believe that his

first years were unhappy ones. Who on earth would abandon such a magnificent

and intelligent creature? That question stays with me…bothers me.

Today Dutch’s picture hangs on the wall of my study right beside that

of the Late Great Madge. Without the one I don’t think there would

have been the other. From a terrible loss and sense of emptiness

Madge left a legacy of the wonderful relationship man can develop

with another of God’s creatures. Madge’s death left a vacuum and into it,

was swept a lonely abandoned dog who had seen little security in his life.

I have come to the conclusion that Madge somehow continues to live on in

the shape of an English Pointer. My years with her taught me how to

‘speak to the animals’…and maybe more importantly…how to listen.

The experience I had gained in sharing my life with Madge now bore

fruit in the understanding I could offer Dutch.

Because of her life I have been able to bring comfort and security into another’s.

For me grief became a process leading back to joy. I was able to take it

and turn it from a painful emptiness into a positive and useful instrument.

It’s summer now in Canada. The huge old trees in the backyard of my home

bow their heads in the cool breeze from the lake. And in a corner of that yard,

I can look out and see Dutch. He’s lying under the same tree where

Madge used to lie happily dozing in the dappled sunlight.

In the earth beneath him lies the little stone box with the ashes of

a different time another experience.

I call out to Dutch and he comes bounding.

It’s time for us to go for a walk!