Duke

The handsome pup

Nothing lasts forever - not the sun, nor the moon. Not a human life and certainly not the life of a dog. I called the old Duke in from the rain one final time early Saturday morning. A thunderstorm was almost on us. He was not doing well at supper and I did not want him out in the rain. I had to look for him with a flashlight. Wherever he had been, he faithfully came when called one last time. When I went toward the garage, he could not go any longer.

Unable to lift him, I got a sheet of cardboard to move him, but realized that he was dying. I stayed with him then until the good dog passed out of his old worn out body, leaving me behind.

He came home in the arms of my son in April of 1999, and took his leave in April 16 years later. He lived a set of four rounds of four, befitting a good and wise spirit such as he.

I do not believe there is a human being on the planet who truly deserves the love and devotion of a dog. I did not deserve such a good companion.

The old graybeard

Inspecting the construction materials

Trying to have a back scratch in the tall grass but what happens?  JAKE!

He asked for so little for what he gave.

Nothing Duke loved more than a cold winter morning!

Just call and then get out of his way!

Now I do not know where his spirit may be.

Canine Cuisine, the Fine Art Thereof

The Good Dog Duke, almost 16 years old, is on the downhill slope of his years. The protector and guardian of Spiritcreek is in his dotage. He can see but not very well. He does not have cataracts but there is a strange blue cast in his eyes. He is effectively deaf. He has lost a significant amount of weight. Afraid to hear what Dr. J might tell me, I waited too long to take Duke in for a check up. Finally, I gathered the courage I needed on behalf of the good old dog, and we went to see Dr. J this week.

The good news is that, based on a routine check up, there is nothing sinister - at least nothing obvious. I have to give Duke a Prilosec for stomach acid 15 minutes before his first meal, and then I serve the good old dog home-cooked human food: hamburger and rice mixed with eggs and cottage cheese, with yogurt and pumpkin thrown in, too. It smells delicious! So far, Duke has been able to keep all of his food down and seems to have already picked up a couple of pounds on this diet.

I keep Duke and Jake separated for most of the day. Jake is a bad, bad dog. He is absolutely willing to fight poor old Duke away from his own bowl! He really whipped old Duke's butt the other day before I could get to them to put a stop to it. Jake has no idea how close he is to being shipped out for good. He is worthless! He hides under the porch whenever anyone comes on the property. The old braveheart still puts himself between the "threat" and me. Duke cannot even flop over in the tallgrass for a delicious, if far less vigorous than former days, backscratching session without Jake bullying him and bulldozing him.

I do not know how much longer the old Duke has. I can hardly bear to think how it will be here without Duke. I will not be nearly as brave going out at night without his constant companionship and his keen senses that have always kept me from being surprised by anything unpleasant (except snakes and spiders). I have already learned to keep a better look out for myself because Duke no longer hears the crunch of gravel at the top of the driveway. Jake hears but he has no interest in barking to let me know we are being invaded.

Dr. J spent a long time discussing the foreseeable future regarding the inevitable. Bottom line, I see that Duke is still enjoying life even though he is losing strength in his hind quarters and he cannot see or hear. He still goes to the barn with me and enjoys running downhill when we come back. He still enjoys a backscratch in the tall grass. He can still get up and down the steps. He does not appear to be in acute pain. Now that he can eat and hold down his food, maybe there are several more years left, even if I have to cook a big pot of food for him every week.

Trash, Trucks and Dawgs

First, my daughter needed the truck and then my son.  The truck has not been at the farm since late June.  Consequently, I have not been able to haul the trash to the landfill.  The cans have been filled to the brim and this has made Jake the puppy immensely happy.  He expertly works the lids off (despite all best efforts to prevent it) which makes it easy to tip the cans over.  Then, to his great delight, there is a mountain of smelly garbage to nose through - a plethora of textures to chew and rip apart - and an over abundance of material to drag all over the yard.  He has all day to create a scene that instantly turns me into a murderous woman.  I want to kill that dog - with my bare hands.  I have considered hauling him back to the humane shelter.  He is a bad dog.  He is not a good farm dog.  He rarely barks at anything.  When people drive up, he disappears.  He has killed two of the three chickens survivors.  The only thing Jake has going for him is that he is so darned cute when he lays down to watch me pick up the trash, cussing him all the while.  He crosses his front paws, kicks back and watches the show.  Literally.

My son showed up with the truck last Saturday.  We hauled off every scrap and molecule of trash.  All that disgusting stuff Jake happily dragged around and I angrily and repeatedly picked up is now safely in the landfill.  I do not know what Jake has been doing to keep himself occupied during the day, but he has not been close to death a single, solitary time since Saturday. 

I have plans to build a corral for the cans.  It will require a gate to allow for the easy removal of full cans for hauling and that makes it a bit of a larger project. A gate is not beyond my basic building skills, though.  I can fix this most aggravating and imminent danger to Jake's health and well being, but I cannot fix Jake's other problems.  I cannot teach him how to be a good farm dog.  I keep hoping his genetics will activate and he will become the watch dog I need him to be.  So far he is nothing but a worthless trash hound. 

I think Duke appreciates having a companion even though Jake often irritates him, too.  The dear old Duke, that most valiant and wonderful of good dogs, continues to diminish in strength and ability.  He is a retired dog who gets fed first, and petted first, and receives treats first.  It is almost to the point that when I go to the pasture, I have to put Duke in the pen to stop him from following.  He can no longer make the trip without great effort.  If I had the money, I would have one of those four wheelers with a small trailer.  Then Duke could ride along and still be part of the action.  He is just too big for me to carry. 

This summer, I drove past the house of a distant neighbor.  Those kids were in school with my son.  The boy, now a young man, must have been visiting home and had gone for a run or a hike.  His dog, now old like the Dukenator, was struggling to make it back to the house.  The poor old dog was in the road, lagging far behind the young man, obviously in pain and unable to do anything but take baby steps.  I do not think the man realized how far behind the dog had fallen.  It caused a lump in my throat.  But if Jake does not shape up, he will not have to worry about getting old on the farm like Duke and the neighbor dog.  (He will go live in the city!  What did you think?!)

Rite of Passage

When Dogs Go Wild

Eventually, every farm dog succumbs to the siren call of reeking trash.  That cute little puppy, the Jake'N'Bake, has been working diligently at the cans and finally broke the code.  This was the scene that assailed my senses when I stepped outside to enjoy the unexpected rain Saturday morning.  Not surprisingly, there were no canines visible from the front porch, neither whisker nor tip of a tail.  Everyone knew a serious dog crime had been committed.

No dog has ever been "disciplined" for this treasonous act mainly because it is discovered long after the fact.  But the dogs all know exactly how happy I am when picking up stinking trash because I cuss and shout and give them the evil eye and repeat "Bad Dog!"  They fully understand this is a transgression of magnitude.

I do not remember Duke ever knocking over trash cans.  If I set a bag of trash on the porch (to carry to the cans later), Duke will not touch it as long as I am home.  If I leave the premises, even for fifteen minutes, that trash bag is fair game in Duke's judgement.  Even then, if I drive in and see trash strung from hell to breakfast, the Duke is conspicuously absent.  He is suddenly too busy to greet me, his beloved master and benefactor and the supreme ruler of Spirit Creek Farm.  There is no barking, no joyous whining, no jumping, no effusive greeting and enthusiastic tail wagging and sneezing.  The guilty cur stays out of sight until I call him.  Dutifully he answers my call, head down, and takes tiny little dog steps toward me, his guilt so great he cannot make eye contact.  It is so pathetic and pitiful that I normally do not even yell at him any more.  He is a dog after all, not a saint.  Duke cannot pass up an unprotected bag of trash any more than I can pass up the treats in the break room at work.  The spirit is willing...

As of Saturday morning, Jake had not been party to a trash raid nor had he witnessed Duke's shame and guilt demeanor.  But Jake is no dummy.  He was quiet and out of sight, too.  It is normally impossible for me to open the front door without being swarmed by these two dogs.  Stepping onto an empty porch was the first clue of a trash raid.  When I was cleaning up the mess later, Duke stayed far away and thereby implicated himself.  Jake could not help himself and came within ten feet of me, but laid submissively on the ground, following me with his eyes.  Once all the shameful evidence of the trash had been removed, the cans set up and the lids tightly returned, those two dogs were immediately unburdened.  Their pitiful guilt and shame fell away and they were born again into the innocence and happiness of a good dog's normal life.  "We are happy!  Are you happy?  See how easy it is to be happy?  Let's all be happy right now!"  And why not? 

The Good Dog Duke - Then and Now

Duke - October, 1999

Duke - February, 2012

The top photo is one of the few of Duke as a puppy.  He was about eight months old.  The bottom photo is The Good Dog Duke now.
Duke and Jake are both adopted from the Topeka Helping Hands Humane Society.  Adopting Duke was easy.  I had to fight for Jake.

Live long and prosper, Ol' Duke!

A Tale of Two Dogs

Jake and Duke on the way to the barn.

Duke waiting for the baby.

The Good Dog Duke and the youngster heading for the house - Duke loves to see how close he can blast past without actually running into me.  He is teaching Jake the same game.

Duke and Jake, almost father and son.

Jake, after his first puppy shot.

I named the puppy Jake.  It is not fancy but dogs are not particular in what human beings call them. 

Duke, true to his nature, accepts this irritating new addition with good grace, though his feelings are  hurt if Jake seems to get too much attention.  The happiest time in anyone's day at Spirit Creek Farm is the trek to the barn at sunrise.  Everyone is happy for a brand new day - dogs, horse and woman.

It is early to tell how good a dog Jake will be, but the other day I got a good indication.  The neighbors were moving a herd of cattle to another pasture down the road past my house.  I did not see Duke, so I called him.  I did not want him (or the puppy) to bark at the cattle and cause trouble.  Duke and Jake were both at the top of the drive way quietly watching the cattle and cowboys on horses go by.  No barking.  When I called Duke, both dogs came running.  If Jake remembers that is the way he is supposed to behave, it will be a great thing.

Dog Days

Duke, the guardian of Spirit Creek, is getting up there in age. This last year he has slowed down considerably. He struggles a bit getting up if he has been lying in the sun too long. Nothing has dimmed his enthusiasm and likely never will. He is a happy dog, a happy being.

I hope he has lived a good life here. I adopted him from the Topeka humane society when he was just a fat puppy with big feet. He was my boy's dog but mostly he has been my dog. He has always been very friendly. He found out the hard way that not everyone wants to be friends as enthusiastically as he does, and he still forgets sometimes. He only knows "sit" and that is only for a short time. He hardly obeys me. In fact, he does not obey me at all, and never has. He cooperates, though. He has always had his freedom, never being penned or tied up.

I have utterly failed teaching him not to jump on people. He knows if I am wearing my old work coat, he can get away with planting muddy paws on me. He still gets in a good one sometimes when I am dressed for work but what's a few muddy paw prints on clean clothes?

He ran away one time. I do not know if he willingly took off, if the coyotes ran him and he lost his way, or if there were stray dogs that enticed him. I called the humane shelter and reported him missing first thing. I called my neighbors. I looked for Duke every night after work, and every weekend. I put classified ads in two local newspapers, and posted signs in the Paxico post office, though that is eight miles away, across two creeks. When none of that worked, I laid out in the middle of my barren pasture, crying and praying to my dead parents to please help me find my dog. I know that seems terribly dramatic, but it is true.

On the tenth day, lo there was a phone call. When I answered, an angry woman's voice snapped "I got yer dog!". No hello, how are you, kiss my behind - nothing. Still, a great relief washed over me. "Thank god," I said, followed by "Are you sure?!" What if it was not my dog?

The Humane Society tag was still on his collar so she thought someone from Topeka had abandoned an unwanted dog in Paxico. I burned rubber into Paxico and found the stinky Duke tied up at the woman's house. We were exceedingly glad to see each other, though he was so smelly that he left an odor in the cab of my new truck that lingered for days. He has never wandered off the place since that day. I have never known for sure if his big adventure scared him into staying home, or if he chose to remain. There are times when I feel certain he made an Old Testament decision "to return unto the land of Spirit Creek and dwell among them for the remainder of his days".

Duke has been such a good dog, I think more often what I can do to repay him for his life of service. The only canine companion he has ever had was an abandoned dog who came on my property and was dominant over Duke. After that dog killed my cat, I placed him with dog rescue people, but Duke had learned how to defend himself. When another abandoned dog showed up, Duke maintained the rights to his own food and position. I fed that dog for several days, and would have kept him, but he was grieving and very unhappy. One night he pointed his nose to the sky and a long, mournful howl welled up from his broken heart. Without a backward glance, he ran into the darkness searching for the humans who had so heartlessly abandoned him.

I think Duke might like to have a companion in his old age, someone who can share the duties of marking territory, chasing the rabbits, and barking at coyotes. He needs someone he could still play with a bit before he is too old to do anything but sleep. I have considered several dogs over the years but none of them were right. Friday I found the perfect dog, a female Great Pyrenees mix at the same shelter I found the Duke. She is a very nice looking four month old puppy - already huge. The saddest thing is that she and her litter mates have either been abused or without any human contact. The poor thing is so terrified that she freezes, and hides her face in the corner of the visiting room. I am reluctant to take her. Any psychological scars in a dog as big as she will be when grown could mean a lot of heartache and trouble. But she has stayed on my mind since Friday. I might take Duke to town today and see what he thinks of the pup. If he likes her and she is not terrified of him, Duke's big heart might be all she needs.

Duke's Christmas Day

Another Christmas dawns and I am still alive on this old earth to welcome it. There is a lot of snow on the ground, blown into big drifts. The wind is still spinning snow into whirlwinds. I think the only Being happy about this much snow is The Duke. He loves the snow and celebrates in it as if he were still a pup.

Duke was about eight months old the first time he saw snow. When I walked out the back door that morning, he would not follow me into the mysterious white world. He would only peek out the dog door. I was shoveling a narrow path for myself around the house. As I got further away from him, he ventured out to follow cautiously behind me. It was just a few minutes before he discovered that it was perfectly safe to walk in the snow. Once he realized it was just white "stuff" over familiar ground, he was off! He ran in large figure eights, first to the right then to the left. At some point he leaned onto a shoulder and began to plow his nose through the snow, using three legs to power himself along. I was laughing hard at him by then. He was celebrating the snow with perfect dog abandon.

Duke is the happiest being I have ever known. His enthusiasm for life has never dimmed. He still plows through the snow with his nose, stopping only to sneeze a time or two. He still loves to chase rabbits, but the chases do not last long now. I have never seen him with a dead rabbit, or noticed any empty rabbit furs in the yard. He loves to snuffle around the barn, checking to see what critter might be living between the bales. He still loves to snuffle into prairie vole nests and dig frantically after them. I am certain he can catch and kill them with great expertise but I have never seen him actually catch a vole.

He leaves the cats, the horses, and the neighbor's cows alone. He tolerates the chickens, though I get the feeling he does not like them all that much. He does not chase them, but I have noticed that if he sees a chance, (as long as it has the appearance of legitimacy), he will run through them, scattering them into a squawking, flapping flurry. All other wildlife are allowed to exist peacefully in his territory unmolested, including the squirrels. Except rats - he takes rats out like a CIA assassin. (He is not a descendant of wolves for nothing.)

This big snowstorm is a dangerous event during the four day weekend of our country's largest holiday. Many people are going to be killed in car wrecks trying to forge ahead with holiday plans - even though a blizzard should be a valid reason to stay home. People are going to try to get together with family because of their schedules. No one's workplace will let them have do-overs next week. People will try to get to work too because the boss will not accept bad weather as a reason to miss work - though we all should agree it is.

Duke should rule the world. Every day is a good dog day. When it is too hot to chase rabbits, you lay in the cool dirt in the shade. When the boss wants you to stop fooling around and yells at you to report for duty, you just look earnestly at her, then take off over the hill - she knows you will be back. When it snows, you rejoice in it - not drive off into certain death and destruction. When people you love come on your property, you rejoice with wild abandon. When you have irritating friends, you accept them as they are, even if you do not agree with their politics or understand their language - though it is permissible to get a rise out of them occasionally.

Good old Duke - this snow's for you!

Dogs and Digital Mysteries

Digital Photography is the most miraculous thing that human beings have ever invented. No film, no waiting, no expensive disappointments. I can delete blurry and bad photos with reckless abandon. I can take one hundred photos of the same subject and not feel guilty. When I open the files on my computer screen, they come alive with the light from within, almost as magnificent as when originally seen.  Often there are things in the photo not noticed by my eye or my mind.

My little digital camera is capable of much more functionality than I know how to use. I have been experimenting with the camera's settings, hoping I can capture at least some of the more subtle and important aspects of subject matter that escape and frustrate me now. It is the same frustration I feel when I paint. I simply have not mastered the tools, neither the paints nor the camera, to reproduce what I see.

Once again, I tried to photograph the moonlit scenery. Tonight the moon is so bright that my eyes can distinguish some colors outdoors. Of course, master photographers have been attempting to capture the magic of moonlight since the first camera was invented and most have failed. Oh, but I think I can do better with my little Kodak?

It is very cold tonight and clear. It is beautiful.  I spent quite some time attempting to photograph the magic of the full moon illuminating the landscape. I wonder what my old dog Duke thinks I am doing when I go on these night forays. He understands feeding the horses, letting the chickens out of their pen. When my kids visit and hike the creek, Duke naturally gets the concept of the pack going on an adventure. I wonder what he thinks when I take the camera out at night, randomly flashing an exceedingly bright light at nothing he perceives as extraordinary.

We assume the concept of taking pictures, and any number of other things, are beyond the intelligence of dogs. What if they are actually a superior race, so far evolved beyond us that they know photography, digital or otherwise, is such a futile endeavor only human beings would waste their time with it? Dogs do not go to war, build nuclear weapons, oppress and torture others. Dogs do not get in political debates. Sometimes when the ol' Dukenator, faithful and forever loyal, accompanies me in my idiot adventures, I know he came from the wisest species in the universe.

The puppy Duke.

The Trickster

All night long the Duke was barking in his most authoritative voice. I knew something was out there he did not want coming around. It could be skunk, opossum, bobcat, deer (though he only half- heartedly warns them away), fox, or dog. Maybe an escaped cow. Or a coyote. Duke knows his wild cousins are up to no good, day and night. Good old Duke.

So, this morning, I was having my hot tea as I checked email and read the online newspaper. Duke was asleep on the front porch, having worn himself out from a long night on duty. I had not yet turned the chickens out for the day, and was feeling guilty about it. I could see them crowded around the door waiting to get started on their very busy day. They have soil to scratch, bugs to eat, seeds to peck. If they get too close to one another, there is squawking and pecking and irritability among them. I fully understand this. I do not want to talk to anyone at work until about eleven or so. On a bad day, I would appreciate it if I did not have to speak to anyone until about 4:15 pm.

Out my east window, about thirty feet from the house, I saw a coyote, crouching low, sneaking toward the chicken pen. I should have taken his picture before I knocked on the window. He looked at me but waited to see what I was going to do. I shouted at him, and he turned away. As I watched, he loped few short yards, then sauntered away. What a punk!

For once, my laziness paid off. That coyote would have picked the chickens off one by one. I fed the chickens in the pen, scattering milo throughout so they could scratch and peck for it. They have settled down now that they know they are not going to leave the pen.

A good farmer would have shot the coyote. Even though I love my chickens, I could not kill a coyote. Duke and I will have to work harder to keep the chickens safe, but they will always be under threat. I will keep them penned for several days but eventually I will let them out again. I do not know how persistent the coyote will be.

Coyotes are smart. They are also severely persecuted in Kansas. Stockmen claim coyotes kill their calves. I am going to commit blasphemy here, but I would have to see coyotes kill a healthy calf before I believe it. It would take a pack of coyotes to worry a cow away from her calf and bring down a big calf. I never see coyotes running in packs - never in my entire life.

I knew it was going to be a challenge to keep chickens. Everything likes to eat chickens, not only humans. Better to live free, scratching happily in the dirt, and be taken quickly in death than to spend an entire life in cages, on concrete, never seeing the light of day. Duke and I will do what we can, but there is only one guarantee in life. Party on, little chickens.

Light in the Dark

I awoke with a start at 1:15 am this morning and dizzily searched for my shoes. I had fallen asleep watching television (Ghost Hunters) and failed to close the chicken pen! Drat!

I could not find a single flashlight, not even the headlamp my kids gave me for Christmas. How would I be able to tell if all the chickens were alive? Oh yeah.... I could turn on the yard light. I stumbled around, still stupid from waking so suddenly, trying to get my bearings. I turned on the yard light and stepped outside.

The faithful Dukenator was at the front door and ready for any adventure, even if it was just out to the chicken pen. We made our way over the wet leaves and across the uneven ground. Evil Roo was crowing, so I knew he was still alive.

I am loathe to admit it, but if something should happen to the Evil Roo, formerly known as Elvis, I would grieve. Though there has been personal animosity between us since he matured, his chivalrous dedication to his flock has won me over. There must be romance or there would be no peeps, but I have never witnessed it, nor heard any sexual assaults the way it was with Big Man, the first alpha rooster. Evil does not bully his ladies or peck his children. The babies know they can shelter by their father. ALL the hens peck them. There is a strict pecking order in the flock and the babies, once they are a certain size, get pecked if they get too close to a higher ranking chicken. Their mothers will defend them ferociously until they are on their own, but as adolescents they continue to shelter by their father. I do not know enough about roosters to know if this is typical behavior. It is touching and admirable. I was relieved to hear El' crowing.

The three Weird Sisters, the remaining Silver Sebrites, were roosting below El', so that was a huge relief, too. (I lost three of the silvers in one night, which is when I implemented the closed pen before dark policy.) I could not see well enough into the coop to see if everyone else was present, but I could hear low mutterings. At least no one seemed to be traumatized. I think they are all safe. I will have to wait until the sun comes up to get a count.

The good thing about having horses and chickens... and trees and tall grass and a creek... I might have to go outdoors, at any time of the night, into fresh air, warm or cold, beneath a dark or light sky, and be instantly at peace. When it is raining at night, it is so black, and quiet. The comfort is tangible and I breathe it deeply into my spirit.

As long as I have Duke's trustworthy companionship, nothing dangerous will catch me unaware, so I am never afraid. If the sky is clear, the stars are bright and immediate and beautiful. Sometimes there is moonlight. Living here, I have had opportunity to observe the phases, position and rhythms of the moon. It is surprising how much more often the sky is dark than lit by the moon. I understand a bit better the power and magic the moon held for our ancestors, as if I have to think about it. We are steeped in the ancient power of moonlight. We recall it with cellular memory and carry it in our spiritual DNA.

Any excuse to go out at night beneath the ancient burning sky ....

Time for Nothing

A very good thing about having an empty nest is the time I have to do nothing. I can be attentive and silent for many hours each day. Sometimes there are faint tones in the wind that stir some deep nostalgia I follow as far as I can. I never find the source. Someday, maybe. Eventually, certainly.

I have had time to watch the small population of squirrels who have lived in the same dozen trees since I moved here. About February I notice their chasing and eventual mating in the bare trees. I will notice a baby squirrel some time later. Always just one or two.

The squirrels did not approach the house for many years. It took them two seasons to discover the suet I hung on the front porch for the birds. Now that they know nothing dangerous happens if they approach the house, I hear them scampering on the roof. It has become a new thoroughfare on the way to the back yard.

As Duke gets older, he spends most of his time asleep on the front porch. He was never a threat to the squirrels, even when he was younger. They have always been able to be on the ground in his vicinity. A particular male squirrel leaps onto the handrail on the front porch. At the top, he lays flat along the rail and hangs his head over the end. Motionless, he watches Duke for quite awhile. I have seen this several times but have no explanation for it. Even if Duke rouses from sleep, the squirrel remains. I guess the squirrel is just visiting the Duke.

There is another unlikely relationship between Evil Roo and Duke. There is no snuggling of course, but Evil comes onto the front porch to stand within a few inches of Duke. They are just two dudes, hanging out, doing nothing. If they meet in their separate coming and going, Duke stretches his nose toward Evil. I assume it is an interspecies greeting they have invented.

Duke has his own life. With the exception of the time he was lost for ten days, he has spent his entire life here. He knows this place by its sounds and scents in ways my human senses can not fathom. He knows who and what else lives here, and who only passes through. He knows all about the creek, where to cross, the taste of the water. He knows where the rabbits live, and hears all the creatures that move in the cover of darkness. He knows when there are deer and turkey in the yard, but he allows them safe passage.

He is not afraid of the thunder and lightning. He loves the snow and cold, having a perfect fur coat for that weather. Whenever anyone comes to hike the creek, Duke is right there, eager for the adventure. But if no one is roaming, neither is he.

He loves Spirit Creek Farm, too. This is his home and career. Basically, when my son left home, Duke retired to a life of far less excitement and a plenty of time for nothing. In all that nothing is everything.

Suffering In the Heartland

Today, at almost ten o'clock in the morning, the temperature is only sixty eight degrees, even though the sun is shining from a cloudless sky. It is "human being" weather. Perfect summer weather for me and my old dog, Duke. Not too hot. In fact, it is not hot at all. It is beautiful. So naturally, I am sitting indoors writing on the computer.

Usually on this date in Kansas, a person can not breathe from the hot humidity suffocating everything in a moist blanket of suffering. The older I get, the less I can tolerate it. Same goes for Duke. In an effort to help ease his suffering through the typical ungodly Kansas heat and humidity horrors this year, I had him professionally shaved. Dropping him at the vet's I carelessly said "Do not shave his legs, since he runs through the tall grass."

Will I ever learn that careless speech leads to catastrophes?

When I returned for Duke, I was met with a miscarriage of responsible pet ownership that brought tears to my eyes. Duke's normally thick, beautiful coat of Chow/German Shepherd genes had been reduced to the same stubble left on a new Marine's head. His flabby old belly was exposed. His wrinkled neck seemed too vulnerable for such a good old dog. Worst of all, he had been given a poodle cut! The thick silky fur on his shoulders and hips had been left in place, giving him the look of a silly city dog with no common sense. All I could think to say to this poor animal was "I am so, so sorry!"

He looks horrible and it is all my fault. I know he is far more comfortable without that smothering dog fur that keeps him perfectly comfortable in the snow and ice of January. But he looks so silly, even the chickens do not give him a lick of respect.



I know precisely how he feels. When my mother remarried, I had to move to Wichita and go to a new school. I was doing okay until my aunt graduated barber school. My aunt and my mother forced me into getting a haircut - a "pixie" haircut. The shoulder length hair that I had valiantly defended against my mother's constant assaults, fell in long strands from my aunt's shiny new scissors. When I looked in the mirror, I knew the entire rest of sixth grade was going to go so very, very badly for me. My bangs were a mere 1/2 inch, emphasizing my high forehead. I was almost bald. No one can wear a hat in school, or a head band, or a scarf. You just have to go, pink ears shining, white forehead beaming, humiliation complete.

A moment of silence for the abject abuse suffered by me that year... and another moment for the Dukester. Cruelly, a humiliated heart continues to beat....

*<*#@$^#@, DUKE!

I am not crazy about dogs. I like dogs okay, but they are stinky, over friendly, and mostly a pain in the neck. They chew things up. They get in the trash. They kill cats, other dogs, and people sometimes. They run away, chase cars, chase cattle. Dig holes. They jump up with muddy paws and always want to lick people. After seeing all the things a dog will eat, licking is OUT - forever!

Of course, not all dogs have all of these bad habits. Duke only has a few: stinky, over friendly, jumps up with muddy feet, and wants to lick. I know it's good dog manners to lick friends and family but no thanks, Duke.

I almost forgot - Duke will chew up anything a delivery man leaves on the front porch. From Duke's perspective, ever so often a guy randomly drives right to his front porch with a strange present, especially for him.

Over the years Duke and I have learned how to communicate with one another fairly well. Watching Caesar Milan, the dog whisperer, on National Geographic has helped me speak Duke's language much clearer. But BC (before Caesar) Duke had to figure out for himself whatever I was wailing about. I normally only have four words for him.

Duke jumps up on me and I yell "*<*#@$^#@, DUKE!". I come home to find the trash scattered across the yard, Duke hears: "*<*#@$^#@, DUKE!" I can not find him and he hears: "Duuuuuuuuuke! Duuuuuuuuuuke! *<*#@$^#@, DUKE!" He eyes the chickens and he hears: "DUKE!" Sometimes he hears: "DUKE, <*##@$^#@!" Somehow, he always gets the idea.

His communication is expressive and full of joy. He still bounds into the air beside me, joyous that I am home again. Unlike the horses, he is genuinely glad to see me even if I am not bringing food. He loves to run through the tall prairie grass, flop over at speed, then wriggle around on his back, growling in delight. He does this same maneuver in snow. One of the funniest things the old Dukemeister does is a dog smile. His bottom front teeth are visible. This is always accompanied by extreme wagging of the entire rear end, even if he is sitting down.

I have never known a being as happy as Duke. He trots around the farm on his dog business, barking at things I can not see, hear or smell - except for the skunks. His first order of business each day is to make the rounds to mark his territory. This is necessary business because Duke is outnumbered by coyotes by about a thousand to one.

He is a Heinz 57 breed: German Shepherd, Chow, and probably some Golden Retriever. He has big round feet on stocky legs and he weighs about 80 pounds. Since he has always been free to run and roam, he is very strong. He looks after his farm with a mighty heart -- he is the heart of the farm. He is my constant companion whenever I do anything outdoors, always here to greet me when I come home. I do not know how I was so lucky to be blessed with such a good dog.

"*<*#@$^#@, Duke."

The Good Dog, Duke

Photo of Duke, taken this spring.
I moved to my current home, Spirit Creek Farm, in April of 1999. A few days after I moved here, my German Shepherd Nuke died unexpectedly on a Sunday afternoon. I was grief stricken over the loss, so it was strange that the very next morning during the commute to work, the urge to check at the local humane shelter for another dog aggressively interrupted my thoughts. There was simply no room in my heart for another dog and I was annoyed at myself for even considering a replacement not even a day after saying goodbye to one good dog.

Over the next few days, at any still moment, when my thinking was not actively engaged, the idea of the shelter crowded into my thoughts. I wondered what was wrong with me. It was far out of character for me to consider another pet immediately after losing one. It normally takes a year or two before I am ready. Sometimes a higher authority intervenes in our lives. I simply could not ignore the clear and insistent message to go to the shelter to look at the dogs. On Friday afternoon I succumbed - obeyed - caved - and went to the shelter.

One glance into the puppy pen, and a fat butterball German Shepherd mix puppy caught my eye. He was sleeping while the other puppies were excitedly jumping and yapping. Instinctively, I felt he was ill but when he roused and came to the front of the pen, he was as vital as the others, so I dismissed it. I carefully and individually looked at every puppy and dog available. I did not miss one animal. But it was that little fat guy I asked to see in person. His face was so fat that it seemed as if the flesh folded vertically above and below his eyes, giving him the appearance of a clown. His paws were huge. I wanted my son to help choose, so I did not take the puppy then, but I knew he was the one.

First thing that next morning we went to the shelter. I pointed out the fat puppy right away, but my son wanted to look around. His first choice was a gangly hound/lab mix. Once my son had a chance to play with the fat puppy though, he was wavering. In reality, I do not think either of us had a choice. I filled out the paperwork, still wondering what the heck was wrong with me. As we exited the busy waiting room, there was a collective happy murmuring over the sight of an 11 year old boy with the wriggling puppy in his arms, going home together.

On the way back to the farm, my son named the puppy Duke. Even though I tried to talk him out of it, he stood his ground and "Duke" it was. Within a few days, the puppy developed a terrible case of diarrhea and I immediately returned him to the vet. The diagnosis was bad: parvo. The vet's advice was to exchange him at the shelter for a different puppy. The shelter would euthanize Duke at their expense. This simply was not acceptable. My son losing two dogs in less than two weeks? No way! I had to take out an unsecured loan that very day in order to give the vet $350 up front before he would treat Duke. I visited the next morning but Duke was one sick little guy. I did not know if he was going to make it over the weekend.

On Monday morning, I called the minute they were open and the news was good. Duke was on the upswing. Another day or two later Duke came home to Spirit Creek Farm for good.

Duke was guardian and constant companion to my formerly city dwelling son as he explored the timbered creek and hills of his new rural home. Duke learned to snow disc down the steep hill behind our house whether he wanted to or not. He traveled many miles up and down the creek, through all seasons with my son and his buddies. He stood guard when coyotes howling and strange rustling in the dark scared the boys shivering in their tent on the hill behind the house.

Duke loved my son, and is still overjoyed to see him when he comes home from college. But I think it was for me that Duke survived the parvo.

He lives a dog's life outdoors. He is not tied up, fenced in, nor restrained in any way, but knows where the property boundaries are. He does not chase cars or cattle or the horses, but loves to chase rabbits. I do not think he has ever caught a single rabbit in his life. He leaves the rest of the wildlife alone - the squirrels, birds, turkeys, deer. He barks to warn off coyotes and varmits I can never see. If a car stops at the top of my driveway, he has a particular bark and I know someone is coming onto the property.

He and my first horse are friends. He can walk under her belly and lays in the shade of her shadow. The second horse is younger and loves to chase him around. He irritates them too, with his constant insistence to be right in the middle of things at all times. If the horses are cranky, they will swing their hind ends around in warning, but jolly ol' Duke doesn't perceive the threat. To my knowledge they have never actually tried to kick him. But I fully understand their irritation.

When he was a young dog, if he could manage to get a opossum into his mouth, he just carried it around. The opossums did not like that friendly ride at all and learned to stay away. He loves to dig into the prairie for the voles. If he catches them, I have never seen it. All his life he has loved to dig frantically after them and snuffle into the hole. He did go after a pack rat displaced when my brother and I were moving hay bales. Like the magnificent predator a dog truly is, he dispatched that rat with a powerful shake and trotted off to chew on it in privacy. I looked at my brother and said "Wow! Duke is a warrior!" I had never seen him kill a single living thing before.

There are times when my knees ache and are so stiff I can hardly walk. Duke and I have worn a path to the barn looking after the horses. When my knees are bad, he goes ahead of me on the path, always. If he gets too far ahead, he will stop and wait for me to catch up. If we happen to scare a rabbit out of the tall grass, I'm on my own, because ol' Duke tears out after that rabbit like a true hound dog. Before long he returns to "help" me tend to the horses. He never misses escorting me back to the house. In fact, if I'm already on the path back toward the house, he comes tearing up behind me so he can walk in front and scout the way.

It is all typical dog stuff. Just about anyone can tell about the same behavior in their dog. But it is the true magic and life's purpose of Duke the good dog I want to write about. Often I perform ceremony and prayers on behalf of the plants and animals that are under such threat from our human activities. It is my gift to the earth. Instead of his usual insistence to be underfoot and in the way, Duke always, without fail, sits off to the side in alert but respectful silence when I am praying. He simply knows that something requiring his solemn witness is taking place.

Over and above that, I often wonder if he is my former dog Nuke reincarnated in the puppy's body. A day or so after the death of our German Shepherd, my son came in the front door, pale and disbelieving. He had clearly seen Nuke standing behind him in the reflection on the glass of the front door. I was immediately and constantly urged to go to the humane shelter. The more time ticked away, the more insistent that message was. My heart was NOT ready for another dog whatsoever. Then, I unknowingly chose a puppy that was most likely doomed to be euthanized as soon as the parvo infection became apparent. Duke does not act exactly like Nuke, but he does something that of all the dogs in my life, only Nuke would do. Whenever I came home, Nuke in a sheer overload of joy, would stand next to me and spring straight into the air, over and over again, making a joyful growling whine in his throat until stopped by a big sneezing fit. Duke, the good dog, does this exact same thing. That is, he did this until the years began slowing him down.

Anyone who has ever loved a good dog knows their dog brings unconditional love and loyalty, gifts from the Creator. Duke is the guardian of Spirit Creek Farm, a role he chose for himself and he executes those duties with a mighty heart.