The Man and His Dog

We have a dog. A Black Lab-Pit Bull mix. Zoe is 100 lbs. of pure investigative power. Take her for a walk, and she takes you for a walk. A sniff here, a jump there, a leaping run after a cat, and down you go.  We have to put her outside when people come over. She barks barks barks, then sniffs vigorously at whatever she can reach, and since she stands hip-high to the average adult, you already know what her target is. To my knowledge, there’s only one person she actively hates—she bit him once, and we’ve never let her near him again—but she is big, and strong, and scary if you don’t know what to expect.

This is our second Black Lab. Dad loves Zoe, but he knows she’s no Heidi. Sometimes, he forgets and calls her Heidi—well, sometimes, I do the same. I mean, they’re both Black Labs, right? But sometimes, you can tell he’s thinking not of Zoe, but of Heidi, and missing his dog.

We got Heidi, if I can remember this correctly, when I was in high school, or maybe just after I graduated. It wasn’t my choice to get her. I think that between the concerted marketing efforts of my younger siblings, and the nostalgia of my father, my mother finally just caved. She knew perfectly well who would be dealing with the feeding, walking, poop-pick-up, vet visits, and hair removal, but even that couldn’t overcome the hunger for a dog that infected the family.

We got her from a rescue lady; Heidi had been abused. But for us, she was loving, and eventually trusting. This wasn’t our first family dog, but the previous one, Lady, had been the companion of the oldest set of kids. This one would be for the youngest group. And for my dad.

Heidi was his buddy. They would take long walks together—well, we all liked to walk her. She was well-trained, and rarely pulled at the leash, and the sight of this 90 pound bundle of muscle meant even a lone woman was safe walking her at night. But Dad never used the leash.

In the morning, he would walk with her down to the corner convenience store for his hot-chocolate-and- donuts run.  She would sit outside the store and watch him through the window as he collected his goodies. As he moved through the store to the check-out, she would scooch along the window to keep him in sight.

While no doubt the sight of her was a little scary to some of the customers, the regulars got used to it. The only time she whined or even stood up was the one time he headed to an out-of-sight aisle. The owners watched her get up and search each aisle, through the window, then settle down when he reappeared. Then, morning sustenance in hand, back to the house they would stroll.

Heidi and my brother in Utah. 

Heidi was with us from California, to Utah (the only time she grew a winter coat), and Arizona. She greeted every family member with a happy wag, and a hopeful grin. The only time we ever heard her bark was at a utility worker that came to the door—she wasn’t fond of uniforms. She was even gentle with small children who tugged on her ears. And each sibling—and Dad—thought of her as their own personal doggy.

Dad liked to take her to the open field behind the house, where she could hunt rabbits to her hearts content. She never caught them, but she sure got a charge out of the chase. Once, when Dad had her out, he suffered a serious dizzy spell (he has Meniere’s disease), and barely made it to a cement pillar to sit on. Heidi was there by his side, almost before he finished sitting down. She stayed next to him until he was able to stand, and seemed to guide him home.

Another time, on their way back from the field, Animal Control pulled up next to him. They had received a call about a dog roaming free through the field, and the leash laws were very strict (not that Dad ever thought laws applied to him—or his dog). He told Heidi to sit, and he walked around the truck to talk to the driver.

“We got a call about a large black dog running around without a leash. That wouldn’t be yours, would it?”

“My dog?” asked Mr. Innocent.

“Yes,” said the officer. “Maybe it was that dog right there?” And he pointed to Heidi, who had walked around the truck to sit trustingly next to my father.

“Oh! Well, yes.”

At this Heidi, just cocked her head, and grinned her tongue-lolling grin at the officer as if to say, “I’ve only been chasing rabbits. I am completely virtuous and wondrous.”  

“Sir, we live one block away. As a matter of fact, you can see my back porch from here.”

“Weeeell,” said the officer, “I can see she’s very well trained. I’ve got a leash in the back of my truck. Would you just put it on her, as the law requires, and I will just let you off with a warning? I wish more dogs behaved that well.”

And with that, the leash went on, the officer pulled away, and Dad and Heidi were home, with another tale to tell, in moments.

Heidi died when Dad was on a business trip. In her old age she had taken to sleeping by his kitchen chair, on the cool tile floor. Two nights after he left, my brother stopped by for a midnight snack. She raised her head, thumped her tail, and went still; she went out with love in her heart. Dad had to leave his meeting when he found out. It was not a good day for him, stuck in Dallas, away from his buddy. It would take another 15 years, and a new set of boys, for Dad to say yes to another pet. He still misses his Heidi dog.