Even the Dog's Gettin' Old

I suppose it was about 45 years ago that we got our first dog, M and I that is, as I did have dogs before we married. Our first child had had an uncomfortable experience with a big pooch. We decided we would get a St. Bernard puppy and that his phobic responses would decrease as the dog's size increased ... and so, it was. We named the pup Kazimierza at the request of my mentor, the retired head of the Polish Academy of Sciences, Kazimierz Kuratowski. Kaz was a wondrous Mother to our older kids, had a litter of 10, herself, but died young. Kaz was followed by a male Bernard, the Psychotic Dr. Schreber, who lasted ten years and Mitzie (Mitzvah) who only made it six years. Between Schreber and Mitzie, we got our first Mutt, Shayna Rosa the WonderDog and she lived a long time and was the leader of the pack of Mitzie and Cats. Shayna had a way with other animals and was in charge of socializing each. One cat -- upon arriving -- ran up to the third floor and Shayna -- step by step -- made it up to visit him ... and step by step encouraged Munkacz to come down the stairs, after a month or so, where he stayed until he was a very old guy.

When Shayna died twelve+ years ago, I continued to have the sense she'd be there whenever I opened the door to the house. Shayne was some kind of Collie-Shepherd mix, maybe 45 pounds, and had a beautiful voice that I missed ... well, that I miss. Matyos the Cat would walk along the piano keys and Shayna would melodically howl. She stopped that for  the year after her baby (Mitzie the St. Bernard) died during a seizure and stopped singing completely the year before she succumbed to old age. When I stopped expecting Shayna to be there and under pressure from our grandchild, we brought GuntherDog into the fold.

Gunther had been rescued from a Kentucky Quick-Kill shelter and it quickly became obvious why he was there. Poor fella had likely been mistreated by a male owner and was hostile to men, especially in the presence of women. Gunther is about 11 years old and, to this day, snarls when I interrupt he and his Mom watching Cable News. When Grandma is off on a Grannie-Gig out of town, Gunther is quite attached to me but he has a difficulty cherishing the idea that Mom and Dad could have their own relationship that excludes him. Still and all, a very good dog. Never hostile to children. Loves women. And has quite an ambivalent relationship with me.

I just had the thought: maybe GuntherDog doesn't exist ... maybe he's a projection of a shadowy part of me that I choose not to accept?

So much for psycho-babble! I do identify strongly with dogs as I've previously confessed, but Gunther is real and in the other room watching Cable News about another person who took himself so seriously as to feel he had the right to kill others. Gunther must be sitting there, head cocked like Nipper, the RCA-Voice-of-his-Master Dog, wondering about how crazy these people are.

Any case Gunther is getting old, too. He's in his Last Quarter, too. He snores like an Old Man. He farts like an Old Man. And out of nowhere, he runs for the back door to be let out to pee ... like an Old Man. Well, like an Old Man cursed with a prostate as big as a Mango! M thinks he's developing a Dementia. Then, again, M thinks I'm going deaf. (to be continued)