Sally and I river adventuring. She liked her rivers flat and in hot and sunny climes.
“Goddammit! Nobody must have ever loved this dog!” I plaintively growled. And then hurled the chicken nugget out into the yard.
Honestly I could have started this eulogy a hundred different ways. My sweet rescue pup, Sally, generated tale after tale.
For instance, I could have started with:
I once yelled out on a pathway at a local resort at a kind-looking, youngish couple who were bending over to greet Sally as she sashayed up to them relishing being off leash and footloose, dog-grinning from ear to ear, “Her name is Sally! She’s harmless. Don’t touch her!”
Or…
Remembering the early days when none of my clothes were safe from Sally’s propensity to spread, scatter and rearrange any item of clothing she could get her mouth on.
Or…
Our first meeting — when I saw her side by side with a wiggling, excited, thoroughly animated black ball of fur named Ebony — while in contrast, Sally was some combination of disinterested in my presence and morose. I asked the nice ladies behind the folding table representing the Wenatchee Valley Humane Society if they knew the two dogs’ stories.
We were at a meet-and-greet dog fair in Kent, Washington.
They told me Ebony was the longest resident of the “pound” starting into her 13th month, while Sally was one of the newest arrivals from Texas where she had been dramatically saved from euthanasia only about a week earlier. Since I was on my way south for a river trip, I couldn’t adopt either of them at that moment. I asked about a down payment being put toward adoption but the ladies said it didn’t work that way. I’d have to just take my chances one of the two dogs would still be at the Wenatchee location.
About two weeks later, I drove the 25 miles to Wenatchee and discovered the longest resident of the Wenatchee Humane Society had been adopted a week earlier. I learned Sally had also been adopted but promptly returned. I took her for a stroll in the fenced area of the pound and, though she was very enthusiastic about the exercise, she was laissez faire about my presence.
This wasn’t a negative for me.
I preferred dogs who were not clingy.
I opted to adopt her then and there and I think you can see the appreciation in her face that day. You can clearly see that dog-grin I referred to earlier. From death row in Texas to being the pet of the biggest sap in eastern Washington in under one month. It’s as if she knew she won the lottery and had just won a “pup-accinos” for life contest.
Sally and I are on the left. On the right are the other lucky humans — and dogs — that day.
As it turned out, Sally’s airspace was severely restricted. That was the reason I shouted desperately at the kind-looking couple bending down to acknowledge the sweet-looking little auburn mixed breed with the happy smile. I had no idea what her boundaries actually were but by the time this couple was approaching she had already snapped at myself and a couple of dog-loving friends.
In a way, it was like Tourette’s Syndrome. She’d snap at someone and then a moment later she’d return to her benign smile, gently wagging tail and harmless looking presence. A demeanor that expressed innocence mixed with obliviousness.
I suspect that behavior is what took her to death row in Texas and found her back at the local pound after being momentarily “rescued” in my home town.
I was not so easily dissuaded. For I had time to dedicate.
There were no other animals in my house, I had no kids and I rarely invited people with kids to my house. There would be time to sort out Sally’s snapping turtle proclivity and, in the meantime, I just needed to be vigilant and proactive when introducing her to new people.
We were in the midst of the first term of the lousy, mouthy reality show host. I was living alone and rattling about my rambler home. It turned out that besides the snapping turtle tourette’s and a penchant to rearrange clothes, Sally also could not resist the taste of my glasses frames.
After losing one brand-new pricey glasses frame, I decided to set alarms every hour on the hour that would pop up on my phone with the message F*CKING GLASSES! and — of course — trumpet some kind of noise to garner my attention. You see I had the bad habit of not paying attention to where I would place my eyeglasses. The alarm would also remind me to check on Sally’s status.
Even so, I lost the second new pair within the month.
I admonished her but I couldn’t truly bring myself to do much more than a pointed “bad girl” or two. A three to five-year old dog who was clearly abused by someone with a stick or pole — for she cowered before every pole-like object I wielded, from broom to raft paddle — didn’t need further abuse of any kind.
She needed love and understanding and that’s what I’d give her when she’d chew a set of glasses, or slightly piddle on the parquet or relocate a pair of boxers to the living room. And surely enough, as time went on, all of those issues resolved or faded into the background.
Even the snapping turtle tourette’s diminished in frequency and situation. She became more and more comfortable and trusting with those who wanted to love on her. In the end, there were only two situations that were intolerable to her. Being awakened unexpectedly by a person’s face in close quarters, or having someone a few sheets to the wind shove their face near her snout. My wife and I did our best to forewarn anyone who was visiting or house and dog-sitting.
All of my adult pets were cast or born into a life of river running.
Sally’s first experience was less than ideal. It was an inclement spring guide training trip. The river was high. The weather was raw. And the winds of the Deschutes River Canyon were persistent.
Sally doing her best weary sage impression. Guide Training 2017. Photo: Mike Warren
At the very first camp, at the end of the very first day, she leaped off the raft she was riding in and augured into water and mud easily over her head but — thankfully — just offshore. She emerged with an expression that could only be interpreted as some combination of misery and embarrassment.
It didn’t get any better from there.
It turned out she was not comfortable with water and she hated flapping tarps. Actually, she seemed very wary of things that loomed above her head. At night, I slept under a tarp and, no matter how diligent I was about setting it up, when the winds rose, the tarp would flap.
Sally wound up sleeping under sage bushes in the rain.
I should have been more empathetic. As a native Texan who has lived in Washington more than two times longer than I did in Texas, and my blood is still not acclimated to the waters of the Northwest, I should have realized my Texas rescue pup would not cotton readily to a chilly Northwest spring.
She never learned to enjoy spring river trips and — eventually — I began leaving her at home. (It was quite the contrast with my previous dog, Daisy, who easily had more river miles under her belt than any of my active guide staff.)
However, Sally did love the warm weather, water and beaches of a late season Lower Salmon trip.
Sally took her last breath last Thursday while lying in a similar position in our backyard with her dog-mom and I sitting by her side stroking her sweet head. Telling her she was nothing but loved just as she had done for us for nearly a decade. In the picture above, her ear is up but it is not quite cocked. She was known to sleep with her eyes partially open. Her hearing had always been exceptional — though it was not beneath her to pretend she couldn’t hear us every now and then with a little rebellious act of willfulness — and she made a habit of keeping a close eye on both of us.
So, it was not a surprise as her journey into the great beyond began, her ears were cocked as if still listening and her eyes were wide open as if she never wanted to be out of our sight.
It made me question my decision.
When it comes to those who depend on us, it’s always too soon, or too late.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
~~~~
In the meantime, this is how I’ll always, always, always remember her:
