my last dog
by byron ballard

Man-Cat. LBJ. Paul Revere. Diablo. Silver. Monkey. Chou En Lai. Snoopy. Cat. Cat. Dog. Horse. Pony. Cat. Guinea Pig. White mouse. Former pets from a lifetime ago in the mountain wilds of west Buncombe. I still think of myself as a country person, though I have spent more than half of my life—and almost all my adult life—living in urban areas. As a country kid, we always had a parade of animals in the yard or pasture or woods. And I was the kind of kid who brought home injured wild things—baby birds and bunnies and the occasional garter snake in the front bib of my overalls.

Neville Frogbottom. Abigail Coretha Rutabaga-Jones. Miles Scumsucker. Pyewacket. Grady. Frog. Cat. Snail. Cat. Cat. Current animal companions who grace the aquarium in the house or the steps to the porch. But they’re not really my animals—they mostly belong to my daughter. Or to the neighbors. We’ve had the offer of a couple of rabbits and guinea pigs lately, too, but they haven’t materialized yet.

I always had a dog when I was growing up. Our dogs were never good at fighting the neighbors’ dogs. Any dog we had was always the coward of the neighborhood, a big softy who would show his belly to anybody around. Our dog never chased other people’s chickens and they were always happy to share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a chubby kid in overalls. I’d climb one of the old apple trees in the fullness of late summer and read a book. There was always a dog under the tree, waiting sleepily for me to come down and play.

My last dog, however, came into my life when I was in college and living away from home. I was doing dinner theatre in Kentucky and for some reason I can no longer remember, I got a puppy. He was a fat blonde boy, half Chow, half German Shepherd. In between costuming bland musical comedies and learning to drink exotic cocktails at the theatre bar, I was reading a book whose main character was named Thomas. So the blond boy—who looked remarkably like a little polar bear—became Thomas.
And on a rare day off that summer, on a road to Berea, I saw the word “Lackawanna”. That was his name, for all time. Thomas Lackawanna grew to be a gentle giant with a big Chow mane and the calm cleverness of a Shepherd. His tongue and gums were dark purple and he was a typical dog in our family—a big goofy softy with a tail so strong and active he could sweep a coffee table clear without ever noticing what he’d done.

When I went away to grad school, Thomas went to my parents’ place in the country and then moved back to the city when they came to live with my grandparents a few years later. My mother said she had custody of Thomas and he was content to guard my brother’s children when they came along. Each of them in turn was placed on Thomas’ willing back but he wouldn’t walk with them. He was a dog after all, not a pack horse. He’d just stand there, looking patient and long-suffering, while another teething kid was hoisted aboard. And when Jason or Brandie or Michael was put down on the floor, Thomas would give the kid a sniff and walk away for a slurp of water. Then he’d wander out to the backyard for a walk or a snooze, far enough away from the kids to get some real rest.

Thomas lived a long life. He slowed down a little at a time and, at the ripe old age of seventeen, he was gently euthanized on the front porch where he’d spent so many years, hanging out with my grandparents and parents, avoiding baby drool and barking at squirrels. He’s buried in the backyard and he got to eat his favorite treat—Hershey’s chocolate—while we were waiting for the vet to arrive. (Please note that chocolate is a poison for dogs. When we were kids, not knowing this, we'd given chocolate on occasion.)

I’ve thought lately that I’d like to have another dog, that I may be ready for that again. Some friends have suggested an Irish wolfhound, a big hairy pony of a dog, combining my love of horses with my fondness for dogs.
But I don’t know. What would I name him?

 

Byron Ballard will host a free workshop on her Embracing Willendorf program on Saturday, September 25, 1-4 PM at the French Broad Food Co-Op’s Movement and Learning Center. Pre-registration is required. Contact her at byronb@buncombe.main.nc.us for more information and to register.