Then out of the blue one night came the epileptic seizures. The first grand mal left him dazed for a week. He went on phenobarbitol at about age two and was on it the rest of his nine years.
Despite these burdens, the Binkie was a sweet and loving little friend who would fix my position with his vacant eyes and wave his fluffy blond tail like a plume of pampas grass in joyful greeting. He was my shadow, curling up under my chair or between my legs on the recliner – one of his favorite spots.
I used to accuse the Binkie of having been a fruit bat in a previous life, as his passion for fruit and vegetables knew no restraints. He never denied it. While he absolutely adored broccoli and carrots, the foods that sent him into orbits of delight were tangerines and watermelon. He could be asleep in another room and when I started to peel a Satsuma, he would come skittering into the kitchen and stand with his front paws on my knee making little whining moans until he got a wedge. He also had an eerie sense of when I was about to cut up a watermelon; as soon as he heard the blade cut into the rind, he would go nuts with excitement. I never completed the experiment, but believe he could have eaten half his weight in watermelon if given the chance. It made me happy to be able to make him so happy.
He could be vocal. My wife, who sang professionally, could hit a high note and get all the dogs to “make the tiny O” with their lips and croon like coyotes. And if Gunnar thought there was a threat that needed challenging he would face in the general direction and bark fiercely, with his tail straight up and his back legs spread apart in full “Bring it on” posture. When we got home after being away for a few hours, he would be at the door wailing for it to open so he could be with his peeps again.
And he snored, gently, like an old man.
Dogs teach us many things about life, about ourselves. Gunnar taught me about bravery, and loyalty, about accepting one’s burdens and carrying on without fuss and about taking joy from one’s enthusiasms. He never worried about tomorrow; that was my job. And every time he walked into a door, fell into the pond, had a seizure or even just had an off day, I mourned a little for him and for myself, knowing a day would come when his life would end and mine would linger on without him in it.
That day came last week, when his body quit producing red blood cells. I never loved a dog so much as this little compromised pal who wanted nothing more than to be near me.
One last memory. At a previous house I built a small set of wooden steps that sat outside the pet door so the Binkie could get in an out. When we moved to Salem, we no longer needed the steps as the pet door opened right onto a deck. I had left the steps out on the lawn while we were moving in, and Binkie, encountering their familiar smell, ascended the steps and stood there at the top, trying to figure out why he could not smell and feel the pet door that should have been right there in front of his nose. I can still see him tottering at the top of those steps to no where, in the sunshine, out on the front lawn, trying to sort out the mystery of life.
The Binkie, with sister Bella. She has been moping ever since ...
