Blue Light Special

He was laying in a grassy strip between the road and a KMart parking lot in Trenton, New Jersey. At first glance, he looked like a big black trash bag flapping in the breeze. Hubby said, "Hey, that's a dog!" and made a quick u-turn on busy Kuser Rd. By the time we reached him, another passerby was offering him a plate of kibble, but keeping her distance in case he wasn't friendly. Hubby never has had much sense about approaching strange dogs and took the kibble right up to the pooch. He was hungry, friendly, and just plain tired. We lured him away from the busy street back to our car and awaited animal control.

He was a sweet dog of unknown breed, furry but well-groomed, clearly someone's special friend. I patted the backseat and he joyfully jumped right in. What was he doing out here by himself? He wore a chain collar without tags, so no help there. Surely his people were looking for him, and the best thing was to park him at the local pound where he'd be quickly and easily found.

Another side of this dog emerged when the animal control officer arrived. No dummy, the dog knew he had it good in the backseat of our car and had no intention of leaving. The animal control officer had no intention of risking a bite and no desire to spend any more time than necessary coralling this dog. When the loop of the officer's catch pole tightened around his neck, the dog turned into a snarling beast, to no avail. Into the truck he went. The officer informed us that he'd be kept for 8 days. If he wasn't claimed by then, he'd be killed.

At that moment, I wasn't concerned about the dog's fate. He was well cared for and well behaved. Surely, even now, his person was beating the bushes to find him. We helped the process along by putting an ad in the local paper and by posting flyers everywhere possible within about a 2 mile radius of the KMart where we found him. He'd be claimed in short order, I was certain.

Hubby called the pound every day, expecting to hear that the pooch had been reunited with his happy family. It was not to be. On the eighth day, Hubby took the drive back to New Jersey and brought this strange dog to his new home with us in Pennsylvania, taking his place in our furry family with new sister Fred, our husky-lab, and three cats. He was thrilled. Fred and the cats were not. Everyone adjusted- eventually.

Adopting an unknown stray presents an interesting challenge. What was the dog's name? We tried many of the obvious- Bear, Buddy, Rex, Fido -without a glimmer of recognition. Calling a dog without a name is problematic, so we had to choose a new name for him.

We named him 'Blue'.

Zeus in repose

Zeus, our boy Mastiff, is taking it easy after class at San Bruno Dog Obedience School.

Elephant

We called her “Elephant” because she’d trumpet every time she walked into the room. Her real name was Jessie, loosely named after Jesse Owens. As kittens, she and her sister would race after one another like runners at a track meet. We named her sister, Wilma, for Ms. Rudolph. The two kittens became the second and third members of the Apuss sisters. Hubby never liked the name of my older cat, Baby, and, for reasons unknown, started calling her Catapuss. A feisty little kitten, Jessie soon earned the nickname, Batapuss. Not wanting to leave Wilma out of the sisterhood, we started calling her Patapuss, because she was the cuddly one. Move over Andrews Sisters, the Apuss Sisters have arrived.

Jessie owed her life to Wilma. When we visited the local branch of the Massachusetts SPCA in search of another feline companion, a lanky and gregarious white kitten with a punk-looking tabby patch on her head drew us to her cage with her engaging ways. Skulking in the shadows behind her was her sister, a stocky, brooding tabby, who looked at us with daggers. The white kitten, soon to be named Wilma, was irresistible. Her sister was, well, her sister. Kind-hearted souls that we are, we couldn’t leave her sister behind, and the aloof little tabby soon to be named Jessie came home, nearly 18 years ago.

Besides her trumpeting and batting at everything that moved, Jessie had two other claims to fame. If there was a box, Jessie would find a way into it, no matter how big or how small. One afternoon last summer, I was drawn to our front hallway by an odd scratching sound. There was Jessie, a bundle of feline annoyance, searching for a way into the box containing the new bathtub. She never found a way into the box, but later that day I found her sprawled atop it sunning herself. I think that counted as a win inside her tiny catbrain.

Her other claim to fame concerned little furry people of the canine persuasion. As aloof as Jessie was toward us hairless beach apes, she loved dogs. She was never happier than when she could flop on the floor and groom a dog. I used to joke that I had the only cat in the world who coughed up dog-fur furballs.

We lost Jessie’s sister, Wilma, in 2003 to a fast and invasive cancer at the age of 14. Nearing the end, she took matters into her own paws one night, leaving the house never to return. While I was glad she relieved me of the responsibility of making the decision to end her life, I’ve always felt bad that she died alone in uncertain circumstances. I hope her end was peaceful.

I expected Jessie to mourn her sister, but we saw no outward signs that she was even aware that her sister had vanished. Several months later, however, Jessie developed some strange symptoms that our regular vet could not diagnose. With our vet coming up empty, I requested a referral to Dr. Alan Stewart at San Francisco Veterinary Specialists. After bringing to bear all of the high-tech techniques and equipment that money could buy, we had a diagnosis: irritable bowel disease and low grade lymphosarcoma. With some diet changes and a regimen of prednisolone and lukeran, Jessie’s symptoms abated and the Elephant was back to her old trumpeting self. I’ve always wondered if the stress of losing her sister was a factor in Jessie’s illnesses.

Long story short, Jessie the Elephant, a.k.a. Batapuss, Box-Cat, J.P. and Groomer of Dogs, reached the end of her road today. We had three good years more together thanks to Dr. Stewart and the wonderful folks at SFVS. I’ve had to make this decision for my little furry companions more than a couple of times in the past twenty-odd years. It seems to be getting harder. Perhaps it’s my own increasing sense of mortality —I don’t really know. I know I’ll miss that little puddy for the rest of my life and I hope, when my time comes, that someone will love me enough to help me go. Rest in peace, little elephant.