The Golden Wader
His original name was Brandon, he was the only dog I’d ever had that could lose at hide and seek. Brandon spent the first six years of his life as a city dog with little area to wander and no practical dog experiences. He didn’t fetch, chase rabbits or swim. Storms, fireworks and gunshots scared him. If I scurried down the basement stairs and stood motionless in a dark corner, he would follow me down and stand in the center of the room looking and listening but never use his nose. I should have understood. How could he learn any doglyness living in a kitchen eating table scraps with everyone calling him Brandon? There was simply no way I was going to have a dog, specifically bred for the retrieval of hunted waterfowl, with a name that made him think he was a little boy rather than a dog.
The problem of changing his name wasn’t exactly Gordian, but careful consideration was prudent owning to his perceived lack of swiftness (I say perceived because he later showed us he could be both creative and devious). The solution proved to be elementary as we simply dropped the 'n' and called him the phonetically close, but machismo filled, Brando, with tongue firmly in cheek.
For all his undignified city habbits, Brando was big, lovable and had the kind heart the breed is famous for. Sometimes he barked at the correct times to protect us and sometimes it could be at an errant leaf tumbling across the yard or a bicycler passing the house one hundred forty-yards away.
I couldn’t drive to the dump on Saturday morning without him. Although I believe his true motive was his passion for the WHBL Polka Hour on the radio. Somehow, he knew it was dump-day and would loiter near the garage door. As soon as I opened any of the car doors, his one hundred-pound frame would find its way to the middle of the back seat. From there his face would fill the rearview mirror as he grinned and swayed to the sounds of Frankie Yankovick.
It took him a while to understand the country; he was clueless with twenry-five acres surrounding him. Tall grass scared him for a week or so and he would only walk up to his knees in the river behind our home. The latter christened him the slightly derogatory but endearing, Golden Wader.
He consumed whatever he discovered on the trails around our home from dead mice to the most disgusting turd piles imaginable. His involuntary methane release could empty a room and we loved him for it.
Brando loved to hike. My oldest son and I had planned a trip to Africa to climb Mt Kilimanjaro. The trek required new boots that needed the all-important break-in prior to the trip. Brando dutifully stayed at my side as I hiked all over the Kettle Moraine State Forest putting seventy-five miles on my new boots and my desk-job legs.
There were times, however, when he sat perturbed watching me ride away on my bicycle knowing he couldn’t go along. Brando would look at me with distain…like he was planning some diabolical revenge.
As the years progressed, Brando had slowed down during our hikes dragging happily behind rather than on point. I knew twelve was old for a big dog. I had made a commitment to myself, and to him, that when his quality of life began to suffer, I would end his life with dignity. I had seen too many humans struggle with that decision and their pets suffered for it. On one of his yearly check-ups, while he was still healthy, I had discussed all of the available choices with the vet.
Then, one day he was fine and the next he could hardly stand. In an instant I was choking back tears, I knew the moment had come.
One of the benefits of living in a small rural town is having a veterinarian that makes house calls. One of my choices had been to put him down at home and bury him on our property.
The day was sunny and I came home from work at noon. It was difficult getting him outside but his favorite spot was in front of the house. We sat with his head on my lap and I pet him for 30 minutes until the Vet arrived.
Dr. Hinze used a small hair clipper to expose a vein on Brando’s front leg. Carefully, and with great sensitivity, he explained the process.
“This is basically an overdose of adrenalin. It will stop his heart. He shouldn’t feel a thing.” My heart sank as he said, “Are you ready?”
Truth is, nobody is ever ready, but I said, “Yes”.
Brando’s head remained on my lap as I witnessed his last breath. I felt the life go out of him with unquestionable finality. He departed feeling my love and was in peace as the sun warmed him in his favorite spot. As idyllic an end as any of us could possibly hope for.
I had no idea I could render such a sound.
As the Doc headed down the driveway, I began to sob, howl, cry and moan in a single celebratory wail. My friend was gone, but I’d kept my promise and I’d done it right. The pain seemed to crack my soul open. Grief came to roost and I embraced it completely.
I dug Brando’s grave 50 feet from that spot. I placed him in one of his favorite resting postures, but couldn’t bring myself to cover his head with dirt. I returned to the house for a keepsake and covered his face with the white bandana I wore to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. I could conceive no greater honor.
While still in his prime, Brando had faithfully taken every preparatory step with me as I hiked into shape for that climb. A week or so after our return to Wisconsin, I grabbed my hiking boots and stepped into them. As I reached down to pull on the laces, all I found was quarter inch stubs protruding from the eyelets…“What the hell?”
In a revelation, I replayed our rapid descent from the roof of Africa. We had sweated buckets soaking our boots on the retreat. My macho-less city dog had turned the laces of my Asolo climbing boots into hors d’oeuvres. I exploded with laughter.
The epiphany was confirmed two days later when my son discovered the laces congealed in a pile he was removing from our yard. Brando, my unpretentious buddy, had strategically rendered his clever revenge for my bike rides without him…Golden Wader, indeed.
His original name was Brandon, he was the only dog I’d ever had that could lose at hide and seek. Brandon spent the first six years of his life as a city dog with little area to wander and no practical dog experiences. He didn’t fetch, chase rabbits or swim. Storms, fireworks and gunshots scared him. If I scurried down the basement stairs and stood motionless in a dark corner, he would follow me down and stand in the center of the room looking and listening but never use his nose. I should have understood. How could he learn any doglyness living in a kitchen eating table scraps with everyone calling him Brandon? There was simply no way I was going to have a dog, specifically bred for the retrieval of hunted waterfowl, with a name that made him think he was a little boy rather than a dog.
The problem of changing his name wasn’t exactly Gordian, but careful consideration was prudent owning to his perceived lack of swiftness (I say perceived because he later showed us he could be both creative and devious). The solution proved to be elementary as we simply dropped the 'n' and called him the phonetically close, but machismo filled, Brando, with tongue firmly in cheek.
For all his undignified city habbits, Brando was big, lovable and had the kind heart the breed is famous for. Sometimes he barked at the correct times to protect us and sometimes it could be at an errant leaf tumbling across the yard or a bicycler passing the house one hundred forty-yards away.
I couldn’t drive to the dump on Saturday morning without him. Although I believe his true motive was his passion for the WHBL Polka Hour on the radio. Somehow, he knew it was dump-day and would loiter near the garage door. As soon as I opened any of the car doors, his one hundred-pound frame would find its way to the middle of the back seat. From there his face would fill the rearview mirror as he grinned and swayed to the sounds of Frankie Yankovick.
It took him a while to understand the country; he was clueless with twenry-five acres surrounding him. Tall grass scared him for a week or so and he would only walk up to his knees in the river behind our home. The latter christened him the slightly derogatory but endearing, Golden Wader.
He consumed whatever he discovered on the trails around our home from dead mice to the most disgusting turd piles imaginable. His involuntary methane release could empty a room and we loved him for it.
Brando loved to hike. My oldest son and I had planned a trip to Africa to climb Mt Kilimanjaro. The trek required new boots that needed the all-important break-in prior to the trip. Brando dutifully stayed at my side as I hiked all over the Kettle Moraine State Forest putting seventy-five miles on my new boots and my desk-job legs.
There were times, however, when he sat perturbed watching me ride away on my bicycle knowing he couldn’t go along. Brando would look at me with distain…like he was planning some diabolical revenge.
As the years progressed, Brando had slowed down during our hikes dragging happily behind rather than on point. I knew twelve was old for a big dog. I had made a commitment to myself, and to him, that when his quality of life began to suffer, I would end his life with dignity. I had seen too many humans struggle with that decision and their pets suffered for it. On one of his yearly check-ups, while he was still healthy, I had discussed all of the available choices with the vet.
Then, one day he was fine and the next he could hardly stand. In an instant I was choking back tears, I knew the moment had come.
One of the benefits of living in a small rural town is having a veterinarian that makes house calls. One of my choices had been to put him down at home and bury him on our property.
The day was sunny and I came home from work at noon. It was difficult getting him outside but his favorite spot was in front of the house. We sat with his head on my lap and I pet him for 30 minutes until the Vet arrived.
Dr. Hinze used a small hair clipper to expose a vein on Brando’s front leg. Carefully, and with great sensitivity, he explained the process.
“This is basically an overdose of adrenalin. It will stop his heart. He shouldn’t feel a thing.” My heart sank as he said, “Are you ready?”
Truth is, nobody is ever ready, but I said, “Yes”.
Brando’s head remained on my lap as I witnessed his last breath. I felt the life go out of him with unquestionable finality. He departed feeling my love and was in peace as the sun warmed him in his favorite spot. As idyllic an end as any of us could possibly hope for.
I had no idea I could render such a sound.
As the Doc headed down the driveway, I began to sob, howl, cry and moan in a single celebratory wail. My friend was gone, but I’d kept my promise and I’d done it right. The pain seemed to crack my soul open. Grief came to roost and I embraced it completely.
I dug Brando’s grave 50 feet from that spot. I placed him in one of his favorite resting postures, but couldn’t bring myself to cover his head with dirt. I returned to the house for a keepsake and covered his face with the white bandana I wore to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. I could conceive no greater honor.
While still in his prime, Brando had faithfully taken every preparatory step with me as I hiked into shape for that climb. A week or so after our return to Wisconsin, I grabbed my hiking boots and stepped into them. As I reached down to pull on the laces, all I found was quarter inch stubs protruding from the eyelets…“What the hell?”
In a revelation, I replayed our rapid descent from the roof of Africa. We had sweated buckets soaking our boots on the retreat. My macho-less city dog had turned the laces of my Asolo climbing boots into hors d’oeuvres. I exploded with laughter.
The epiphany was confirmed two days later when my son discovered the laces congealed in a pile he was removing from our yard. Brando, my unpretentious buddy, had strategically rendered his clever revenge for my bike rides without him…Golden Wader, indeed.