Chet's Fall

See those vines hanging down in the background? Mark that spot well.

We picked and slid our way down a red clay slope toward the cave, Liam and Jake well ahead of us and racing through the woods toward the main attraction. I stopped and stared at the sinkhole and cave below. Leaf-littered slopes gave way to mossy rock. The same water that had created the cave had undermined the cliff where we stood. The rock cliff to our right simply and abruptly dropped off into space. Liam and Jake were already down and exploring the cave when Phoebe, Dave, the dogs and I arrived. “Oh my God! If I’d known how dangerous this trail was, I’d never have let Liam go ahead!” I muttered. It was so steep and slick, and what tread was on my trail runners was so packed with clay, that I was skating, grabbing for a handhold anywhere I could find it. Thank God Liam and Jake had made it safely. The ease and the hubris of little boys.

Chet was off the trail to my right, as usual, nosing around in the leaves. I called him, and he turned to come back up; he was perilously close to the cliff’s lip. He looked at me, scrabbled, scrambled, twisted frantically, and was gone, simply dropped off into space. Silence, broken only by Phoebe’s helpless scream, the scream she gives when she stumbles on a copperhead, the scream she gave once when I pulled away from the curb while Liam was still climbing into the car. We all froze. A tremendous, sickening WHUMP sounded from the bottom of the sinkhole. I never, never want to hear that sound again. Dave was already in motion, his father's instinct sliding him down the trail as fast as he could go; Phoebe was still rooted, screaming, I was screaming Chet’s name over and over again.

And here he came, back up the trail, ears laid back, wide grin, everything working, everything intact. Smiling. A little embarrassed. To all appearances, fine. He stood at my feet, panting, as I ran my hands over his compact little body. We all had to touch him, this dog we had so nearly lost forever. If the kids look like they're seeing a ghost here, well, they are.

And then he was off to join his new best friends, staying away from the cliff edge this time.

We climbed down the rest of the way, knees weak, crying a little. When I saw how far he’d fallen, and onto what, I was numb with shock. 20 feet at least, through space, onto a pile of rotting logs and large branches. A few leaves to cushion the spot where he'd landed. He'd lost his foothold right by the cleft in the cliff, and landed just above where Dave's standing. On either side of where he’d landed, slabs of sandstone the size of tabletops. I could so easily have been picking up a limp ragdoll, but here he was, smiling at my feet.

Well, I knew he’d be hurting the next morning, and he is. He tries but has trouble jumping up onto the bed, and he lies curled up, forsaking his usual frogleg stretch. He's got no fever, no obvious bumps or tender spots, but I’m taking him to his wonderful veterinarian today, because I know that this dog has for all intents and purposes been hit by a car. We shall see.

Everything works, he stretches, he runs, he leapt for sticks and toys yesterday right afterward, and he ate a huge dinner, but this morning he threw up foam and is a bit listless. As, I suppose, he should be. Poor Chet. The Little Cat Dog has used another of his nine lives (the first went when he tried to round up cattle as a pup and got stepped on).

I called Dr. Lutz and she worked Chet in at 3 PM. Here, he waits, looks out the window, hopes again to see the bundle of black and white fur that looks like a cat or a skunk, but is really a Japanese Chin. He has to settle for an old yellow Lab.Dr. Lutz felt him all over, listened to his lungs, and shook her head. "You’re a lucky dog, Chet Baker." She said she thought that whatever he landed on must have cushioned his fall sufficiently to keep him from serious injury. From any injury at all. She also said his compact build was a big help; a bigger, rangier dog could easily have twisted in the fall, landed on a leg wrong and gotten all busted up. "He's pure muscle," she said, looking at him appreciatively.

He’s sleeping at my feet, heaving those deep, rattling sighs of dog contentment. He chased chipmunks, had a big dinner with meatloaf drippings on it, begged for a tiny bite of my low-carb ice cream bar just like he does every night, watched hamster TV, and leapt to greet Bill when he got home from work. He’s probably forgotten it happened; he may not remember it until he nears a cliff edge again. I look at him and marvel. How did he do it? How did he fall twenty feet off a sheer rock lip, land on logs and live to chase chipmunks and beg for ice cream today? I don’t know. I’m just thankful, thankful that I’m able to kiss and hug this precious little dog, thankful that I’m not looking for just the right spot to lay him to rest tonight. I guess he still has work to do.

As impossible as it is for me to imagine, this would have been my last photograph of Chet Baker. It makes my heart drop into my guts just to write that.

I know, deep in my heart, that I love this dog more than I should, more than any human being should love an animal, animals being the exquisite, heartbreakingly impermanent beings that they are. But there are times when he is everything to me, when he saves me, when I think I might wither up and blow away without his kisses and the warm popcorn scent of his feet. He wants to be with me all the time, and for that I am amazed and grateful.

He has a lot of work left to do.

More Dog Togs

In all the flap about dog togs, I should explain that there is, at least in my mind, a difference between putting a shirt on your Boston terrier occasionally, in the privacy of your own home and yard, and taking that dog out in public dressed. (We'll ignore, for the moment, the incongruity that, while I wouldn't be caught dead walking my dressed dog down Front Street, I happily show him and his stylin' sweaters and shirts to 25,000 people on this blog...)

Ignoring that slight disjunction, think of it as the difference between cross-dressing for kicks at home, and performing a full-on drag act on stage.

I spotted this poodle at King's Kreamy Kreations (yes, that's the real name, and no, I don't know why they couldn't spell it King's Creamy Creations) in downtown Marietta three summers ago. She seemed pretty happy, even though her slightest motion produced a tappity tap tap sound from her tiny bound feet, stuffed into shiny vinyl shoes. I couldn't take my eyes off that dog. I was convinced that this is the kind of thing that makes dogs turn on their owners and rip them to pieces in the night. Don't you see something ready to snap in those eyes? Maybe I was projecting onto that sweet little ball of curly fluff, but to me this is just wrong. Shoes for a search and rescue dog who works so hard he wears his pads off, sure, but shoes for fun? Nope. We're interfering with normal locomotion here, and for what? Just to be cute? Big thumbs down from the Animal Fashion Police.

At the fair this past fall we were sitting on a bench minding our own business when a couple pushed a stroller right up to us. They had big smiles on their faces and they obviously wanted us to admire their umm...dog. The Yorkie looked utterly dejected, her ears pasted back and her eyes ashamed. She was wearing a pink dress, and worse than that, she was riding in a stroller, at the fair no less, when there were so many wonderful things to smell and taste all around her. I have little doubt that she needed a stroller because she refused to try to walk in the dress.Maybe it's the bow, maybe it's the gaggy pink, maybe it's denying a healthy, energetic terrier the right to use its muscles and walk for Pete's sake, but it was all I could do not to ask the owners what they could possibly be thinking. I forced a wan smile, whispered  my condolences to the Yorkie, and looked away. Phoebe and Liam crooned in sympathy. This is not a doll, this is not a baby; this is an animal, and she has the right to her dignity. Looking in their gleaming eyes, seeing their proud smiles, I could see that the owners were much too far gone to reach, so I let it go, reminding myself that if this dog lived in China or Peru, she might be dinner, so by comparison she had it pretty good. Being called someone's "furkid" beats stirfry any day.

And so I leave you with my double standard. It's a bit complex, so I'll spell it out. By my double standard, it's OK to put a shirt on Chet occasionally for a few minutes
to snap a couple of pictures, as long as he seems to be having fun

Mether? Are you done yet? This 3T human toddler shirt binds me at the legpits. Clothes designed for dogs are better. And you need to know that this pumpkin you carved looks like a pig.

but shoes and strollers and pink dresses on other people's dogs, nuh-uhhhn.

Hypocritical? You bet. I'm splitting tiny black Boston terrier hairs here and I know it.

Happy Thanksgiving, Chet Baker fans everywhere. It is so good to be home and receiving kisses and cuddles from my Human Kids and my Human Husband and my little black doggeh once again. Can you tell I read The New Work of Dogs by Jon Katz in one sitting on the plane to Guyana? Highly recommended, especially for those of us who can't help blurring the human/dog line now and then.