A Tale of Two Doggies
by Jane Miller
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| photo by Clare Innes |
I never knew exactly what day my dog friend Brandy was born, but it was sometime in 1996, a year of big changes for me. I had moved to Cambridge that year and went on to be a city dweller for the next seven years. I met Brandy in early 2003 within a few months of moving to my house in central Massachusetts; it was the beginning of a three-and-a-half-year road trip of sorts that I’ve been on. She'd pass through my yard fairly regularly. When I'd go out to offer doggie treats, she'd get a squinty little shy look on her face and pull her ears back in a way that said "Oh no, I couldn't..." Eventually, she was taking treats out of my hand, which evolved into sleeping on my bed during her frequent overnight guest appearances. I told her she could use my birthday, so we both celebrated on January 6; sometimes together, sometimes when we next saw each other.
Brandy was the Frisbee champion of the universe. My back yard was the universe. Her serious retriever drive was obvious early on. She encouraged anyone she knew well enough (and there was no better way to get to know her) to throw something-anything. She'd boomerang it right back with the understanding that it would be thrown again immediately. If you had some time, she'd be up for making a day of it. Our ongoing Frisbee game started with some easy tosses. Then, she started to leap for them like an expert. Then she started to play in pain like a real jock--gums bleeding, coming back to me jumping and commanding, "Throw it again!" I picked up a soft doggie Frisbee for her at Petco. I got a discount card there. I picked up a lot of things for her there. Visitors to my house would say, "Oh, what kind of dog do you have?" and I would try to explain the relationship we were in. People who saw us together just assumed we belonged to each other.
Two Junes ago, my dear friend SONiA, singer-songwriter of the group disappear fear, called from the road. "I need the book next week," she said, or something to that effect. We had been discussing a songbook for her; she asked me to do the transcriptions for it. "No problem," I said, or something to the opposite effect. Brandy and I parked out on a lawn chair and the grass with a CD player, SONiA's lyric booklets, a pen, and a couple of pads of music paper. I got the transcriptions done, and Brandy caught up on some correspondence with birds and chipmunks. Back inside over the next few days, I was parked in my home office with the Finale user guide, a loyal yellow lab friend, and lots of water. We cranked out SONiA's songbook that week, and Brandy crossed a big threshold in the process.
I was working into the wee hours and Brandy really wanted to sleep. But the sound of music, whether it came from my guitars or the little keyboard I use to enter and check Finale notation, always compelled Brandy to come in for hugs and kisses and attention and some sort of explanation. Sometime around 2:00 a.m., she came up to me for the hundredth time with the smallest sleepy eyes and looked at me in a way that I understood to mean: Are you ever going to be done and go to bed? So I stopped and called her in close for a story:
Once upon a time there were two best friends and they were very safe and loved and very special. The dog friend was very smart and brave. She knew that if she wanted to, she could go upstairs to bed at her friend's house all by herself and she would be very safe and her friend would be up soon.
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Old pals-Jane and Brandy
photo by Jane Eklund |
The story went on like that for a good five minutes, with Brandy looking at me and listening intently. When it was over, she moseyed out to the music room where she had been napping on and off. After a minute or two, I heard the tick- tick- tick-tick of her paws as she made her way upstairs. The collection of bones and muscles and paws and a tail all gathered into one distinct flop right above my office ceiling. I finished SONiA's songbook that night and Brandy and I played Frisbee after breakfast the next day.
If we could have actually communicated in English to each other, our conversations would have gone something like this:
Jane: Hey Brand, you wanna watch that Hamlet DVD with me that I got at the library today?
Brandy: Is that the one where we sit on the floor together and eat Smartfood popcorn?
Jane: Yeah.
Brandy: Yayyyyyy (wag wag wag).
and:
Jane: Hey Brand, it's getting late, pal--are you staying over tonight?
Brandy: Does it involve cheese?
Jane: Sure, let's slice up some Jarlesberg.
Brandy: Yeah, I believe I'm free tonight (wag wag wag).
One unusually warm day in March a couple of years ago, we had our first road trip together. After a few minutes of tossing a stick around in the yard, she appeared to be very winded and beat. She came into my kitchen and crashed on the floor; her breathing sounded like Gene Krupa's solo in "Sing, Sing, Sing." After a few phone calls, I dashed her off to the vet and sat there teary in the office while they checked her all out. She got up on the bench where I was sitting and wedged her nose behind my back. The woman there told Brandy that she was lucky to have such a good friend looking out for her. I told the woman that I was the lucky one. The early days of my living here were not easy ones in the life-is-full-of-transitions department. Brandy showed up at all the right moments. We hopped back into the car all better and she demonstrated just how easy it is to move on.
More road trips came last summer when I got permission to take my pal swimming over at the nearby lake. She was a champion, of course. She'd jump out of the car smiling and wiggling like she just couldn't believe her good luck. That made two of us.
One day when SONiA was visiting for a few days, I came home from a long Berklee teaching day and, before I had my coat off, I asked SONiA, "Any sign of Brandy today?" "Try three times," she answered, and went on to describe her Frisbee lessons from Brandy. She also said that Brandy came in each time peeking around to the various rooms hoping to find me in my usual spots. I really missed her when I was away, too.
On snow days, the first thing that I would do was look out my bedroom window for Brandy's tracks. The trail from her house to mine was well worn year-round, but it was especially fun to see in the winter. I'd know if she would be waiting on my porch for me if she wasn't already sleeping over and rolling around doing yoga on my bed. Our Frisbee area looked pristine and white and smooth for about five minutes. Big yards are not for saving pretty snow, we figured. The two of us would pack it down with each game. "It's a long fly ball to Johnny Damon in center field. He goes back-way back-and he makes the catch. Yayyy-what a play by Brandy." We had to learn some new names this past winter: Coco Crisp, Mike Lowell. She had just been getting good at "Little blooper to Billy Mueller at third base-what a catch by Brandy-yayyy."
Sometimes she would take a break running it back to me. I could see it coming. Then a quick lie down in the snow, Frisbee still in her grip. So I would have a little sit down in the snow, too. That would usually get a rise out of her looking back smugly. "Hey, this is my break not yours." Over time, her breaks got a bit more frequent and maybe a little longer. Hardly noticeable. The long fly "balls" got a bit harder to outrun, but not always. We did more little bloopers and “short ones” at which she became masterful.
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