Canine Compatriots

First there was Sloopy. It was the 1960s, after all, and my high school-aged sisters chose the name from one of their favorite songs. He was the almost-white Labrador retriever who played with me every afternoon when I got home from elementary school. For a while Sloopy was my only friend when we moved across town and I hadn’t yet met any of the kids in our new neighborhood. He lived long and well, and when he died, my mother and my sisters and I cried for what seemed like hours. Daddy was in England at the time, staying at the Savoy Hotel. When we called to tell him that Sloopy had died, he said we would eventually get another dog, and maybe we could name him Savoy. We did.

After that came Rasta, who grew to be the size of a pony. Rasta was sent to live with a new family out in the country after he unintentionally knocked down a neighbor’s grandmother while she was out on an evening stroll. F. Scott came next, a wandering black lab who met his end under the right front tire of a dump truck.

And then there’s Quay, a mixed breed of unknown parentage, who has been with me for 13 years. After visiting shelters in two counties, I noticed her sitting in a crate with a stuffed bear in her mouth. When I picked her up and she nestled her puppy head against the crook of my neck, you could have put a fork in me because I was done. She promptly settled into my heart, and my home, before gnawing away the stair railings and decimating the seat cushion on the wingback chair in the living room.

She was there the night I thought someone was breaking into my house, a few weeks after moving in. Turns out it was just the medicine cabinet falling off the wall in the guest bathroom, but at least I wasn’t alone in my fear. She was there when a blind date tried to make a pass at me and I needed a way out. She was there when my father died. Really she was with my friend Sheri, who was kind enough to care for Quay in my absence. When I told Sheri later about the night after the funeral, when I thought I might die myself, she told me that Quay curled up on her chest that night — and only that night — as they both lay in bed.

Quay was there when Precious, the man who is now my husband, first came calling. Quay had not cared for the keyboard player who preceded Precious, but she fell fast and hard for the lawyer with the mustache, a man I had loved from afar for some 20 years.
Quay has survived three surgeries to remove lumps of varying sizes and consistencies. She’s lost one tooth, thanks to me, and let’s just leave it at that. She’s not good with children, which is a polite way of saying keep the young ones on the other side of the street if you see us coming. She sheds a lot, licks too much, and is scared of thunder. At 13, she sometimes hesitates when getting into the car or climbing the four steps from our sidewalk onto our front porch. Her hind quarters, much like mine, seem weaker and creakier with each passing day, but her spirit remains strong.

Precious and I sing to her at night when it’s time for bed. We have five academic degrees between us, and we are well into middle age. We are mature, reserved people who do not like to call attention to ourselves unless absolutely necessary, and we sing to our dog like this: “Quay is the sweetest girl in the whole wide world, she’s our peppermint swirl.” We also give her glucosamine tablets twice a day, make sure we always have plenty of her favorite treats on hand, and tell her she’s the best dog ever no fewer than 18 times a week. We are over the moon for this mutt with the spotted tongue.

Research has indicated that there may be physical benefits to owning a dog, such as weight management and low stress and blood pressure levels. I’ll take all the assistance I can get in the health department, but for me the real plus of canine companionship can’t be measured by charts or degrees. It’s a matter of the heart.