Raven

The lovely Raven. I searched and searched for a picture of her and found none. She most resembled a flat-coated retriever, but she was a mixed breed. She was all black with a tiny white patch on her chest, and long, long feathers. Raven was a beauty. She was incredibly sweet-tempered.  She was also damaged. 

I got Raven as a pup. After I got her home, away from her littermates, it was readily apparent something about her wasn't quite right. I thought at first she was deaf but quickly ruled that out. She could hear food being put into her bowl. She could hear other dogs. She simply had some sort of disconnect to the human voice. 

Raven refused to be housebroken - the only dog I've ever had that couldn't, or wouldn't, learn to go outside. Supposedly, dogs don't really like to go where they sleep. No one told Raven this. 

I struggled with this dog for a year before I bowed to the inevitable. If I was going to keep her - and I was - then I needed a kennel. Better a kennel than another owner who might not be willing to keep a dog with some special needs and pass her to someone else. I would see her fed, sheltered and given what affection she could accept. 

A friend came and helped build a spacious sixteen by twenty-five kennel. Raven moved into her new digs and settled down. She seemed quite content and I wondered if being in the house with all the noise and the comings and goings of people had been some sort of sensory overload for her. I became more and more convinced of this as the years passed. 

She was fine when I fed and watered her. I could pet and brush her without any problems. She would lick my hand and lean on me, but then move away. When I brought her inside the house, she became a different dog, very withdrawn.  

I tried different foods, white noise, leaving lights on. Nothing made any difference. In hindsight, I wonder if she needed a tranquilizer. Only in her kennel, behind the safety of her fence with the sky above her, did she seem peaceful. It broke my heart to cage her. 

So I had a dog, but I didn't. I hoped meeting Callahan would help her, but she simply walked away from him. Whatever senses dogs have about these things, Callahan then ignored her presence. Perhaps he knew best she wanted to be left alone. 

It was late summer 1989 when I realized something was off with her. Her appetite decreased. Whereas she would at least greet me for a moment every day, she began to stay in her doghouse. I called a cousin with a pickup and a travel crate and took her to the vet. There was a mass in her abdomen. I made the choice to give her final peace. 

My lovely Raven. 

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A "gift" from a cousin turns out to be the first truly great dog in my life - Callahan