Callahan

Of all the dogs who have shared my life, none have been as noble as Callahan. Proud, regal and loyal, Callahan was my companion during the seven years I lived alone. People seem to disbelieve me when I tell them I wasn't afraid to live out in the woods by myself. But then, I wasn't really alone. 

Callahan came unexpectedly into my life. I got a call from my late cousin Phil. "Come over to the house. I have something to show you," he said. 

I thought he'd finally broken down and bought that pickup he'd been drooling over, but no. Drool was involved, but it wasn't his. I dutifully hopped into my 1984 Monte Carlo and drove to his place. I walked in the back door and there was this four-month-old brown and white puppy, a coonhound/pointer mix. "That's yours," my cousin said. 

Say... WHAT?

Being truthful, I melted on the spot. I already had a dog, Raven, but she had a unique set of problems and wasn't much of a companion dog. I thanked my cousin, snatched up the pup, and headed home before Phil could realize what a gem he was letting get away. 

It was winter, and cold, so I knew the pup would need to sleep inside. Not a problem. I had a nice big, dog-proof basement. I put down some newspaper in front of the exterior door, found an old blanket for at the foot of the interior stairs, rinsed out a couple of old bowls, and set about raising a puppy. Been there, done that, already a pro at it. 

But what to name this little twenty-pound bundle of joy? I was dating a fellow, compliments of the same cousin ("I know a guy you should meet. You'll like him," Phil said.). He arrived with a VHS movie in hand just after I got the dog settled. That movie was Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry. Long story short, the pup became Callahan because he had made my day. 

Callahan maxed out at ninety pounds of solid muscle. Did he sleep on his bed in the basement? Hell, no. He slept on the bed with me. Come Friday and Saturday nights when Kevin slept over, it got funny. Callahan would sit beside Kevin's side of the bed and stare at him as if to say, "you're in my spot." 

Callahan was a rambunctious puppy. He grew into a reserved, even-tempered dog. He didn't "play" once he was grown. Walks were his thing and he'd take himself out for one if I didn't watch him. Typical hound, he'd track a scent for quite a distance. More than once one of the neighbors called to say they'd seen him pass through their yard. I'd jump in the car and go after him. He was five or six years old before he stopped traveling too far on a scent.  

Walking with him was joyous. I'm fortunate to live beside a state park. My woods border the park land so walking in woods is as easy as stepping out the door. I stayed on the trails while Callahan worked a criss-cross pattern, nose to the ground. He was beautiful to watch when he was a young dog, so strong and swift. He'd trot with his head and tail up, so absolutely regal. There was no mistaking he was an alpha dog. 

Summers when it got hot, we'd go to the river. He loved the river, leaping into the water again and again like a kid who loves to make a big splash. Winters, he was smart enough to be content inside. He would dig in the snow every once in a while, but he never dug up the yard. 

As with all things, time marched on. I noticed Callahan slowing down during our walks. Then one morning while out walking, I thought his urine looked a bit rusty. I managed to collect a sample, no easy feat, and had the vet test it. That led to a blood test and a bad diagnosis - Cushings Disease. 

The vet was honest with me. Callahan was twelve. Prednisone was the prescribed treatment, but that didn't go well. There was no way to turn back the clock. The vet said I would know when the dog couldn't tolerate any more. 

That day came in August of 1999. Callahan didn't want to go for a walk. He couldn't do it. I called the vet and made arrangements. By this time, Ron was here, and he dug a grave in the northeast corner of my property, on the hill. And so the days of Callahan's life were accomplished. 

Callahan was a good dog. He honored me with his devotion and affection. After Callahan, it was two and a half years before I could think about getting another dog. That came about rather strangely. I had a dream about walking in the woods with Callahan but then I suddenly looked down and instead of him, there was a black puppy. The very next day we found Jett. It was like Callahan told me Jett was waiting for me. 

But Jett's is a story best left for another day. It's the one I'm not sure I can make it through.

_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_

Greenbrier Smokey Jett