"Did you kill your dog?"
It was June in San Mateo. Which is to say, it was hot as shit. We were working. Really working hard. Learning how to mesh together as a team. I was in canine handler school with my dog, Nuck aus der Fischerei. Of course, there was no way in hell I was going to be calling him that on the street. So, he was just Nuck. And for anyone who has been a K9 handler or knows one, handler school isn't really about teaching the dog. They're already ridiculously smart. It's about teaching the handler how to read the dog; how to notice the minor changes in his behavior or body language as he picks up the scent cone and starts working a track.
Ever since I can remember, our family has always had dogs. It was my mom who initially had that deep love for them. We had Blackie. A mangy mutt who ended up having his throat ripped open after a fight with another neighborhood dog. And there was Birfy, named for the way I said birthday as a toddler. According to mom, "Birfday". Mom was crazy about him, to a fault. I can still remember, vividly, the day Birfy attacked me. I was probably 6, maybe 7. He was lying down around the corner between the kitchen and the living room. I walked up from behind him wanting to play. I had no idea that he was working on a bone he'd just been given. He wanted no part of playing and clearly saw me as a threat. I had almost no time to register the foreboding growl before he lunged at my small face. Instinctively, I put my right hand up for protection. His fangs sunk into my soft flesh, almost going through to the other side. I screamed with every ounce of breath I had in me. My mom came running and saw the wound and the blood that followed. As a registered nurse, she had little difficulty tending to my injury. I'll never forget that moment. Years later, Dandy, would come and remain in our lives for many years.
Then I went to college. And, I would assume as many enterprising young men do as they move through the ranks while entertaining secondary education, I moved into a house with seven other guys. One of these housemates, adopted a younger dog from the local shelter, only to turn around several weeks later and threaten to take her back. Instead, I rescued her. Codi. She was a gorgeous Rhodesian Ridgeback and was my ever sweet, ever faithful companion. When I moved to California to pursue my law enforcement career there, she remained at home with my parents until I graduated the academy. Then my best friend brought her with him as he road tripped across the country. She stayed with me until I settled into my new place. Codi soon developed kidney failure. And one night, I discovered her lying on the couch after working an evening shift. Despite her depleted state, she managed to pull herself up to her favorite spot one last time. I was heartbroken as Codi had been with me during many of my major life changing events. But before leaving for California, I had rescued another dog, a yellow Labrador I named Neshana, after the Lenni Lenape Indian word neshanic, meaning two creeks. She, too, was heartbroken when her companion Codi died, but we rebounded together spending many hours hiking and overnight backpacking trips exploring the local mountains or traveling to the Eastern Sierra Nevadas. Neshana would be my rock and, ultimately, the connection that lead me to my wife. After almost a decade and a half of unquestionable devotion and sincere love, I had to make my most heart wrenching decision ever...to end her life. Although she still had the spirit of a young puppy, Neshana's body had worn down. In July 2013, exactly 14 years after "asking" a muddy, matted, but happy Lab into my Jeep, we had to say goodbye. Now, it's Kamali and me. She's a spunky, yet super smart Border Collie mix. Again, another rescue. (That's all I'll ever do, by the way, rescues.) So, through the years, I've had my share of canine companions and experiences. I love my dogs. I simply cannot envision my life without them. They give such unquestionable friendship. And I often go to a passage by the author, Rick Bass from his book about one of his dogs, that describes how I feel about my canine companions far more eloquently than I could ever hope to imagine...
"Back then it was just sweet and clean and wild and fresh; and on many days, most days, the best days, it still is: and when I am in the company of one of my dogs, and am speaking to him or her as I would to a human friend - just shooting the shit or conversing about how the day has gone - or when I am admiring the sunlight in their eyes, or patting their heads, marveling at the physiographic fit between the curve of the palm of my hand and the top of their broad heads - as if we, or someone, has sculpted them just for that fit - or perhaps someone has sculpted us, for that fit - on those occasions, I do not concern myself with my inability to feel such comfort amidst humans (other than with a very few friends and family), but, rather, am simply thankful that at least dogs exist, and I'm humbly aware of how much less a person I'd be - how less a human - if they did not exist.
I don't mean to say that a human without a dog is somehow less of a human. What I mean is that I think there are those among us who are more dog people than others - and a dog person without a dog is missing something."
~ Rick Bass, Colter
Yet, there I was, in August 2001, rolling that question over and over again in my mind. "Are you fucking kidding me?!", I thought. "Did I kill my dog?! There's no fucking way I would ever intentionally hurt any of my dogs. Ever!"
But Nuck was dead. And I was his handler. My world had collapsed around me...
