The first thing that struck me about him was the silence.
All the other dogs at the humane society were barking feverishly. Some out of fear, some out attention. Some begging for me to take them home. But the six- month-old combination black lab/whatever jumped over his mom’s fence that night was quietly laying at the back of the cage, minding his own business. "Perfect!" I said to myself, "A laid back, mellow dog."
Little had I known.
It was a late summer night, 1997. I sat in the living room of my little rental house, watching TV as I petted my brand new dog, wondering out loud what to name him. A news caster reported about how all the Elvis Presley nuts were in Memphis that night, camping outside Graceland in honor of the 20th anniversary of the death of the King of Rock and Roll. My brother spoke up: "How about Elvis?"
Perfect.
When it comes right down to it, a dog has one job. Yes, some dogs are trained to be bird dogs. Some guard their owners. Some entertain. But a dog’s main job is to love their master unconditionally. And Elvis knew how to do his job.
I’d come home from a rough day at work - when my clients had been mad, the sales were slow and the bills high. Elvis was there to love me, and didn’t seem to mind when I had to buy generic dog food.
Eventually I hit the love lotto. I distinctly remember the first time Marie came over to my house. Elvis and I greeted her at the door. Marie was hesitant and stepped back: "Is he friendly?" I tried not to laugh. Right from the start, he approved of Marie. He always was a good judge of character.
Marie eventually became witness to all of his insane quirks. Like how would attempt to have sex with your leg - or anything else for that matter. I once saw him trying to have sex with my pile of dirty laundry. I wasn’t sure if I should scold him or try to book him on David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks segment.
He had a extremely gentle demeanor towards anyone not wearing a uniform. A drunk guy banging on our door at 2 in the morning? No bark. But God help the guy showing up in a Domino’s shirt to deliver our pizza.
It’s a bad cliche, but he was particularity suspicious about the intentions of our mailman. Before he became an indoor-only mutt, I’d leave him in our fenced backyard. When he escaped and threatened the mail carrier, I apologized profusely, and spent the day re-enforcing the fence. After the second escape, the Post Office gave me official warning that one more incident would result in the stoppage of home mail delivery. Not a problem, I said, as I spent a weekend adding layers of lumber, rock, wood and nails to block any potential escape route.
I now use a P.O. Box.
Now matter what I did, (including locking him in a metallic-bar kennel), he’d somehow figure out how to escape. One time my brother called me on his cell: "I think I just saw Elvis running across traffic on 7th Street."
"Nah," I replied, looking out at the back window. "I just put in the back yard. He’s right...right....Where did you see him again?"
Fortunately, on most of his escapes, he’d run to Betty Fulton’s house down the street and camp out on her front porch. She had the good treats. Once, our neighbor Scott, found Elvis wandering the streets. He tied him up to my gas meter in the backyard. When I got home, Elvis had chewed a huge section of the exterior wall next to the meter- so much so that an entire 20 foot section of our siding had to be replaced.
Another time I had taken Elvis with me to the mall. It was too hot to leave him in the car, so I tied him up to a bike rack in a shady area outside of Target. I wasn’t too concerned, seeing as how he had never chewed through his leash. Yet when I finished my shopping, Elvis was gone from the bike rack. A long and thorough search of the parking lot, as well as a call to mall security, yielded no results. Distraught on the drive home, I pondered my options: call the radio stations? Post fliers? I can’t leave Elvis out there lost, and all alone.
The message on the answering machine at home brought sweet relief: "Hi Steve, this is Nancy from down the street. I saw Elvis tied up on a bike rack at Mesa Mall. He must have gotten out again. So I unleashed him and brought him to my house."
Nancy assumed that Elvis had escaped from my backyard and somehow managed to run 4 miles to mall, whereupon he got himself tangled up in a bike rack. And if you think this scenario is out of the realm of possibilities, then you don’t know Elvis.
Another quirk was his food selection. He seemed skeptical of the nightly dinner placed in his food bowl. Yet, he would quickly try to scarf down anything that we accidently dropped on the kitchen floor, like a piece of cheese, or a pretzel, or steak knife. On frequent occasion, he would not eat the Purina I purchased for him, and instead, go outside and devour the cat poop that the neighborhood strays would deposit. Not only would he chew up the trash on a daily basis, but the many bite marks on the wood frame of our front door, as well as the chewed out section of our front window, and seats in our car, are testaments to how, exactly, he feels about thunder.
All these quirks made for good newspaper column fodder. I once even had Elvis write my column for me. A few months later, when the newspaper editor asked what columns I wanted submitted for consideration to the annual Colorado Press Association awards, I chose that one. He didn’t win, but that’s okay. I’m pretty sure Elvis is the only dog to have ever been nominated for a writing award.
Eventually of course, he began to mellow. Dogs, like their masters, get old and worn down. I saw all the signs coming. I just didn’t want to acknowledge them.
When we brought Marilee home, Elvis wasn’t jealous. Whether it was old age, sibling love, or just a simple acceptance of the situation, he seemed to know what was happening, and where our priorities were shifting. Not too long ago, it was just he and I in our little lonely bachelor pad. Now the women were moving in and taking over. He seemed to be okay with it.
Our three mile runs had turned into two mile runs and a walk. Then just two miles. Then a half-mile followed by arthritis pills. Watching him slip face-first on the front-yard grass didn’t seem as funny anymore, so we made an appointment with the vet. When the first batch of medicine became only a temporary fix, we went back again.
The good docs at All Pets Center gave him some pain killers, and steroids, but it was just a stop gap. Reality was setting in and I reluctantly took stock of his life. I don't imagine that the odds are very good for a shy, mixed-breed mutt abandoned at an over-croweded Clifton animal shelter. But somehow he managed to live an active, happy, 11 years, 8 months in a warm, loving home. All in all, I’d say he had a good run.
So today, it was time to take him for our last trip to the vet. We first stopped at McDonalds, where I figured two double cheeseburgers would be a fine farewell meal. I ordered an additional one for me, and another one. Maybe I’d bring it down to work for Marie.
Elvis devoured all four.
So we get to the vet and I wait. People in the lobby craddle cats, or slightly injured dogs, and they turn their heads towards me, hearing my sobs, which I couldn’t contain even if I tried. A few minutes later we’re called. Elvis is calm, and looks me in the eyes. No fear. No stress. Just love. The anesthetic works fast.
Tears stream down my face as I stroke Elvis, my dog, one last time. I keep thinking back on something Marie said to comfort me before we left.
"You gave him a good life."
I hope so.
Because that would make us even.
