Things I Learned From Blackberry
It really does end. Watching it happen reminds that someday it will all be over and I too will take that last breath. I’ve watched it before but, perhaps because I’m closer to that day myself, or because he was our responsibility, it sank in deeper.
He was universally liked and, by those close to him, in spite of the fact that he had only need and dependence to offer, loved because he liked everyone and was always glad to see them.
Do no harm. Only once, as a puppy, did he display anger. The joyous excursions into cat and squirrel chasing were about the chase, not anger. The one time he actually caught up to a cat, (they bumped into each other by accident) he was at a total loss for what to do next.
Today is the fond memory of tomorrow.
Blackberry dominated the Saco years for us, as a family. We lived in an apartment on High Street for one year and then bought the duplex at 47 Forest. Dorothy was having trouble bringing herself to learn her multiplication tables and we offered her any one of several enticements to do so. I don’t remember what the others were because she chose a puppy and so, our history was decided.
Emily, with her customary efficiency and thoroughness, found a breeder in Bradford Maine. The operation was called Cedar Wood Kennels and the owner was the chief administrator of a local hospital. We gave her our criteria and she chose the puppy, based on a psychological profile established by testing. Blackberry was her choice for us. I don’t know if any of the other puppies from that litter were subject to seizures but Blackberry’s only flaw was a propensity for seizures and that too decided our history.
The “drop off” was made on a hot August evening in the parking lot of the Sheraton Hotel in the Maine Mall. The breeder had brought several puppies for drop off. They were all in a pen in the grass and wearing tiny ribbons of different colors to establish who belonged to whom. Papers were signed, money changed hands, and an eager black puppy lifted from the squirming mass in the pen. Dorothy sat in the back seat holding him and he enjoyed the ride immensely.
That night was the only time I remember hearing him vocalize a plea. We had purchased a crate and, after familiarizing him with the apartment and playing with him for awhile, we put him into the crate, (which was in Dorothy’s room), covered it and returned to the kitchen. Soon came there from a high pitched “chirring” sound which was very much like the sound of a bird. He pleaded for perhaps fifteen minutes and fell asleep. It was the last vocalized plea I remember from him
There were occasional vocalizations. On very rare occasions Blackberry would bark when Armand’s cat would sit on the “other” side of the fence and stare at him. When we took him to Rotary Park, long before we arrived, he would begin the quivering “chirring” sound which alternated with a low groan as he jumped up and down with his front feet. Finally we had to resort to saying “R-P” when speaking of it because the mere mention would set him aquiver.
Blackberry very much wanted to be a “good dog”. He wanted even more to avoid being a “bad dog”. When he had been “b-a-d” he was banished to his crate. When he was still only a puppy, we began having to spell the word “b-a-d” in ordinary conversation because, upon hearing it, he would hang his head and slink off into his crate. Sometimes, when he had transgressed, (as in the occasional chewed candy wrapper from the waste basket) he would banish himself to the crate and huddle there waiting for the humans to discover the evidence of his transgression.
Those who say, “There’s no point in punishing him now, he doesn’t remember having done it” need only, upon arriving home, to find their pet, ears down, in his crate when it is his custom to meet them at the door. And then, upon finding the waste basket from which a candy wrapper has been removed and shredded, to have their pet refuse to even look at the evidence. He remembered. He felt guilty, which means he knew it was misbehavior when he did it.
In addition to Dorothy, neighborhood held three boys who lived within a hundred feet and whose delight it was to play with Blackberry. This play took the form of rough housing which was Blackberry’s most intense pleasure other than eating. They played football and when he stole the ball, which he invariably did, he endured the tackling and “piling on” and even enjoyed it although I’m sure that it was sometimes painful and also contributed to his lameness in later years.
Pulling sleds undoubtedly contributed to later lameness. With that mindless, overwhelming enthusiasm that endears a Lab, while still only fifteen or sixteen weeks old, with belly completely down to the ground and legs quivering, he would pull the neighborhood kids in their plastic sleds. There was no measure to his enthusiasm. Everything was an ecstasy.
Shortly after we moved to Saco, it had become apparent that we needed a vehicle appropriate for several wet, sandy children. Thus came into our lives—The Buick. It was a station wagon and I paid some relieved guy in Scarborough five hundred dollars cash for it. I have no idea what the year of its manufacture. It was of the vintage which had straight lines and angles accented with chrome by the yard. Everything about it was by the yard. It was several yards long, burgundy in color and had a roof rack, velour seats, power everything and every oil magnate in the Middle East smiled and lit a celebratory cigar each time I put the key in the ignition. It was the best five hundred dollars I ever spent.
It was a beach wagon into which we could pile a half dozen kids, Blackberry, umbrellas, folding chairs, tents, food and not worry about the dirt and destruction. Once, when Ilka came for a surprise visit, they blind folded me, piled all of us into the Buick and drove it by the most circuitous route imaginable to the airport to meet her. Poor Ilka, as ever, was gracious about the condition her transportation, the excited chattering of the kids and the clumsy affection of Blackberry.
One of Blackberry’s many pleasures, (he enjoyed almost everything, save having his nails clipped and his ears cleaned) was to accompany me to the dump. I had an old orange Chevy pickup which I had bought (also for $500.) from a survivalist who was moving with his wife and home schooled kids to Wyoming. We had gone to his house to buy a couch which he had advertised in the paper for $75. We had next to no money and figured that we would use it for a few months. We finally got rid of it this last winter (09). I liked the survivalist and trusted him. When he asked if I wanted to buy a washer I said yes. He described all of its shortcomings and they were exactly as he said. The washer lasted several years and had more power than some small cars.
The survivalist asked if I wanted to buy a truck to get it all home. He described all of its flaws (time would prove him to be exactly right), money changed hands and he helped load it all onto the truck. I hope that he and his are happy in Wyoming.
The pickup was seldom started. Mostly it sat in the drive, quietly rusting and depressing the real estate values in the neighborhood. It served as a playground for the children who would play and occasionally have picnics on the hood. The bed, which was covered, served as storage space except on the occasions when I needed to go to the dump. On these occasions (perhaps four or five times a year) I would load it up, put Blackberry in the passenger’s seat, fire it up and, amidst much smoke and gnashing of gear teeth, to the dump we would go. There, the attendant (as well as any other men who happened to be there) would pet him and exclaim over what a fine looking dog he was. “Izzee a purebred?” “Hey fella—you hungry—wanna bite uv (hot dog—cracker—dog treat—cheese sandwich—peanuts etc. etc.)
That done, he would sit proudly in the passenger’s seat while I unloaded the truck. On the way out, the attendant would pet him one more time and give him whatever he had found in the attendants trailer that a dog might like. “Sure is a fine looking dog—yeah—aren’t you a good dog. Here, yawant some of this?”
It seemed that most of the town knew Blackberry. The mailman and he had an ongoing love affair as did the UPS man and Blackberry and the mechanics where I had oil changes etc. done. Blackberry would sit in the car while the mechanics pulled the car onto the rack, accept the inevitable affection, ride up serenely when the car was elevated on the lift and be ready for a reunion when the mechanic pulled the car outside again.
Once, while the UPS man was asking me “are you Neil Boyer?” Blackberry appeared behind me and the UPS man interrupted himself to say, “Oh, hi Blackberry”. On another occasion Emily was walking him in another neighborhood and, from above her, came “Hi, Blackberry”. Someone working on a roof recognized him.
I usually took him to Rotary Park at a time when it was possible for him to be off leash. Once when walking by what we came to call Blackberry Beach, we passed a young girl of perhaps six or seven who was being taught to fish by her father. After we had passed I heard her say to her father, “That’s Blackberry”.
He enjoyed the excitement of car washes at first but when, after a dozen or so visits, he realized he was never ever going to catch the strips of the “back and forth” washers as they flopped across the windshield, he lost interest. The car wash was better than nothing but it wasn’t “chirring” material.
I mentioned Blackberry Beach. I don’t have to tell “Lab owners” how much Blackberry liked water. He did enjoy drinking water but only if there was absolutely no way he could swim in it. The Saco River was an important part of his world. Though not exclusively, the Saco River at Rotary Park was an important part of his world. While there was a boat ramp at the end of the dirt road which parallels the river there, the preferred place was an eroded spot in the road and the bank where once there had been a previous boat ramp. This, not only because there were no boats being launched there but because there was a rope tied to a tree limb which overhang the river.
The obvious result was a replaying of one vignette from the American dream. The pictures speak for themselves.
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP
Blackberry’s death. The seizures, which were at first so brief that they were perceived only as a brief hesitation in his gait, eventually needed treatment. Our finances afforded us only one option which, from the beginning, the vet told us would destroy his liver. We decided to give him the best quality of life we could and, when he wasn’t having a good time anymore, to put him down. Our affection for him clouded our judgment and we delayed what needed to be done by a few weeks. We purchased the home in which we live now, in part because Emily wanted him to be able to swim in the river off his own back yard.
Indeed, he did get to do that but her dream wasn’t to be. A few days later he had his final swim in his beloved Saco River (P) and, after a steak dinner, (as well as a sampling of Dorothy’s pizza)(p) his vet put him down. We took him in the back door of the vet’s office and as he walked down the hall all of the employees recognized and greeted him affectionately which must have seemed perfectly normal to him. There, with his head on Emily’s lap, just as she had always known it would be, he died with the easy grace of a creature who, not knowing that there was a “yesterday” doesn’t dread the loss of “tomorrow”.