Drinking from the Trough Read online

The driver had stopped to help and apologize. Earl assured him that it wasn’t his fault.

  Earl, clearly shaken, carried our limp puppy back to the ash tree. Her head and all four limbs hung down from his arms. I stumbled toward him, sure she was dead.

  But Keli was conscious!

  Earl gave her a thorough emergency head-to-toe exam under the ash tree and pronounced her uninjured.

  Not a mistake! She was fine.

  I was in shock.

  I stared at her in wonder as she chowed down a huge bowl of puppy food and drank an entire dish of water, completely revived.

  The shock wore off and was replaced with guilt. Being Jewish, I can assure you I know all about guilt, but this was guilt on steroids. I wanted to curl up and hide forever.

  The next morning, I still felt sick to my stomach from the guilt and anxiety, even though Keli was fine, and I’d definitely learned my lesson. But no matter how I felt, it was a workday, so I headed to school.

  I walked into the office and couldn’t believe my eyes. The entire front of the elementary school office was covered in divine chocolate delights, homemade by the staff, in my honor. They’d planned a “Chocolate Monday” to celebrate my admission to vet school because they all knew I was a serious chocoholic. (I presume my chocoholism is a genetic trait. My dad’s record for eating Oreos was twenty-two at one sitting. When my parents were still married, they would whack a five-pound Hershey bar with a hammer and eat the entire bar together.)

  A huge double-chocolate cake was front and center, surrounded by cookies of any recipe that had chocolate in it, many types of fudge, chocolate-covered nuts, pecan turtles, brownies sprinkled with powdered sugar, brownies dripping with chocolate frosting—just about anything you could think of that had chocolate as an ingredient graced the table.

  Any adult on a diet tossed the diet out the window that day to gorge on the bounty. I wondered if the kids noticed that staff members leaving the office were licking their fingers or surreptitiously wiping away a chocolate mustache. By the end of the day, nothing was left but scattered crumbs and a few crumpled napkins.

  I was thrilled to be honored with such a special party, but I was still so upset from Keli’s near miss that I couldn’t eat a bite. I confess I felt a little sad that others who were not going to vet school ate all that lovely, luscious chocolate, but my body insisted.

  A few weeks later, the school year wrapped up, and for the second time since finishing my vet school prerequisites, I took the summer off.

  I spent the summer psyching myself up for the start of vet school in August but mostly relaxing with Earl (who, as a full-time veterinarian, did work summers) and pets Pruney, Franny and Marcie, and, of course, Keli.

  I did put one rule change in place, however. Whenever we needed Keli to go from point A to point B, no matter the reason or the distance, we attached our adventurous pup to her leash securely, and we gripped that leash firmly. I never forgot her curiosity or her breed’s instincts, and I would forever be mindful of the potential for disasters.

  Keli’s next class was “novice obedience training,” although, as I was slowly learning, “husky obedience” is an oxymoron. Still, she did well in that class, which was taught by a retired police officer. He got Keli’s stubborn little rear end to sit by smacking it.

  I thought he was a little rough on her, but once home, she followed the sit command well from then on. I wasn’t a pushover, but Keli knew I belonged to her, and she figured that she didn’t have to listen all the time—but by golly, she sat when commanded. She even sat at every corner before we crossed the street, another skill we learned in the obedience class.

  Learning to sing wasn’t part of obedience class; that trick was one I taught her myself. I’d learned how from Natalie.

  “Keli, can you go ah-woooo?” I’d say, howling with great enthusiasm. When I hit that ah-woooo note, she’d join in. She quickly caught on and would sing as soon as she heard me say, “Keli, can you go . . . ?”

  She was a gifted singer and became quite proficient, learning a vast repertoire of songs. Before I left teaching for vet school, Keli and I recorded some Christmas and Hanukah songs, just for grins. I kept giggling during the duets, and I am embarrassed to say that my dog sang better than me. At least my students thought so. They groaned and rolled their eyes, clearly trying to convince me that this whole dog duet thing was totally stupid (and, of course, it was), but they enjoyed the silliness too.

  Later on, when I was in vet school, I think I had fewer anxiety attacks than my classmates who didn’t have a dog at home. Some of that was simply from the unconditional love of a great dog, but Keli helped me learn canine anatomy and medicine too. She was my very own study guide, a living specimen for practicing palpating canine anatomical structures in the comfort of my own home.

  I felt like a real vet when I practiced giving her a physical exam. A veterinarian friend taught me how to examine an animal by starting at the head and working toward the rear. Head-to-toe repetition is important so you don’t miss anything. The first year of vet school was all about the normal animal, because you have to learn what “normal” is before you can identify “abnormal” in examining and diagnosing. Keli let me practice all I wanted. If I wanted variety, I’d practice my new skills on my cat, Pruney, or the horses.

  When Keli grew old enough to go running with us, Earl and I discovered that we both loved the sensation of running with a dog who had the genetic trait to go really fast in a straight line without stopping. My running limit was three miles interspersed with walking breaks, but Earl, who enjoyed distance running, took Keli on fifteen-mile runs once her bones were mature enough.

  That fast-and-straight running instinct wasn’t restricted to fair-weather running. Colorado might not be as cold and wild as the Arctic Circle, but we still get plenty of snow.

  Snow is heaven for huskies; the more, the better. Huskies are a lot like foxes, which can smell their prey under the snow. They jump up, then plunge nose-first into the snow to catch a critter for supper. Keli had that husky hunting instinct, and when we were off leash out in the country, she’d nosedive into the deep snow, often catching rodents and gobbling up the tasty morsels.

  At home, she rolled and frolicked in the snowfall, leaving paw prints in every inch of the fresh snow and digging “husky holes” out of the snow and dirt in her dog pen. She’d snooze in her snow caves, sheltered from the wind, even though she had the old playhouse, complete with a porch, as her huge doghouse. No matter the weather, she preferred to sleep outside, and we let her, unless the temperature dropped below ten degrees Fahrenheit; then we insisted that she sleep inside.

  When she was about three years old, I bought Keli a harness so she could go cross-country skiing with me. Huskies are bred to pull, and they love to work. Keli’s harness was similar to a dogsledding harness but less detailed. I figured it would be enough; after all, we weren’t training for the Iditarod. It shouldn’t be too hard to learn how to hook her up and have her pull me across our city’s trails. I’m a relatively small adult, and Keli was certainly strong enough for the job.

  I loaded up our gear and drove Keli the Mush Dog to City Park. I got all the equipment on us in good order, if not in an especially timely manner. Keli, attached to me by her leash and harness plus a safety leash attached to her collar, ran ahead, pulling me on my skis behind. I crouched low, racer-style with my poles tucked. We headed for the wilds on the south side of the park, where other skiers had already packed down a trail paralleling the busy street.

  It was glorious! A perfect Colorado day, sky so bright blue and snow so sparkling white that I’d have been blinded without my sunglasses.

  Keli galloped ahead, and we shushed around a slight curve and onto the straightaway. We were flying! I glanced across the short distance to the street, grinning at the drivers stuck in their chugging cars.

  Keli ran faster. I hung on.

  She ran full out. It was no use—I couldn’t keep up—and—

/>   Splat!

  Face-plant in the snow, my arms spread wide like airplane wings, my hands still clutching my ski poles and the leashes, my feet and skis splayed awkwardly across the snow-packed trail. Keli kept pulling for a few seconds before turning around to look at me. I swear she was laughing at me—probably payback for the fish pond.

  How embarrassing, I thought—ten feet away from Mulberry Street and all those people in their cars. I looked; people were actually slowing down, pointing at me, and laughing.

  I sighed and rolled over, exposing my vital organs (a sign of submission to Keli, clearly my superior), ski tips pointed skyward. A fuzzy dog-face blocked my view of the heavens: Keli, coming to see what the holdup was. She pranced around as though to say, “Get up, Mom! This is too much fun! Let’s go!” Her panting, snow-covered face and lolling tongue were adorable, and I was laughing too hard to be embarrassed for long. I grabbed her in a bear hug, and soon we were rolling and wrestling in the deep snow, skis and all.

  Between cross-country ski mushing, charity fun runs, long-distance runs with Earl, and doggie Olympics, Keli had developed into quite an athlete and a stellar training partner. She had her share of sneaky dog antics, but all in all, she was turning into a polite and beautiful companion.

  Little did we know that we had a killer dog among us.

  It was a summer weekend, the sun not up yet.

  Five o’clock. Still too early to feed the horses.

  Piercing screams shocked us awake. Ungodly, unrecognizable, incredibly loud. The only thing we could tell for sure was that they were coming from Keli’s dog pen.

  Hearts racing, we rushed outside.

  In the barely waxing light of early dawn, we saw them: a juvenile raccoon, bloodied and dead, on the ground in the dog pen and overhead, balanced high up in the apple tree that shaded the pen, its littermate hanging on for dear life and screeching that unearthly scream at the top of its lungs.

  Keli trotted forward, tail wagging, to give us her usual morning greeting.

  She looked like central casting’s idea for the canine version of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

  She grinned. Even in the half-light of early morning, we could see red glistening on her muzzle.

  “Cujo,” I whispered to Earl as we slowly backed away.

  We gave her a bath, followed by steroids for any possible swellings, a penicillin shot in case she had bite wounds, and a rabies booster. Raccoons are tied with skunks for land animals with the highest incidence of rabies, and although rabies in a juvenile raccoon was unlikely, it’s better to be safe than sorry. We called Animal Control to notify them too, but they said the health department wouldn’t be interested in testing the corpse for rabies. We buried it in the orchard.

  After that, we fed the horses and went on an uneventful ride, enjoying the cool morning weather and the placid horses after the morning’s excitement. When we returned, the sun now bright overhead, we saw that Keli’s white face and mask were pale pink; we hadn’t managed to wash all her victim’s blood out of her fur. So we bathed her again, using plenty of dog shampoo.

  That wasn’t Keli’s only run-in with wildlife, though aside from the occasional mouse plundered from under deep snow, it’s the only time she caused damage.

  From the moment she put her young puppy paws on the trail, Keli loved Pineridge Natural Area. Dirt trails crisscross the grassy foothills terrain and rocky outcroppings of this city-owned open space, weaving through a ponderosa pine forest and winding around the perimeter of a modest-sized reservoir.

  In those days, when the town was smaller and the park wasn’t so crowded, dogs were allowed off-leash at Pineridge. Keli would run full tilt, chasing imaginary prey. When she got hot—usually fairly quickly, thanks to her being an Arctic dog—she’d slow down but keep moving.

  It didn’t take long for her to discover the shoreline. Good thing she had tough paws designed for running on snow and ice; the shore was dry, cracked mud, with lots of rocks and sharp stones. Husky paws have tiny spikes that give them the traction they need to run on ice, the way cleats on football or baseball shoes give ballplayers traction on the field. She could clamber around all she wanted.

  Soon, she was sniffing the air near the water. Such intriguing smells, I’m sure she thought. The next time we went to Pineridge, she stood at the water’s edge and stretched forward to sniff the water itself. I could tell every sense was functioning on high alert, detecting all kinds of interesting data: the heat of the day, the temperature of the ground, the strength of the breeze, the tantalizing odors of as-yet-unidentified plants and animals.

  A few hikes later, she put her paws in the water. Earl and I strolled along the shoreline path, and Keli followed, sloshing in the water close by, enjoying the new sensation on her soggy paws.

  When she was a young adult, she finally took the plunge, literally.

  It was a warm sunny day in midsummer. Not much wind; the surface of the lake was calm and quiet. Keli trotted over to the lake, the same as she always did, but this time, instead of turning to follow the water’s edge, she kept walking straight out into the lake. She kept walking until her feet could not touch the bottom of the lake, and then she simply began swimming!

  Not all huskies like to swim, but Keli was a natural and was clearly having a grand time. From then on, every time we went to Pineridge, Keli swam. And every time she swam, her swimming improved.

  After the first few times, she never hesitated; as soon as we arrived, she’d run straight for the lake and plunge into the cold water. Her swims lasted longer and took her farther and farther away from shore. I could tell she was having a blast, but I was a little edgy, because there was no way I could rescue her if she got into trouble. I worried: if she went too far out, would she be able to make it back? Or would she sink like the Titanic?

  The one thing I didn’t worry about was Keli getting cold. Huskies have a double coat. The topcoat is the long, beautiful fur you can see. It’s a mostly weatherproof coat that helps keep their bodies dry in snow or rain. Their undercoat is a soft, fine insulating layer that keeps them warm in cold weather, similar to the way a down jacket keeps humans warm. Those two coats are so thick that I suspect Keli never got wet all the way down to her skin.

  Keli discovered she wasn’t alone on the pond: there were mallard ducks! They floated serenely, apparently unconcerned that a dedicated hunter was sneaking up on them.

  Keli paddled closer, a silent submarine surfacing, nearer and nearer.

  Would she turn into Cujo again?

  Before I could call her back, the ducks slid just a bit farther away from Keli the Curious Huntress.

  Keli kept swimming, intent on her prey.

  The line of ducks slid away again.

  Were the ducks teasing her? I suspected so—they could have zoomed off into the clear sky anytime they wanted, leaving Keli far behind. But they stayed, quietly gliding along, a beautiful line that curved and curled on the pond’s quiet surface, paced exactly close enough to Keli to hold her interest and far enough ahead of her that she couldn’t catch them. They reminded me of our World War II battleships zigzagging to avoid the Japanese navy.

  From then on, every dip in the pond involved synchronized swimming, Keli’s head jutting out of the water, eyes focused on the tantalizing critters who were always just out of reach, ducks and Keli in an elegant line following the lead duck. She never captured a duck, thank heavens, but it was a joy to watch her try.

  Eventually, she would tire of duck hunting and would swim to shore, where she’d shake herself off—soaking me in the process, of course—looking utterly satisfied. Then, cooled off from her swim, she was happy to go running. No wonder that, ten seconds after hopping into the car to head home, she’d fall fast asleep.

  Earl and I had twenty-seven wonderful years of marriage, and from the day we brought Keli home, ten months after our wedding, until Earl’s death, we always had a dog: Keli for almost fifteen years, then Tipper, also a Siberian husky, who joined o
ur family as a pup soon after Keli’s fourteenth birthday, for almost that long.

  One morning during an unusually hot summer, Keli, almost fifteen, was sleeping in the family room on her dog bed. Eight-month-old Tipper was snoozing nearby. They were both inside because it was much cooler inside the house than outside.

  Earlier, I had cleaned up four small reddish stains around the family room, but I didn’t think anything of it. I was busy in my cat clinic, which was next to the family room. The door between the clinic and family room was closed because the cat cages faced the door into the house, and I didn’t want my patients scared if they saw the dogs.

  In the afternoon, a new client, Bryan, came in. While polite and respectful, Bryan was clearly in distress. His cat, Mickey, who was his closest friend, had a dead tail that needed treatment.

  Other vets in our town had turned away this gentle young man due to his obvious inability to pay. Bryan had developmental disabilities. He was dressed carefully, but his clothing was old and worn. The wages he earned from his job at a fast food restaurant would never cover the three-hundred-dollar cost of a feline tail amputation.

  I agreed to amputate the scarified, hairless tail. Bryan, in a halting, grateful voice, promised to pay me as best he could over time, perhaps five dollars here and there. I knew in my heart that I would never see payment for the procedure, but I just couldn’t let Mickey and Bryan go out the door without treatment.

  My belief was that the cat needed care. Bryan had been turned down by everyone, probably making him feel like a less capable human being. He was doing the best that he could with the cards he’d been dealt, and I felt it would be a mitzvah—a good deed with no expectation of payback—to help him out and treat him like the kind adult he truly was. So I decided to make an exception to my rule about not working for free.

  Many people think veterinary medicine is overpriced. I don’t agree with them, but I understand where this belief comes from. They’re used to going to their “real doctor,” paying the co-pay (which is much less than the actual cost of the appointment) required by their health insurance provider, and walking out the door. In addition, many think that vets should work for less because they love animals.