I’ve never bought the axiom about “it was the rescue dog who really saved me.” Perhaps that’s because I believed it trivialized what my rescue mutt, Landy, was to me for a remarkable 16 years. That run came to an end last week as my wife and I made the difficult decision to help Landy to her rest.
That said, I can’t deny that this pup saved me in many ways at many times.
The first time Landy saved me
In late 2006 I was heartbroken because my second dog, Zuzu, a Chesapeake Bay retriever, died young of a mystery disease while I was struggling to start a company. Torn between my love for Chessies and my belief in rescue, I went to the web to look for another.
I came across a young Chessie in South Carolina who had been found in a landfill with mange to the point that you couldn’t really tell what breed she was. Her rescuer, Alicia, told me that their vet had said the dog had no chance of survival and not to bother trying to save her. Improbably, the dog persevered.
Alicia and I agreed to meet halfway in Meridian, Miss., to make the exchange, one of the most illogical but ultimately smartest things I’ve done. I am very aware that Dallas has stray dogs aplenty. My wife and I have adopted some of them. But I knew this literal junkyard dog was special.
When I got to the drop, I knew there wasn’t an ounce of Chessie in her and I didn’t care. She was MINE. She’d keep the origin-story name of Landy. She slept in my lap all the way home, and I felt better with each mile. If this dog could survive deprivation and mange, I could do the same.
Landy became my confidant
She may not have been a Chessie, but I’ve never seen a dog who loved water more than Landy. I can’t count the hours we spent, me throwing the frisbee, her catching it (most of the time in the air), splashing down in the pool, and hustling to go again and again. My arm usually wore out before she did.
Along the way, she patiently endured listening to everything going on with me, whether I was celebrating, mourning, scheming or relaxing. She was my confidant and confessor, her wall-eyes imparting wisdom and comfort.
The second time Landy saved me
I found myself foolishly surprised that I was getting divorced. As we divvied up everything, there was no question I was keeping Landy, but our other two dogs left the home.
I found myself in a really low place, largely of my own making. It was Landy’s insatiable desire to play that finally got me out of bed each day. The fur on the back of her neck dried my tears. She was my companion on painfully long walks as I started figuring out how to rebuild a life.
Best of all, she helped me woo a better match, my wife, Crystal. Landy raised our next two pups, training them in the ways of the household, but perhaps intentionally never managing to get them to join in our games of pool fetch.
They say people without kids treat their dogs like their children, and there’s something to it. But from early on, Landy was a contemporary. She was smart, responsible and knew better what I needed (often a swim) than I did myself. She was infinitely patient, always glad to have me when I was home too much and not petulant when I spent too much time away with Crystal during our courtship.
She’s the R2-D2 to my Luke Skywalker
I have never met a more gamely tough being. Landy wasn’t “grr” tough; she was shruggingly tough. If something got in the way, she just pushed through like it wasn’t there.
When asked to describe her, I often say “sturdy” or “plucky.” She was the R2-D2 to my Luke Skywalker, rusty but never broken and always finding a new trick to solve both her problems and mine. I realize now that I have never heard her cry, until a couple nights ago.
Even as she lost a little height in her jump, right up through last summer, she was still sturdy and stoic, at an obscenely old age for a dog who wasn’t supposed to make her first year. She even daunted me and my long-term friend and vet, Wade, when she developed a tumor and we decided not to put her through surgery. She outlasted the tumor by a good four months, finding a way to heal and get around once it was gone. When she couldn’t take the steps, she found another way around. When she fell, she didn’t growl. She just hopped up, nonplussed. Even when walking was painful, she followed me through any door I opened.
We could all learn from the lack-of-quit that was Landy. But that’s also why my wife and I had to make the call for her, lest she suffer through a long season just to be there for us, when she badly needed rest.
I write this on the first day without Landy, from a hotel in Charlotte, N.C., as I scramble to arrange heightened care for my father, who is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. Unwittingly — even unwillingly — I find myself in a season of caring for those who once cared for me. I am overtired and overmatched, but praying that I can show that I’ve absorbed the pluck and the sturdiness of a wall-eyed orphan mutt.
Mike Orren is chief product and audience officer for The Dallas Morning News.
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