Paw Prints On My Heart — episode 8 — Cowboy

Just typing his name makes my heart skip a beat. I believe I have loved every dog in my life with 100 percent of my heart, but Cowboy will always be remembered as the dog of my life. He was the dog who chose me. It was like he had been born with me in mind.

I lasted about three months without a dog after Yeller died. I felt a little guilty when I couldn’t take it anymore. It turned out there was a puppy waiting for me in a barn out in the valley. I think my heart must have heard a tiny woof in the midst of my grief – I was drawn 50 miles out of my comfort zone to a tiny black bundle who refused to be left behind. A dear friend of mine put my guilt to rest: “A new dog is always a tribute to the old one,” she said. “The fact your life feels incomplete without a dog says a lot about the one that passed.” She encouraged me to fall in love with abandon – and I followed her instruction to the letter.

He smelled like the barn he was born in when I brought him home, nobody noticed. The kids fell madly in love with him the instant they saw him.

Cowboy has become the dog to which all other dogs are measured. People still talk about him like he was the king of canines – with such admiration you would think he was the most beautiful example of doghood ever. And he was, on the inside. Cowboy was a conformation nightmare; his legs were too long, his head was too small, his neck too large; people just didn’t notice. Cowboy was a presence. And he was big.

Cowboy spent the first few months living with us tied to my right ankle – he spent his next ten years glued to my hip.

Cowboy and I signed up for, and attended (in a fashion), puppy school. It was with reluctance the instructor handed us our diploma when we finished kindergarten. We were not invited back to attend grade one with all the other graduates. The instructor had not seen Cowboy in the same light as I did – she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor, or mine. We were a distraction. She demonstrated over and over again how her Doberman retreated to his bed every time she barked “mat”. The look on her Doberman’s face confirmed exactly what I thought about the presentation, I got the feeling her dog had her ass in his sights every time she turned around.

We functioned very well in the real world without that instructor’s blessings. To a large extent we let Cowboy have his own opinion about things. We were adamant that he came when he was called and that he sat (most of the time). Other than that he pretty much played by his own rules – thankfully he seemed to hold himself to the same standards as the rest of the family; he was polite and playful and he hated getting in trouble. He, like the kids, seemed to understand that the house was a happier place if he listened the first time asked.

Cowboy was the most human dog most people had ever met. His long legs allowed him to take a seat on the couch without actually jumping on – he just hefted a hip and joined the party. He seemed intent on following the conversation, actively paying attention to whoever was talking at the time. He didn’t seem to realize he wasn’t a person and I think people started to wonder if he was.

Cowboy was the king of the castle until our daughter brought home an eight week old Boston Terrier pup. Stella was four pounds of bossy and Cowboy was at a loss for words. She told that big black dog what was what right off the hop. For starters Cowboy’s heart was broken – he couldn’t believe he’d been usurped by something so small.  It didn’t take long for him to realize that he hadn’t been dethroned at all – that little lady only needed to think she was the boss, he still ruled the roost.

Cowboy and Stella became the most unlikely best friends. They wrestled with toys together – Stella’s 12 pounds out pulling Cowboy’s 120 most of the time. He let Stella strut her stuff – she had unsurpassed confidence when taking on the world – she didn’t seem to realize that the only weight she carried was standing two feet behind her putting the potential bite in her bark.

I put miles on that dog – we visited the beach on an almost daily basis. Cowboy re-arranged the seagulls with surprising speed. He was a joy to watch – he ran just because he could. For the massive dog he was he was like a feather on the leash. He matched his pace with mine.

It was my girls who named Cowboy – it seemed like a big name for the little guy I brought home, but he grew into it.  Only once did I wish we had named him something like Rover or Buck. We were at the beach on a sunny August afternoon, The Semiahmoo First Nation was hosting a pow wow at the park. The scent barbecued salmon permeated the air. I smelled it and Cowboy could taste it. He took off like a shot. My prayer that he would come when I called him ‘Boy’ went unanswered – I was the girl who stood in the middle of a pow wow and yelled Cowboy!

Cowboy’s exit wasn’t an easy one. He developed cancer.  He never complained, he was stoic to the end – but I was a basket case. I searched for second and third opinions, desperately hoping if I paid enough money someone could turn the diagnosis around. They couldn’t. I took time off work to stay home and watch him breathe. I held my breath. He hung on until I couldn’t ask him to anymore. I called on a brave I hope I never have to call on again the day we did right by that beautiful black dog.

Cowboy was like my fourth child – we had a connection I have not felt since. It’s not that I loved him more than the other dogs in my life, he just seemed to love me back bigger. I miss that dog every day. I dream about him sometimes – often he is just padding down the road, waiting for me to catch up.