Paw Prints On My Heart — episode 6 — George

George wasn’t actually our dog, we were just babysitting him for a friend while he built a new house, but he has a special place in my heart and deserves a special place on the cloud as well. We took delivery of George one fall and he was gone by Easter – he is one of those short stories with a sad ending – the sort of story that changes a person, invites introspection and inspires regret.

We had three little kids in a two bedroom house – it made perfect sense to sign up to look after a two year old Newfie. George was large and smelly and so damn sweet it made your heart melt. We had to keep him outside, his aroma was as overpowering as his size. My husband built a gate on the sun deck to pen him in. George was happy out there, peering in the kitchen window and woofing at the kids for as long as it took him to eat half of the railings. We rigged up the clothesline and set up a run from the back of the house to the fence line to keep him contained.

George is the dog whose memory makes my heart ache. I didn’t have enough time to devote to him and keep the rest of our lives running smoothly, three little kids eat up a lot of time. George was neglected. I loved him for sure and he found in me a sort of kindred spirit – we were both low on the totem pole. He’d sit at the end of his run and watch the goings on in the house through the windows – we made eye contact every time I looked outside. He deserved better.

I did try and take him for a walk once – but only once. I put him on a leash and wound the length of it around my hand – I was pushing our baby and two year old in a carriage and our five year old was pedaling her two-wheeler with training wheels. We were walking to kindergarten. I had high hopes for the adventure, had we succeeded it had the potential to kill a lot of birds with one stone; I would get some exercise, the baby would get some fresh air, the two year old might fall asleep, the five year old would learn to ride her bike and the dog would get a walk. I was excited and optimistic. Things went well for a couple of blocks. Then George spotted a cat. He bolted quickly – faster than you’d assume a dog his size could move. My hand jerked off the carriage, a training wheel popped off the bike, the baby started to cry, the two year old screamed and I let go of the leash – all in about two seconds flat. I spent the rest of the day praying George could find his way home and not get hit by a car in the process. It was our one and only adventure together.

George’s actual owner was a real character – he and George had wild adventures before George came to stay with us. I’m told the dog had to wear a fluorescent vest when they went camping lest he get mistaken for a bear and get shot. I’m told, as well, that many nights George shared his dog house and warmth with a very inebriated friend – I have a hard time imagining the smell of the pair of them in the morning. I’m not certain George felt his life improved or diminished tied to our clothesline.

Unfortunately George was born with a heart defect and didn’t live to a Newfie’s potential. He keeled over chasing a car up our dead end street on Easter Sunday and died while I held his paw and cried. Some of the stories about George are funny, but in retrospect, the same can’t be said of his life. I owe that dog an apology.

I don’t even have a picture of George to share here – he and I were pretty much undocumented during those months – we were both there though, both of us in a supporting role.