Paw Prints On My Heart — episode 7 — Yeller

Yeller was the first family dog of our next generation. The family chose him, the family loved him and the mom looked after him. It’s true what they say about Labs – they make a great family dog, but there should be a disclaimer: when they stay home.

Yeller was a darling, a perfect calendar puppy. He was gentle, playful and loyal – all the qualities that add up to an ideal family pet. He loved his kids. He loved his yard and, to my dismay, he loved the fact he could escape it. He was frequently on the loose and unfortunately could never remember his way home. He was like a kid who’d been handed the keys and a gas card every time someone accidentally left the side gate open. We tried everything to keep that dog in his yard; built him a giant fence – he dug under. We lined the fence with electric fencing – he ate the extension cord. He was a dog on a mission.

Yeller was a politician at heart and always on the campaign trail; wagging his tail and licking babies; he went after every available vote. I was supposed to be his campaign manager but I couldn’t keep up. He would have made an ideal mayor, one who put all his constituents first – Yeller didn’t play favorites, he always liked the person he was with the best. Strangers seemed baffled when Yeller got into trouble for wandering – he was a perfect gentleman if you weren’t the one trying to corral him.

We moved into a brand new neighborhood when the kids and Yeller were young – several homes on the street were still under construction. There was mud from here to tomorrow, a lot of it working its way into our brand new family room carpet. Yeller became the welcome wagon dog – he introduced us to our new neighbors when we returned the shoes he had helped himself to from their front porches (it was actually quite easy to determine where the pilfered shoe was from – Yeller only ever stole one half of the pair). Luckily Yeller’s better qualities outshone his shoe fetish – people seemed to like him.

We got fairly used to driving the streets of the neighborhood and calling for him out the car windows. He always seemed as thrilled as we were relieved when we finally found him. A couple of times we had to bail him out of jail. Once he got a ride to the pound from a new neighbor we hadn’t met yet.

Yeller was always game for adventure. The kids and I took him to the beach one afternoon – it should have been a water loving dog’s dream date. Yeller took it as a campaign opportunity; he crossed Marine Drive to drum up some votes from people waiting in line at the take-out fish n’ chips joint. The kids and I chased him, until he entered the shop. We disowned him the minute the cook appeared at the doorway and scanned the crowd for the friendly fiend’s family. That may have been the first time the children heard their mother swear – I remember muttering something about a stupid ass dog needing to find a new home. And I meant it.

My dad came to Yeller’s rescue – the dog and I had reached a crossroad, it was Papa’s or the pound – that three year old devil and I were done.

My dad was smarter than me, he put his phone number on a tag and attached it to Yeller’s collar. When Yeller pulled his disappearing act dad didn’t search the streets, he simply waited by the phone for the inevitable call and went to pick the scoundrel up.

Yeller and dad spent six happy years together. Over time Yeller slowed down, and so did dad. Dad felt the time had come to move from his house into a condo. Yeller came home. It took him all of five minutes to settle in – it was like he’d never left.

Yeller was now nine, and finally seemed happy to hang around the house. The kids were teenagers and our place was like Grand Central Station – people came and went at all hours of the day. Yeller happily manned the door. We were in the middle of our family skiing years, Yeller accompanied us up the mountain every weekend. His antics from those days are the stuff of family lore. One incident includes a minivan, a group of young snowboarders and a submarine sandwich. I will say nothing more – the evidence was gone, nobody could prove a thing.

He was the family mascot. Even people who didn’t like dogs liked Yeller.

He lived to be fifteen and never lost his sense of humor. He took a heart full of teenaged secrets with him when he died – he had been the kids confidant through their confusing high school years. He was my challenge and my friend. By the end of his life Yeller had stolen more hearts than shoes, not the least of which was mine. He has it still.

You would almost think this dog was sorry he was in trouble — he wasn’t — he was just sorry he’d been  caught