Mickey

 Mickey...More Than Man’s Best Friend...Ode To a Faithful Friend

 

By Bob West

April 19, 2001

 

One spring morning Barney, our son’s small dog, disappeared. We searched for him for several days and offered a cash reward for any information but he was never found. Dale of course was heartbroken. We were planning a trip to Spokane in a few weeks and we promised to stop at the humane society to find another pet.

    Opening the door to the dog pound we were greeted by about 30 dogs of different sizes, breeds, and temperaments. Most of them, as we passed their pens, tried to attract attention to themselves, hoping we would adopt them. In one pen there was a large, white-longhaired dog that didn’t seem too excited. She was lying on the floor with her head on her paws. When we stopped to look at her, she did lift her head, and her short-bobbed tail thumped against the floor. I noticed a name card on the door. “Mickey”, spayed Samoyed. Later I saw Dale looking at her and told him what the dog’s name was. Dale said, “Hello, Mickey, how are you?” Hearing her name she jumped up, her tail wagging, and made a pleasant low sound in her throat, as if she too were saying hello. That did the trick, he had found his new pet. We told him he must be sure – he said this was a dog he could hug. We warned him that because she was such a large dog she would not be allowed to live in the house as Barney had. He agreed. Contrary to this agreement, Mickey became a “live-in” member of the West household. She proved to be a very smart dog, and a great addition to the family despite two minor faults. She was overweight and was inclined to be a bit lazy.

A few days after school started that fall, she began following Dale to school, about four blocks away. On her return home, she would spend most of the remainder of the day dozing in our front yard. At about the same time every day, she would get up and walk to our front sidewalk, where she would sit looking toward the school. We always knew when Dale was approaching as her tail began to wag. She would then walk to the end of the block and wait for him (she was too lazy to walk any farther).

    Dale’s first-morning class in his freshman year was manual training (shop). On one of her school trips, Mickey noticed the door of the shop was open so she decided to visit the class. The teacher must have liked dogs because he told Dale she could stay if she behaved. These became daily visits. Like any other dog, she was very curious and would make a sniffing tour of the shop. One morning she sniffed something good – the teacher’s lunch. She couldn’t resist it – she devoured all of it! For some reason, this upset the teacher and he grabbed a broom and began chasing her around the room. Opening the door, and with a mighty swing on her backside, he said, “get out and don’t come back!” This event made a big change in her lifestyle. No matter how hard Dale tried to get her to follow him to school, she refused. That was the end of Mickey’s formal schooling.

    She began a new routine of following me as I walked to work each morning. She would then either sit or lay at the entrance to our grocery store. Most everyone in town knew and liked her and would stop to pat her head and say, “Good morning, Mickey!” She would answer with the same low throaty sound she had greeted us with at our first meeting. She also, like our kids, liked to visit Grandma. Every few days she would slowly walk to the house at the top of the hill to visit Frances’ mother. Grandma claimed she didn’t like animals in the house but she always let Mickey in. When Mickey was through visiting she would stand by the back door and wag her tail. One day Grandma made a mistake and gave her a homemade cookie before she left. After that, Mickey wouldn’t leave until she got her treat.

     One spring we bought a used Corvair van and converted it into a camping van. We named it our “hippy bus”. It wasn’t very fancy, but how we did enjoy it. We spent many weekends in the good weather camping out. Mickey enjoyed it more than anyone. I could drive the van several times a day and she would pay no attention to it. When we began loading it for a camping trip, though, she sat right by the door of the van. She knew we were going camping and was not going to be left behind. We camped at various spots on Gold Hill for a couple of years, then purchased our campground of 10 acres south of Sanders, Idaho, which we named “The Diggin’s”.

One Sunday evening we were packing to come home when a major thunderstorm and downpour hit the area. The last several hundred yards of the road to our campsite were very steep and narrow. After the rain stopped we started down the steep hill. About halfway down we saw a root that had been dislodged from the hill, part of it lying in the road. I stopped and looked the situation over and told my wife we could drive around it. She disagreed and refused to get back in the van. So with Mickey as my co-driver, we started down. We almost made it, but at the last moment, the van slipped off the road, rolled several times, and ended right-side up at the bottom of the hill. Neither Mickey nor I were physically injured, but our poor “hippy bus” was damaged beyond repair. Not wanting to miss out on camping we then purchased a pickup truck and a tent. We later moved a small camper trailer to our campsite.

     Mickey thought of herself as part of the family (as well she was) and refused to ride in the back of the pickup. Preparing for our first outing in the truck, I lifted her into the bed (she was too fat to jump in by herself). She jumped out before I could get into the driver’s seat. I lifted her twice more with the same result. I finally gave in and let her ride in the front between us. I thought she would be happy now, but she wasn’t. When I started the engine she reached over with a paw and raked it across my upper arm leaving white scratch marks. I told her to quit, but she did it twice more, the last time drawing blood. I stopped the truck to give her a good cuffing. I then realized she was holding her paw as if she wanted to “shake hands”. I did that and she seemed satisfied. Thereafter on our trips, I tried to remember to shake her paw when entering the truck. If I forgot she would remind me that I had failed to accept her thanks for letting her go along.

A few months after Dale graduated, he moved to California. Not only did we become the legal owners of Mickey; we also adopted his other dog, Hilda. Now we were a 2-dog family. On our return trips home from camp, we always stopped at a roadside dumpster to leave our garbage. On one occasion I was driving away from the dumpster when, for the first and only time, Mickey began the arm-scratching routine on Frances. I told my wife to just shake her paw like I knew she wanted. She tried this, but Mickey would not stop scratching. I pulled off the road at the next wide spot. I was going to make that dog ride in the back, using a leash to keep her from jumping out. When I opened the door to get out I realized Hilda wasn’t in the cab. Did we leave her alone at the camp? I turned around and headed back. Hilda was sitting in the middle of the road by the dumpster, looking quite forlorn, waiting for us. If Mickey hadn’t alerted us by her scratching, we could well have gotten home without Hilda.

Mickey had extremely sensitive ears. The daily fire siren drove her crazy. She could detect a thunderstorm minutes before any human being could and would run and hide. Fourth of July firecrackers made her life miserable. Once Dale and I made the mistake of taking her varmint hunting. The very first shot sent her streaking back to the pickup. We found her hiding beneath it and we could not coax her from there until I had the rifle hidden. I never took her hunting again, but whenever she saw a rifle, she would hide. A hunting dog she was not!

My wife and I remember the years we spent camping as some of the best years of our married life. Toward the end of this era, we realized Mickey was getting old. Instead of following us as we hiked the steep trails of our mountain retreat, she would spend the day sleeping. She became ill one day and we cut our trip short to take her to a vet. She had a severe bladder infection and was given medicine for it. The vet warned us that her “waterworks” might fail at any time.

One hot Saturday morning Frances called me at work and told me something was wrong with Mickey. She had heard a strange moaning sound and found Mickey beside the house, obviously in great pain. She called the vet but he was not in. I rushed home and could see our pet was truly suffering. I could not stand to see her like this. She needed to be put down and I knew I had to do it myself. As I was loading my 22 I had a terrible thought that she might run when she saw the gun. I hid it behind my back as I approached her, saying, “Everything is going to be OK.” When she did see the rifle she stood up but instead of running, she looked up at me and wagged her tail. I patted her on the head and as I pulled my hand away, she nudged me with her nose and licked my hand. Completing this act of mercy was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

I had a hard time falling asleep that night. I kept reminiscing about our canine friend. I finally realized that when she “kissed” me with her nose and tongue, she was thanking me in advance for putting her out of her misery, much like she thanked me with her “handshakes” for our camping trips together. Yes, she was one great friend!