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My Old Buddy

By Darrin Widick

My lovely wife Susan won't let me have a dog. I tried to work up to it by getting a fish. That worked great, so I said the kids needed hamsters. That set me back a few years, but I moved on. We got a cat. Easy to care for, I said. Great for the kids, I said. The cat set me back another couple years. I'd call him a devil cat, but that's not fair to the devil.

Any way, it looks like a dog may not be in our near-term plans. But there was a time, back before our kids and our careers and our worries, that Susan did let me have a dog. Actually, the dog came as part of the package. Come to think of it, I'm not sure if Susan liked the dog because of me or me because of the dog. Nonetheless, we once had a dog. Here's a long tribute to him by a younger Darrin Widick...

Let's Go For A Walk

We buried our old buddy recently. Oh sure, he was just a dog. (And not a very smart one at that. Shortly before Yogi died, a news story came out naming the smartest breeds of dogs. One of the tests to judge smartness involved placing an ordinary dish towel over your dog's head and timing how long it took your dog to shake it free, with the more intelligent canine's taking about 7.2 seconds. Well Susan and I, armed with a stopwatch, placed a towel over our beloved friend's head. Several minutes later he raised his head to attempt to see what had interrupted his nap. But, enjoying the peacefulness the towel offered, he soon returned his head to the ground, obviously unaware of the still-ticking stopwatch.)

But I digress. Though he couldn't-- or wouldn't-- shake a dish towel, Yogi was our buddy and we found it hard to shake his memory.

For 14 of my first 27 years, Yogi was there for me. He joined me for the summer of my eighth grade year, and stayed with me through junior high school, my entrance into high school, my first car, my first date, my high school graduation, my leaving for college, more cars, more dates, another graduation, my first real job, my second real job, my engagement, my third real job, my entrance to graduate school, my wedding, our first home, another two graduations, and a few thousand other miscellaneous things that encompassed over half my life to this point.

And through it all, his devotion was rock solid. Through the ups and downs, through my not coming home from college for months at a time, his loyalty never strayed. (Maybe it's because I was so good at keeping in touch. While at the University, whenever I called home I would inquire-- after first highlighting the need for more money-- about Yogi. And Mom, though clearly perturbed that my main concern in life after beer money was the dog's well being, would play along, telling Yogi that "Darrin" was on the phone. His ears would perk up, he'd let out a whimper, and he'd proceed up to my vacant room for the thousandth time, checking to see if maybe - just maybe-- I was upstairs oversleeping again.)

But I digress again – which is okay, I guess. Yogi digressed a lot too. Anyway, please indulge me while I hearken back to that pup I picked out half a life ago. I hope someone reads this tribute to him as he dashes about in his new home, unencumbered by leashes or fences or masters telling him that he can't pee in this place or that.

I should have known...

For some reason, I wanted a Brittany Spaniel. Perhaps it was because I had a new shotgun and was prepared to become one of the world's next great hunters, though my poor eyesight in one eye coupled with a lack of shooting ability would soon change that notion. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that, as a youngster, my father had a Springer Spaniel who was smart, friendly, gentle. Well, I got two-thirds of what I bargained for, anyway. (Yes, he was friendly and gentle. Here was a dog that could make coffee nervous, but around my niece and three nephews-- any one of whom could make coffee nervous themselves-- he was as tolerant as could be. Though Yogi was there before any of them came along, he didn't mind their intruding on his domain. And intrude they did. They pulled his ears, poked his eyes, disturbed his naps, ruffled his feathers... and he just quietly put up with it. However, Susan and I did promise to hold off having kids for him. We didn't think he would quite feel up to a repeat of the task in his later years.)

Anyway, I picked Yogi out of the litter because, as soon as we got to the place to buy a dog and the folks opened the gate, there went Yogi while all the litter mates stayed behind. Thinking this was some sort of a sign of greatness in a dog (okay, I'm not too bright either sometimes) I chose the wayward one. I guess I should have known better, but it seemed so cute at the time.

Learning to hunt...

Believe it or not, Yogi had pretty good natural instincts. We took him to a nearby farm that raised quail, and Yogi proved to be quite a pointer. We chased and flushed birds for several hours, teaching Yogi patience and perseverance. Two little problems, however, prevented us from becoming the hunting duo I had envisioned. First, as mentioned before, my shot with my new 20-gauge left much to be desired. Heck, I couldn't hit the Goodyear Blimp with a Bazooka from five paces, let alone a diving, darting, drab quail in the thick of the woods.

And second, when a member of our hunting party did fell one of the birds, Yogi assumed the shot-down prize was his for keeps. He would fetch the bird and high-tail it for the nearest clearing to enjoy the trophy.

Needless to say, the daily limit of birds was never anywhere near being in danger when Yogi and I were on the warpath. But we loved it nonetheless. To be out with the dog I picked, the one I loved, the one who would sleep with me when we could get by with it... that's what mattered. And we had some eventful happenings when we were out. Like the time we were hunting down near the Missouri River one December. Yogi, circling up ahead of us like a good bird dog should, suddenly stopped. And to make a long story short, he "passed" a light bulb socket and broken glass... something he had somehow eaten from the tree in our backyard that was decorated for Christmas. Undaunted, Yogi forged ahead, looking for more birds to find, him knowing that if he found them I couldn't shoot them, and me knowing that if I shot them he wouldn't bring them back.

Come to think of it, there was one thing Yogi may have been better cut out for. We maybe should have taken him hunting for truffles. Man, he had our backyard dug half way to China. Give him a bone and before long, he'd bury it. We had holes in which you could have started a foundation for a home. He always had a dozen or two holes ready for whatever bones we would give him. Then, after burying the loot, he'd be back at the door, begging for more... and barely able to breath from the mud caked to his nose and mouth from pushing the dirt pile back into his hole to cover the bones he could never again find.

Growing up... him and me...

It's weird to think of all the things we went through together. To think that I was only 13 years old when he came into my life is hard to imagine. When he died at 13 and me at 27, I realized what a really big part of my life he was.

...like his being there when you, like all other normal teenagers, think that no one else in the world likes you. But his love and companionship never wavered. Never. All I had to do was say, "Want to go for a walk?" and he would go ballistic. Suddenly, all my troubles were gone, as the two of us for the umpteenth time explored the big, open field near our home.

...like his picking up the ice cube when I dropped it from the ice maker, saving me from all the time and effort of having to pick it up while he acted as if he had just been given a steak.

...like his scratching on the back door to get in every time I came sneaking home late at night. We'd stay up even later, me unwinding from a rough night, he enjoying another ear scratching and belly rubbin'.

...like greeting me when I came home from college, never mad that I came home infrequently. Now, I look back and wonder how I ever left him for so long. Over the last few years of his life, I missed him if I was gone for as much as a weekend.

...like moving in with me to my first house, and his finally getting to enjoy his life-long dream of becoming a house dog (thanks in large part to Susan). For a woman who didn't think dogs belonged in the house, she sure changed her mind. In fact, she soon became a woman who didn't think husbands belonged in the house because she felt it was offending to Yogi to give me the same kind treatment she gave him.

Thanks for the memories...

Over the course of his last year or so, things started to go down hill for Yogi. Susan and I didn't really notice it-- didn't want to I guess-- but other people did. He stopped playing with his toys, and going out into the back yard didn't have the same excitement that it once did. Worse yet, about six months before he died he was diagnosed with cancer in several spots, and we knew the end could come at any time.

But deep down, we didn't really think Yogi changed that much. He still loved to "go for a walk," and he would still take off for the hills if he got the chance. He couldn't see hardly anything, but just the fact that he was out with us seemed to ensure him that he was having a good time.

As Susan and I look back now, we would love to share one more of those walks with Yogi. To see him sniffing and stopping and starting. And then stopping to sniff again. To see him look back at us to ensure that we were still there and to encourage us to speed up so as to quit holding him back. To hear him growl at the other dogs who tried to make friends during our walks. To hear him panting with excitement as if we had walked a marathon, even before we got out the front door. To coax him around the mud puddles, or into them if Susan wasn't looking.

Oh, if only we could see and hear and coax him one more time. But we can't. What we can do is remember him with great fondness, and reserve a special place in our hearts for him.

And as he is up there, running and barking with Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, without fences or leashes or constraints of any kind, we know he too has a special place in his heart for us. And we know he will be waiting for us when we get there, waiting with a scratch on the door and a whimper of anticipation for us to finally come get him.

And then, we'll go for a walk.