By Cal Orey
Woman’s
Best Friend
At
20, I wanted to join the Army, train dogs and travel. I never made it into the service. I may have
failed the male-biased aptitude test, but I still love dogs—all breeds, sizes,
and ages. So rather than globetrotting in a uniform, I found myself hiking
around the country with a beautiful 6-month-old black Labrador retriever named
Stone Fox. Stone Fox and I walked and hitchhiked to the Pacific Northwest,
Midwest, Deep South, East Coast and even Mexico and Canada. We were on the road
like John Steinbeck and his Standard Poodle Charley for more than one year.
Taking care of my carefree and upbeat dog and letting him take care of me
helped me become a happier and more confident woman in mind and body. He was
the dog of my life…
A DOG LOVERS’ CRATE
We
were lucky to find the widow’s ad for domestic help because I read “No Pets
Allowed” in every other “Rooms for Rent” advertisement in San Jose, California.
When I applied for the live-in housekeeper position, I explained to Mrs.
Thurman that Stone Fox was my best friend and we had just finished traveling
cross-country in search of America. The widow, who was soft spoken, said she
needed a maid who charged cut-rate prices, and I needed a little R&R for a while.
It was self-preservation in a nutshell.
I
am not a hypocrite, so I must confess that if I didn’t have my young black Lab
with me, I wouldn’t have lasted a minute. Living with the widow would have been
too confining at best. But I was in luck because the widow was a dog lover. Her
place was a blue and white trailer house—not great for a big dog—landscaped
with red bark chips scattered around cacti shrubbery. But there was a creek one
block away, which I suggested could be a good dog run. (Later it became me and
my dog’s refuge.) So, the widow decided to ignore the “No Large Pets on Trailer
Court Premises” rule. Rules are made to be broken, we agreed. Our “we love
dogs” motto prevailed.
The
widow had the will to subsist inside her coop because of Tweetie, her
11-year-old, devoted Yorkshire terrier, the kind of small pooch that yaps,
begs, and wears frilly bows. (I favor larger breeds.) But the spoiled dog did
liven up the widow’s low moods, I must admit. I often watched her talk to
Tweetie about trivial matters like, “The air is bad in the kitchen” (after she
finished frying her bacon, tomato and onion sandwich). And important issues were covered, such as
“Should we sell the Oldsmobile?” and “I don’t want to have the operation for my
osteoporosis.” Despite the dog lover’s woes, I felt secure inside the widow’s
coop, complete with its colonial style furniture, lacy curtains, and color
console television. I didn’t even feel deprived when I was told my
fifty-dollar-a-month allowance would be cut in half because of her “too many bills.”
One
evening, while returning from a good romp around Quailhollow Creek with Stone
Fox, the trailer manager, Ms. Weed, confronted me as I was entering Space 88,
the widow’s lot. She spoke of the trailer park regulations, emphasizing that
dogs over 15 pounds were not permitted. I told her Stone Fox was my seeing-eye
dog straight from San Rafael Dog Training Center for the Blind.
“It’s
just a matter of time,” I lied, “before my vision will fail me—for life.” Ms.
Weed glared at me with that cosmetic smile of hers. I bet she had plastic
surgery. You could sort of tell because her face was too perfect. But it didn’t
really match the sloppy way she dressed (purple polyester dress hiding an older
woman’s body. She looked like an overweight senior spayed cat, I thought. As
she adjusted her large straw hat, she studied me: a hippie girl dressed in
baggy blue jean overalls and a peasant blouse, and barefoot. I brushed my
shaggy light brown hair out of my eyes when she suggested I should keep my 70-pound
Labrador on a very tight leash whenever I walked him on the Quailhollow
premises.
That
night I confided in the widow almost everything. I told her how Stone Fox and I
traveled. A lot. How we hitched and hiked through high and flat deserts of the
southwest, fighting off cowboys in the prairies. (They tried to run us off the
road. Stone Fox barked and growled. I felt protected.) How we were stranded on
on-ramps during a blizzard in Cheyenne, a sandstorm in Winnemucca, and a
monsoon in Tucson. And I told her that through our good and bad escapades we
learned more and more about each other, and our bond of friendships
strengthened.
LETTING OUR GUARD DOWN—DOG DAY AFTERNOONS
Stone
Fox had helped me through life’s rough spots. And I guess Tweetie’s loyalty and
unconditional love aided the widow. We both needed that.
The
widow then told me that when her husband was dying, he chose to return to
Europe and she stayed in California. She said she loved him, but it was too
hard on her to move because he was going blind. (I don’t think she really loved
her mate.) When he left for their homeland, she bought Tweetie. “Tweetie is
more affectionate and less demanding than Arnold ever was,” the widow whispered
to me as I glanced at a photo of her on the wall when she was young, blonde,
and pretty. “I love being on my own. Men are like babies. They always want
something!”
We
laughed together. Her guard came down the more we talked. Then I told the widow
about Ms. Weed. “I told her that Stone
Fox was my seeing-eye dog. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”
That
following morning, she explained the “truth” to Ms. Weed. “Callie has problems
seeing at dark because of her bad retinas,” she said. She said Stone Fox
functioned as my guide dog, even though I walked him on a regular dog leash,
not a harness like seeing-dogs wear. Thanks to the widow’s awareness of eye
diseases, Stone Fox and I were allowed to remain on the premises at Quailhollow
Trailer Park.
I
continued to serve Mildred coffee in bed every morning (she no longer wanted me
to call her Mrs. Thurman). Twenty minutes afterwards I would bring her more
coffee (prepared with non-dairy cream because of her calcium allergy) and bona
fide Quaker’s oatmeal since the she was keen to the distinct flavor difference
between instant oatmeal and cooked oats.
Sometimes,
while cuddle up with our dogs, we’d pass the mornings together by idling in her
rustic bedroom, a cluttered quarter brimming with memorabilia, twin beds
covered in blue-daisy comforters and a closet-and-a-half stuffed with clothes
neatly stored in cellophane wrappers. She told me about her fusspot neighbor
who called her one late night and that is when Mildred fell and broke her hip—the
beginning of the demise of her health.
As
the weeks passed, Mildred was determined to hobble around on those wooden
crutches of hers. The bicycle she once pedaled around the mobile park was shut
away in the shed. Her 1952 Oldsmobile was sold (she needed the extra cash for
the coast of an arm and leg brace). And I was Tweetie’s sole caretaker, from
walks to feeding.
But
on Wednesdays, Joey the neighbor’s kid came by Mildred’s, which seemed to cheer
her up. Joey wore horn-rimmed glasses and had messed up hair, plus ambition to
grow a ponytail like the hippies. He bummed a root beer or two from Mildred.
Maybe
he was a user, or maybe he really cared about Tweetie. He did brush the dog.
This made Mildred because the dog salon was too expensive now. I felt it was
therapeutic since she appeared less worried during his visits and Tweetie’s
pampering time.
THE BOND IN DANGER
One
morning a “First Warning” notice welcomed me when I pulled out an assortment of
bills. It was one those 30-day termination slips, but this one had a
personalized flair to it. It advised unauthorized tenants to remove large,
barking dogs or vacate the premises. I thought Stone Fox was an exception. I
was confused. I tore up the notice and postponed coping with the warning.
I
continued to curl the widow’s thinning white hair bi-weekly, while Tweetie sat
in her lap, bathe her every other day, and serve her favorite fried chicken
legs (the Swanson’s TV frozen kind) during the six o’ clock news. And week
nights after I walked Tweetie I watched Johnny Carson, while she recycled
stories about her life in the good old fifties.
Two
weeks passed without me telling Mildred about the notice. I didn’t want to
upset her. So finally, Ms. Weed paid us a visit; not a social call she said.
“You have seven days left to vacate or get rid of that large mutt,” she
screeched at us. Mildred, who was still mentally keen, reminded Ms. Weed that I
was near blind. “For four years,” she lied with all her heart. “Since the day
they met, Stone Fox and Callie have been together.” She told Ms. Weed it would
be inhumane to separate me and my dog, or me and Mildred
Ms.
Weed claimed she had called the headquarters of San Rafael Dog Training Center.
According to the placement coordinator, Stone Fox and I were non-existent. The
truth was confirmed—Stone Fox was just another dog. “Seven days,” she warned,
“or I will proceed with further legal action.”
A HUMAN-DOG LOVE CONNECTION
The
widow knew I would never give up Stone Fox, no more than she’d surrender Tweetie.
We’d rather die than give up our best friends. I had to leave. It was
self-preservation. The widow understood my decision without discussion. I got a
new job as a live-in babysitter for a rich doctor and his two kids that were
supposed to start in a week.
The
widow started ringing a little bell whenever she needed something. I overheard
her telling Twee tie that she was sick of “flighty domestic help” and was
scared to go away to a home “like senile Annie.”
But
I left one morning. We said our goodbyes and the dogs…well, they were never
were close. They kept their distance and tolerated one another. Sort of like
the widow and me.
One
summer day when I was driving the kids around, I drove by Quailhollow
Creek—they wanted to see where I used to work. I couldn’t resist stopping for
Stone Fox’s sake; he loved to retrieve driftwood I’d toss into the creek water.
But it was dry because of the drought. I saw Joey riding his bicycle by the
creek, and he shouted, “Hear about Mildred?” He stopped moving, turned his head
around and shouted, “Died last month. She didn’t make it through that
operation.”
I
peered down Quailhollow Drive and saw the widow’s sapphire-and-white house
trailer. It looked the same but a FOR SALE sign was there.
“Who’s
got Tweetie?” I asked, as the doctor’s kids were fighting around me. I watched
Stone Fox dig a hole in the dry creek bed. Joey pedaled ahead. “Tweetie died
one week before Ruth” echoed down Quailhollow Drive. I wanted to cry out but I
couldn’t.
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