Dutchess, as she had already been named, was certainly not much to look at. She had huge ears that somehow did not quite fit in with her narrow skull. Her legs were too long and her rear, too narrow. But the traditional Shepherd dark mask and saddle were most striking against the golden tan underneath. Her coat was sleek and glossy and she had the most liquid, expressive eyes that I have ever seen.
Dutchess would not come to us at first, but gradually we were able to coax her into our van. She lay huddled in the corner, her dark round eyes wide with fear as we drove her to her new home. I can only imagine what those previous months of life must have been like for her but I doubt if she had experienced anything beyond the end of a chain.
This was most apparent as we observed her in our day-to-day life. She would hastily withdraw into the nearest corner with her tail between her legs whenever we would reach out to pet her. Sudden movements sent her scurrying under the coffee table, aquiver from her nose to tail tip. She would cringingly skulk out of the room when I would enter, terrified of being flogged for some imagined misdeed. Even the universally known canine signal to act bonkers,(when a human picks up a leash and walks to the front door), roused absolutely no reaction from her. Sadly, Dutchess had never learned what it meant to be someone's friend.
But ever so gradually, this mistrust began to wane. Almost imperceptibly Dutchess lost her fear of us and with it came the confidence that she was now officially a member of our household with all the rights and entitlements, thereof. For instance, I knew we had made real headway when she was so bold as to merrily snatch all of Allen's shirts off the clothesline as they dried in the backyard. I was so pleased to see her cavort so assuredly up to me, the dirty tattered remnant of a garment hanging from her jaws. With her ears and tail erect, her eyes shining up at me, Dutchess hardly resembled the cowering dog of a year before. I was so thrilled that I couldn't wait to tell Allen. But somehow he didn't see it that way.
Dutchess was six when our first Siberian bombarded his way into her life. This premier wild child unmercifully nipped her ears and paws and delighted in using her middle-aged body as his personal trampoline. The black and white pup would drag her around the yard backwards by her tail. He would tackle her broadside at full speed, knocking her off her feet. Far from resenting such abuses, Dutchess endured the torment wearing the blissful grin of one who had just realized her true calling. Dutchess was a born nanny.
After that first Siberian pup, Dutchess helped us raise another and then another. It mattered not to her if the Siberian scamp that was torturing was a dog or a bitch. Each was treated with the same kind of patient tolerance; the same benevolent wisdom that comes from a serenity derived from a contentment with one's place in life. Later, when our first Siberian puppy bitch matured and had pups of her own, Dutchess would follow the young mother everywhere to assist in the caretaking of her brood.
Besides helping the young Siberian matron, Dutchess offered additional instruction all her own. She tried her best to instruct her young charges in the ways of good guard dogs. But such lessons were of course futile. She would race along the fenceline barking a challenge to any and all who might trespass in her yard. The Siberians would romp alongside of her. Not because they cared a whit about protecting their domain, but because they would never pass up any opportunity for a run.
We often joked that Dutchess was the guard dog for our Siberians. But we were somberly grateful that ours was one of the few houses in the neighborhood that had not been burglarized. One night I witnessed why.
I'm sure every dog owner is able to discern the wide range of meaning in each of their dog's barks, whether it is joy, frustration or anger. Late at night when I was standing out in the darkness with our canine family, Dutchess led the Siberians to the fenceline and roared in such a way that I had no doubt that there was danger lurking in the shadows nearby. I ran inside to call the police. Thanks to Dutchess' warning, an intruder was apprehended in my neighbor's house a short while later.
It wasn't long before Dutchess was a nanny to another generation. Siberians, young and older persecuted her relentlessly. Throughout her tenure, Dutchess wholeheartedly joined in the fun. But now advancing old age was not permitting that option. Instead of leading the gay dashes around the exercise yard she would only run a few strides and then stop, panting heavily. Gradually even these efforts dwindled to her not trying to run at all. Then Dutchess did not even want to walk.
During these later years, Dutchess never lost her love of the Siberians. I'm sure that it must have been painful for her when the youngsters would knock her down, but she never seemed to mind. Without a grumble of protest, she would slowly raise her arthritic front and rear out of the dust. Hurriedly, she would hobble behind her assailant to catch up with the rest of the pack so that somebody else could do it all over again.
I would often have her accompany me to the park. There she would happily lie and watch while I would train a Siberian youngster in the ways of conformation or obedience. And if my youngster would enthusiastically bolt away from me I knew that he wouldn't run away. He would scamper over to his nanny, who would keep him entertained until I could get there.
Dutchess is not with me or her Siberians anymore. Her last day on earth was the day that she was no longer able to stand. Refusing to acknowledge what was obvious to everybody else I thought of ways to possibly prolong her existence. I discovered that if I used a towel as a sling to support her under her belly, she could shuffle her legs forward in some semblance of a walk. But I could not ignore those dark sorrowful eyes despondently communicating to me the loss of her dignity.
That day was hard but so were so many days after that. Thoughts of my nanny dog would haunt me from morning until night. Each daybreak I would fill up 6 bowls, and then have to empty one. When I would come home from work for lunch, sometimes I thought I would hear her clear ringing welcome bark or the click of her toenails on the deck. Many times I thought that I saw her out of the corner of my eye, lying under her favorite azalea bush; (a spot that the Siberians still avoid) only to disappear when I would look that way. Some vets I talked to reassured me that I was not going crazy. Such mirages are quite common they would say. Strangely enough, it was just such a fantasy that has brought the most peace.
I dreamed that I was in the obedience ring at a show. I had just lined my dog up with the others for the long sit and down. The judge said "leave your dog." I looked down and saw that my dog was Dutchess. Only she was young again, her clear eyes as bright and full of life as the day she swiped Allen's shirts off the clothesline. I understood in my dream that I must leave my Dutchess. But that was all right. I will be back.
One day it will be my turn to go. And when it is I will return to that ring. Forever serene, Dutchess will be there waiting for me. I will walk to her side; to heel position and smile down at her as the final authority utters these last words, "exercise finished."