Duchess

I was probably about seven years old when a visitor asked my mother something that puzzled me. She watched our dog Duchess, and said to my mother, warily, "Don't you worry about her?" At first I thought the "her" was directed at me, and wondered what the woman didn't like about me, but then she said something about "allowing her in the house," and it became clear that she meant the dog.

"Oh, no, not at all," said my mother.

"Even around the children?" the woman asked.

"She's great with kids," Mom said.

After the woman left, I asked my mom, "Why would she be worried about Dutchy?" I'd been trying to make sense of it myself, but I couldn't figure it out. It made even less sense to me because we had two big dogs, but the woman had only seemed worried about one.

"Some people are that way. They worry about the coyote in her," Mom explained.

Duchess was a bit older than I was. I don't remember her as a puppy, but I knew the story. A friend of my parents had a German shepherd female who'd been impregnated by a coyote while out in their yard. When the litter was born, the owners worried that no one would want the little "halfbreeds," and they planned to drown them. Back then, that was considered the humane and responsible thing to do with unwanted puppies and kittens; put them in a bag or pillowcase, weight it down, and toss it into the river. My parents couldn't bear to see them all drown, and had requested a puppy for their family. They got "the pick of the litter" - the smartest, cutest, liveliest puppy - and named her Duchess. She went home to the horses and children on our acre plus.

We usually described her as a German shepherd; not because we were embarrassed, or afraid of an adverse reaction, but for the same reason we didn't usually use the words "step" or "half" in describing relationships in our family. Default to the simplest explanation. If people asked, though - and often, someone would say, "And what else?" or, "She doesn't look like a shepherd" - we'd tell them about the coyote half. I never expected anyone to worry, or even be too terribly surprised. It seemed very normal to me.

We later added another dog, my dad's black lab named Ebony. He was younger than Dutchy, and I remember him a puppy, an energetic ball of pitch black fur. He was my dad's hunting dog, a retriever; Dad said he was great at it. He was sweet and lovable, but not very bright. He also spent less time in the house than Duchess did, because he had a tendency to get overexcited and trash things. Even at 80 lbs., he also fancied himself a lap dog, and he'd sit in our laps even when he was clearly larger than we were.

Duchess was clearly the Alpha. Ebony adored her. She was our companion and watchdog.

We have few photos of her. My parents took very few photos - back in the days of film, it often took them years to fill up a roll of 12 exposures -  and neither of them was particularly gifted with a camera.

This photo was taken on Easter, the year I was 3. I remember that holiday. It was the first time that I understood that there was something special about the day. I loved my fancy new dress, even though it was kind of scratchy. I loved my Easter basket and cute candy.

We were getting ready to leave the house for church. Moments before this was taken, I'd been hugging Dutchy. My sister Lynne, the brunette beauty in pink, had scolded me for "getting dog hair all over your pretty dress," and encouraged me to pat with my hand. I wanted to please Lynne - I adored her. I could not figure out what she was thinking, though. I always hugged the dog. What was wrong with dog hair, anyway? And why was it OK to have it on my everyday clothes, but not on my new dress? Maybe my new dress wasn't as much fun to wear as I thought it would be. How much could you really enjoy a dress if you couldn't hug the dog while wearing it?

Look at the tolerant look on Duchess's face. She let me hug her and lay my head on her side. She listened to everything we said, accepting all the mushiness: "Who's a good girl? There's our good Dutchy-dog!"

She understood every word we uttered, I swear. If she'd had opposable thumbs, we could have said something like, "Could you drive down to the store and bring back some eggs and bread, please?" and she would have done it. For most dogs (and small children), you have to issue short, crisp commands - "Sit. Stay." We spoke to Duchess conversationally; we'd say something like, "You sit down here and wait for me, OK? I'll be right back." She'd sit down, wait, and trot off by your side as soon as you reappeared.

My dad trained the dogs to respond to certain whistle commands. The one that meant "Come here" was 4 short, one long, and then an undulating, "ooooo-weeee-oooooo-weeee-oooooo" sound. Sometimes Dutchy would take off from our yard to do something I think of as "going walkabout." There was a lot of open land around us, and she just wanted to go out and explore. She could sail over our backyard fence like it wasn't even there, much to Ebony's dismay. Sometimes, she'd just disappear. When we wanted her home, someone would go out on the back porch and whistle. She'd come trotting home a few minutes later. If she'd gone really far, we might have to wait a few minutes and whistle again, but I don't think it ever took more than 3 whistles.

Her obedience had only one loophole. If she was staring at a cat, you had to issue the command, "Dutchy, you leave that kitty cat alone!" before she started to run. She hated cats with a fervor my mother termed "a purple passion," and she'd perk up and go on alert if she saw one. Any of us could give her the command to "leave that kitty cat alone" and she would, without fail, provided she wasn't running yet. Once she took off, she wouldn't back off for God himself.

To my knowledge, she only caught one once, and held its face down in a puddle, with it clawing her leg to shreds, until it drowned. My dad tried to drag her away, to no avail. As my parents cleaned and wrapped her leg afterward, they scolded her. She looked at them as if to say, "I understand that you're upset, but it was the devil."

When our family adopted first one cat, and then more, she tolerated them only because they were ours. She never chased or harassed them, never so much as barked or growled, but she glared at them. "You be nice to that kitty cat," we'd say, and you could tell that she was thinking, "I am."

I only recall her chasing one other animal, and that ended badly. We were camping with my extended family, aunts, uncles and cousins, and Duchess decided to chase a porcupine. I had to be only 3 or 4, because I remember that the solid part of the cabin's screen door came up to my chest. I stood on my toes listening to an unfamiliar wailing and howling, and watched as my dad and cousins half dragged, half carried a howling Duchess to the ranger station. Her face bristled with quills. After the ranger and my dad pulled all the quills with pliers, and slathered disinfectant on her, she came back to the cabin. She was subdued and raw. I fussed over her, horrified by all the puncture wounds under the ointment. I don't think she ever forgot that lesson. (Who knows, though - she chased another porcupine years later.)

She barked only to alert us to perceived danger. (Thank heaven she didn't consider knocks on the door to be threats. I can't stand it when dogs bark at the door.) I heard her growl only once.

We had a wishing well in our front yard. We'd occasionally toss pennies, and sometimes, larger coins, in,  making wishes. We didn't take the coins out, because that would negate the wish, but I don't think there was ever more than $2 or $3 in the well.

Still, some neighborhood boys once decided that they'd help themselves to the coins. I was probably 9 or 10, and they struck me as about 13. There were four or five of them, ignoring me as I shouted at them to get out of our yard and leave our stuff alone. I was just inside the wire backyard fence, about 15 feet away. They ignored me as an impotent, whiny kid.

Duchess sat quietly by my side, simply observing. Finally, hoping to scare them, I issued a command that, to my knowledge, she had never heard: "Sic 'em, Dutchy."

She went over the fence so fast that she seemed to have levitated. In less than a second, she'd grabbed the most vocal and obnoxious of the boys by the seat of his pants, and shook him back and forth, growling a deep, menacing growl. The other boys scattered as this boy shouted, "Call off your dog! Call off your dog!" Duchess shook him hard, and I stared, open mouthed, until his pants started to rip. I called, "Dutchy! Come here," and she instantly let go, stopped growling, and trotted back. She jumped over the fence and resumed sitting placidly next to me.

As I watched the boy pedal away on his bike, I imagined (with some glee) him trying to explain the ripped pants to his parents, and I rubbed Duchess's ears. "Good girl! You are such a good girl!"

I later told my mother, and she chuckled. "I didn't even know that Dutchy knew what 'sic 'em' means!" I said.

"She probably doesn't. But, she knew they were bad news. She was just waiting for you to ask her to do something."

I was in junior high when Duchess started showing signs of aging. First, her fur started showing gray. Then, she got arthritis, which was painful to watch. We started taking her food to her, instead of calling her to it. Then, she started losing weight. By the time this was taken, when I was about 12 and she was about 14, she wasn't looking, or feeling, like herself.

She finally developed some sort of cancer. I can't remember if we had her put to sleep, or if she passed away on her own. I know that, by the time she was gone, I was happy for her to be out of pain.

I often imagine that she was one of the first loved ones to greet my parents, after they passed away. I'm pretty sure that she loves heaven.

I think she may have learned to like cats.