My ex-wife's people test-marketed the vendetta. Giordano legend has it that a low-life, distant cousin insulted the family by suggesting that Grand Papa's pooch should stay outside during Christmas dinner. When the offending guest took leave, he was shortly followed by Uncle Liebo (The Carver) and Uncle Angelo (The Altar Boy). Palermo hasn't been the same since.
As you might appreciate, I try to stay on good terms with my ex-wife's clan. Their Christmas and birthday cards are quite conservative, but there is almost always a P.S. from the men. "How are the labs? Give `em a hug for me! If you die soon, can I have Cobaka?"
Men have a special love for dogs because we are so much alike in several critical areas of behavior.
A few weeks ago, George Alexander and I were discussing developments
and possible reports for this issue, as well as the fact that this would also
be our annual "dog issue." I asked George if he would write a piece on dogs
along with the report on River Dunes. He said he would, then wondered aloud,
"Why do we so often write about old dogs?" We both agreed that this is so because
it is the old dogs that break our hearts.
My sister Carol, her husband Bill, and their two, then small, children chose her from an animal shelter assortment.
What kind of dog is she?
She's a cockapoo! Isn't she sweet?
Bill thought her feet were large for a cockapoo but his worry was overwhelmed by the children's joy. The tawny, long-haired, big-pawed puppy joined the family and was named "Cookie" before their car cleared the parking lot.
She, of course, was not a cockapoo. She was a serious bird dog. We never figured out her ancestral mix with any certainty, but generally accepted the notion that her DNA contained elements of otter hound, sheep dog, Labrador, Airedale, and (perhaps) golden retriever. Her long hair was tawny blond and she smiled a lot. She looked like a dog that would be cast in a Disney movie--assuming they wanted a 120 pound cockapoo.
She smiled as a surrogate mother with her litter of helpless kittens, she smiled when she trampled Jocko, the macho Scottie, in the deep snow, but most of all she smiled while hunting birds--grouse, woodcock and pheasants in Wisconsin and Michigan. She hunted for most of her 16 years, and for the last seven, mostly with me and Cobaka.
Carol and Bill, children grown, had moved to the Detroit area and the Cookie Monster (a.k.a. Miss Cookie) would not tolerate urban life. She chose Oscoda county and showed her gratitude with occasional "grocery shopping" forays to the nearby lake cabins.
One Saturday afternoon Cookie sauntered proudly up the long driveway with a still warm loaf of French bread and a wide smile. Two weeks later, she fairly swaggered home with a (nearly) whole smoked ham. "Ata girl, Cookie! Let's go get some birds!"
Even when greatly slowed by age she flushed with high style, half bounding to attention, head tilted, watching the flight, hopeful for a fall. On the retrieving end of the job, she was content to let Cobaka take care of the heavy work. Cookie would sit and bark advice to the lab and this always reminded me of an executive consultant making recommendations to line management.
Her last bird was a big rooster pheasant that passed in open view within 20 feet of her, a full-tilt scramble with Cobaka in hot pursuit. Cookie couldn't see the bird. Cataracts. But she smelled him and yelped joy at the flush and arrogant cackle. She heard the thump of the shotgun and the command to Cobaka. Fetch.
We gave her the rooster. She laid in the yellow grass snuffling feathers, washed and smiling in October sunshine.
And then it was time. She was 16. The doctor said he was very sorry, but there were no miracles at hand.
Talk to her, Bob.
I hugged her and rubbed her neck.
It's me Cook. I'm right here. You're a good girl.
Keep talking to her.
You're a great old puppy, Cookie--
OK. It's over.
Fly away, Cookie. Fly away.
I cried for five days. RWOL
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