The Talking Dog of Fredenberg Township

Jimi Hendrix and Daisy, Winter 2013.

Rescue dogs. I have a natural disinclination to taking on other people’s problems when it comes to pets. My wife says I’m a canine snob, that the only dog I’ll ever respect, love, and care for is a purebred Labrador. Though I’ll admit to a bias towards AKC Labs, I think history has proven my wife wrong. Take for example, my connection to Daisy, a dog that wandered into the hearts of the Munger clan over a decade ago. I loved Daisy despite her mysteriously clouded bloodlines. I say loved because this week my wife and I, our four of sons, had to make that difficult decision that eventually confronts all pet owners: Should we go the heroic route or let our beloved companion drift away in peace? So Daisy is no more, at least in this realm. Whether dogs have their own version of heaven, complete with endless fire hydrants, meaty bones, cool streams to wade, and abundant red squirrels and bunnies to chase, I can’t say. But I hope that’s the case. Daisy was the sort of dog, despite her pedigree, who deserves such respite.

She came to us as an eight month-old pup, already spayed, house-broken, and able to sit on command.Matt, my eldest son, was working in an adult group home, taking care of young folks who needed assistance with the activities of daily living. One of the residents received Daisy as a gift but, due to a prohibition against having pets in the group home, Daisy needed a place to live. Matt was attending UWS at the time, spending week nights and some weekends sleeping at work but occasionally making it back home for a night or two of video gaming and bonding with his three younger brothers. He showed up one evening, Daisy in tow, and suggested we could take care of her “on approval”. We fell in love with her smile, her thunderous tail wag, and the fact that she loved to “talk” to you when she wanted to be fed or let outside to do her business. She looked every inch a black Labrador. She took to swimming in the Cloquet River in all seasons, including winter, without fear; a sure sign she had a Lab’s thick-headed genes embedded in her DNA. But soon, Daisy began to display other quirks that led me to believe she was not a purebred, not an AKC genetically pure specimen of Lab-dom. For example, when snow fell, she preferred sleeping in a drift to being inside the house or the garage. She had no affinity for grouse or ducks but she had a huge appetite for chasing rabbits and squirrels. Daisy often teamed up with my wife’s Dachshund, Jimi, whose high-pitched wail I originally thought meant he was caught in a bear trap or had been mortally wounded, to hunt bunnies. Turns out, Jimi’s cry was an alert that he was on the trail of a furry critter. It was that cry that would move Daisy to action. Out of a dead sleep, she’d tear off the covered front porch of our farmhouse to answer Jimi’s call.

Daisy loved belly scratches and horseplay but she didn’t retrieve a lick and had no interest in feathered prey of any kind. She did, however, torment our youngest son, Jack, by once eating his pet bunny, Doc. Doc was grazing in our backyard confined by a plastic fence. Matt improvidently let Daisy out of her kennel when he came home from work. Jack and I arrived home to find bunny pieces, including Doc’s severed head, strewn around the lawn. It was not Daisy’s finest hour. But, given the nature of dogs, it wasn’t her fault.

I spent many an hour walking, skiing, or snowshoeing trails on our land with Daisy, Jimi, Kramer (another rescue dog), and, more recently, our Lab pup, Kena. Jimi would drop his little nose to the ground, sniff for the faintest trace of bunny or squirrel, and once he latched onto a critter’s scent, scurry off in hot pursuit, his tell-tale call alerting the world to his quest. Daisy would join the hunt by taking a different tact, one that would cut off the prey’s escape. Smart dog, that one. Many a day I found remnants of bunnies deposited on our front porch, Daisy’s version of notifying the master of the house that she was “on the job.”

The UPS guy regularly stops by our place to deliver books. Daisy and Kramer were always there to greet the driver. Daisy’s fur on her neck and spine would raise in confrontation when the delivery van pulled up to the house. She’d bark until the driver showed her a dog biscuit. Then she’d lower her guard, take the treat, and wag her tail. She never bit anyone despite her sometimes defensive posturing but she always let folks know whose house this was.

A story to illustrate Daisy’s fortitude (sisu). A few summers back, before arthritis slowed her down, before cancer started to manifest, I was sitting in my rocking chair on our home’s covered front porch with Ben Guck. We were talking baseball between sips of cold beer. Dusk was beginning to slide across the pasture. Daisy and Kramer were fast asleep on the front lawn. All of a sudden, Kramer, a gangly chocolate Lab with hip issues, rose from slumber and started trotting towards trees defining the far edge of our hayfield. The thin-withered dog loped into the forest, only to re-emerge at a dead run, a pair of brush wolves (coyotes) hot on his trail. Earlier in the evening, Ben and I ‘d been listening to the yips of coyote pups from a nearby den before Kramer was spurned to action. It was pretty clear that the parents of those pups were not happy with Kramer’s inquisitive nature. The adult coyotes were gaining on the old dog as he labored uphill. Then I saw Daisy. She was creeping towards the field, her body crouched low like a lioness on the stalk. She was concealed from the wolves by high grass, her hackles up and her eyes glued to the scene unfolding below her.

“Watch this,” I said to Ben, tipping my beer bottle towards the impending skirmish. “Daisy is about to welcome the wolves.”

When the coyotes were within a stride of Kramer, Daisy launched herself from concealment like an ebony missile. Like cartoon characters in a Loony Tunes short, the wolves put on their brakes and tumbled to the ground before regaining their footing and heading for the trees. Daisy didn’t stop her pursuit at the treeline. I was worried that she might not come back, that the wolves would turn on her in the forest. But the coyotes knew who they were dealing with. After a few tense moments, Daisy emerged triumphant from the woods and rejoined Kramer on the front lawn.

Daisy’s health has been failing. Over the past year, her black fur turned brown and patchy. Normally a gal who loved a good swim in the river, Daisy refused to clamber down the riverbank and join me in the Cloquet. Other signs of decline manifested. At nearly thirteen years old, I guessed cancer. I was hoping Daisy could make it through another winter. But watching her suffer became unbearable. I called the vet. I made an appointment. Rene’ agreed to sit with Daisy during the exam.

RIP, Daisy. You were a good girl.

Carrying her frail, failing body to my blue Pacifica for Daisy’s last car ride wasn’t easy. She always trusted me to do the right thing. I hope I did.

With love,

Mark.