To all of us, Ollie was a movie
dog.
The world seemed to think so, too. Everywhere Tracy took him, people stopped her to exclaim over him . . . over
the fact that his coloring was so unique . . . over the fact that he seemed
more than just another pet, that he bordered on being a tiny, four-legged person.
It didn’t hurt that Ollie never met a human he didn’t like.
He was a small Cavashon, black and
white, peeking out through one black eye. But what set him apart was his way
with people. He assumed Rob and I were his relatives, and behaved as if we needed welcoming on each new
occasion. Miraculously, he knew we’d
arrived at Tracy
and Paul’s before we quite knew it ourselves.
Even as we approached the front door we could hear him on the other
side, whining and yipping, as though to say, Get the door open, please, I need to see you. And true to his
loving nature, he wiggled and wagged as we cleared the entrance, soaked up the
feel of our hands on his curly-haired body, then rolled over for a last
stroking of his belly.
For seven years, he greeted us
thus. We dared not move deeper into the
house until we acknowledged that yes, he was our long-lost cousin. Then he trotted to the couch and snuggled
down next to Tracy.
As far as we could tell, he never cared
much for dogs.
Besides his overflowing enthusiasm, Ollie
had tricks. He was clever enough to batter open the plastic ball which
contained special treats. He sat when
anyone said “sit,” he rolled over when
ordered to do so, and he lay quite still when someone said, “bang bang.”
Most of this was in place before Tracy’s Paul arrived. Once Paul was there for good, we observed the
blooming of a new relationship. Ollie
knew a special person when he met one. Before the first month ended, Ollie was
following Paul everywhere, upstairs and down, sometimes waiting for attention,
but more often expressing his eagerness for their nightly walk. He’d staked out his time as eight-fifteen,
and though we’re fairly sure he never wore a watch, each night from that
instant on, he sat on his haunches near Paul, gazing up at him with a look that
defined the word “adoration.” That expression
is how I’ll always remember Ollie. It turns out he even came to warn Tracy, once, when he
thought Paul was in trouble.
Today, around noon, Ollie died. We can’t go into detail, but at heart he was
a delicate little creature, and it turned out this was a digestive problem gone
wrong . . . and all because of a smoked pork bone from a high-end pet
store—which we didn’t know was deadly for dogs.
Ollie’s whole family is
devastated. None of us are dogs, to be
sure, but Ollie thought we were.
