Tunesday : Jet

Jet

(McCartney, L / McCartney, P) Performed by Wings

Jet, Jet
Jet I can almost remember their funny faces
That time you told them you were going to marrying soon
And Jet I thought the only lonely place was the moon

Jet Jet Jet

Jet was your father as bold as the sergeant major
How come he told you that you were hardly old enough yet
And Jet I thought the major was a lady suffragette

Jet Jet Jet

Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater, much later
Jet

And Jet I thought the major was a lady suffragette
Jet Jet

Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater...much later

Jet with the wind in your hair
Of a thousand laces
Climb on the back and we'll go for a ride in the sky
And Jet I thought the major was a little lady suffragette

Jet-Jet-Jet
And Jet you know I thought you was a little lady suffragette
Jet
A little lady
My little lady, yes

So, two weeks ago, Tunesday ended with me on a plane, headed for Alberta. And last week, I interrupted that timeline to go back and fill in more early memories. So, considering my song choice for this week is Jet, am I finally back on that plane? No, silly, because everyone knows Jet is about Paul McCartney's dog, and I wanted to talk about doggies I've known and doggies I've lost.

A few years ago, Rudy and Dan's dog suddenly died. This couple met in middle age, and as they weren't going to have children together, Kiwi was pretty much their kid. One day when Dan was home for lunch, he went to check on Kiwi (who had been feeling a little listless for a week, but nothing their vet was too worried about), and Dan was devastated to discover that Kiwi had simply passed away in her bed in the time it had taken him to grab a sandwich. Dan knew that Rudy would be inconsolable and he frantically tried giving Kiwi mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions (an image that can still bring tears to my eyes), but Kiwi was gone. Dan wrapped her in a blanket, cosied her up in her bed, and took the afternoon off work to make sure he was home when Rudy arrived. This was a devastating blow to Rudy, and after she called her Mom in tears to let her know, Bev then called us -- in hysterics -- so that Rudy wouldn't need to talk on the phone again. (But of course we called over there after we heard.)

Thanksgiving was about a month later, and as the entire family was together and everyone was pointedly not talking about Kiwi, some devilish instinct took a hold of me and I told Kennedy that she should share the incredible story her English teacher had told her class that week. Apparently, the teacher's niece had been asked to housesit for friends of her parents down in Toronto; particularly to keep an eye on their Golden Retriever, who was getting old. Not long after the couple left, the niece found the dog on the ground panting heavily, and in the time it took her to call the emergency vet, the dog died. She knew that the couple would be on a plane by then, and the vet advised her to bring the dog's body to her office, where it could be kept refrigerated until the couple returned and decided what to do about it. The niece thought that was a good idea -- but she had to figure out how to get this big dog's lifeless body to the other end of the city. She eventually put it in a large rolling suitcase and got on the subway. She was pretty self-conscious about riding with a dead dog, but the longer the ride lasted, the more she realised that none of the other passengers could possibly know what was in the suitcase. When she went to get off the subway, a young man saw her struggling to get the suitcase through the doors, and when he asked what was in the awkwardly imbalanced bag, she gave the answer she had decided on: old computer parts. He offered to help her, and as soon as he had possession of the bag, he took off running and disappeared. The niece ran through the subway station, couldn't find the man anywhere, and had to eventually give up and go back to the apartment. Just imagine the surprise that guy had when he was finally alone and unzipped that suitcase!

Listening to this story, Dan's teenage  son Adam said, "No way. That's like a well known urban legend."

Kennedy insisted that her English teacher told her class that this had indeed happened to her niece and Adam said that that proved his point: urban legends always start with, "This happened to someone I know". And it was so interesting to me to consider how the degrees of separation from an event decrease its credibility: If Adam had retold this story, he would have had to say, "My Dad's girlfriend's niece's teacher said that this happened to her own niece's parents' friends' dog." That doesn't sound too likely. But when Kennedy heard from her teacher that it had happened to her own niece? Sounds pretty likely.

This is what I was musing about as the conversation about the dead dog in the suitcase led to everyone's stories about dead dogs they had known, and as each story seemed to reveal something very interesting about its teller, I began to fantasise about writing a novel about dead dogs, with Kennedy's story as the frame. This conversation was just that interesting, and if I had the skill, I'd write that book. And so to my own brief history of dogs.

In my earliest memories, we had a tomcat named Casey Jones and a black and white terrier named Riley. The cat was free to roam at night and he often got into fights; often came home with a bleeding ear or other warwounds. Casey also had a bad habit of pooping in the bathtub. I really don't think that we had Riley for very long -- I remember the cat better than the dog -- but when we left PEI when I was three, both animals were given away to friends of my parents'. (Apparently, Riley was an unredeemable furniture chewer and Casey couldn't be driven in a car; moving was a good excuse to get rid of unwanted pets.)

Living in New Brunswick, we eventually got a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever named Anthony Armstrong Jones; a dog that my Dad would take hunting with him. Tony was a smart and loveable doggie and I don't know how long we had him before my parents decided that he was too big, needed too much exercise, to live in a smallish house with five people. Tony was driven out to a farm somewhere to live, and in an Amazing Journey real-life story, Tony ran away from the farm, crossed all of St John, and arrived back at our door one day. My parents then decided that he was ours for good. Again, I have no sense of the timing, but eventually we were told that Tony was "sick" and would need to be put down. My Dad and his friend Clifford took Tony out to the woods somewhere -- and this was always told to me as an example of what a big softie my Dad really is -- and as he levelled a shotgun at his dog's trusting face, Dad couldn't pull the trigger and had to ask Clifford to do the Old Yeller to Tony. Although sad to have lost our dog, I perfectly accepted this story at the time as just the way things go.

I think we went a couple of years without a dog then, but we did briefly consider adopting a dog from somewhere. He was a scruffy little Benjie-type dog, named Benjie of course, and the second he came into our house I wanted to keep him forever. The problem, though -- and this is why the other people were trying to get rid of him -- was that Benjie freaked out over loud whining noises and attacked both the vacuum-cleaner inside the house and the lawnmower outside the house. I remember trying to make the case that I could personally keep him away from the noises that triggered him, but I remember my parents specifically worrying about him eventually getting chewed up by the lawnmower -- a gruesome mental image for sure -- and he didn't last a weekend with us. I was so dog crazy, though, that Benjie always appears on my mental list of "dogs I have loved".

We eventually moved to Ontario, and somewhere along the way, it was discovered that my Dad suffers allergies, and in particular to dogs. My parents did some research into non-allergenic dog breeds, and for quite a while, they were talking about getting a Kerry Blue Terrier. But years went by and we didn't get a dog and didn't get a dog, and no matter how I begged, we didn't get a dog. Then, one day, my Mum asked me to go for a drive and we ended up at a strange house, and when we rang the doorbell and were ushered inside, I was attacked by a gaggle of poodle puppies. There were several exotically coloured -- apricot and champagne -- puppies that ran away as soon as they sniffed us, and there was one little guy (the runt as it turns out) that was black with white markings, that begged to be picked up and went to sleep in my arms. Mum said that we had only gone to look, to maybe pick a puppy out, but in her opinion, you're obligated to take home any doggy that picks you. And that's how we ended up with Andy. He was a very sweet dog  -- always referred to as my dog, even though my mother eventually felt the need to point out that it wouldn't be fair to Andy if I some day decided to take him with me when I moved out -- and although he lived a very long and healthy life, he was the first family dog whose death I was really aware of; and yet, since that happened in Ontario while I was still living in Alberta, it didn't really affect me.

While we were living in Edmonton, Delight's roommate's Bouvier had puppies. Although we only went over just to see them, as they were running around like maniacs, one of the little guys climbed onto Dave's lap and cuddled up and fell asleep amongst the chaos. I told Dave about my mother's belief about having an obligation to any dog who chooses you, and that's how we ended up with Satchmo, eventually shortened to Moe. Moe was a sweet and loving doggie, but as both Dave and I worked, we didn't do much to train him and he could sometimes get out of control (which I acknowledge is a bit dangerous with a big and powerful animal). One time as we were sitting in the back yard, we witnessed a police foot chase. The suspect came running up the back alley, cut through our back yard, and hopped the low fence into the neighbouring yard. He was quickly followed by a police dog; up the alley, through the yard, over the fence. This got Moe excited and he charged across the yard in pursuit. Suddenly, the police officer came up the alley, through our yard, and as he and Moe arrived at the fence at the exact same moment, the cop -- in one beautiful and fluid motion -- hopped the fenced and grabbed Moe's collar to prevent him from jumping. Just then, Dave got to the fence in time to grab Moe's collar and keep him in our yard as suspect, police dog and cop all disappeared around the corner of the house next door. This whole scene played out in seconds, but I'll never forget it; especially how calm and controlled the cop's actions were. One time, Ken was visiting us with his friend Eric, and as we were upstairs getting ready to go out, we could hear Eric downstairs calling for help. When Dave got down there, he found Eric -- not a small man -- unable to remove himself from Moe's amourous embrace. Ahem. Another time, it was Thanksgiving and I went into the kitchen and found Moe with the leftover turkey carcass on the floor. As I tried to shoo him, he actually bared his teeth and growled at me, and Dave had to take a broom to move the dog away from the bones that might kill him. Although that was the only time I had ever been afraid of him, it was preying on my mind as I eventually became pregnant with Kennedy. Moe was five when Kennedy was born, and he had never been around a baby, and while I had only been afraid of him the once, I just didn't know if I could trust him. When we eventually decided to move to Ontario to raise Kennedy (and her sister Mallory, though we hadn't even thought about her yet) around her grandparents, we concluded that that meant we couldn't bring Moe with us -- how could we possibly expect our parents to take in both us and our giant dog until we figured out a place to live on our own? Especially since they had small dogs of their own at the time? (Even then I knew this was weasly thinking, but I told myself that this was for Moe's own good, too.) Dave got in touch with a Bouvier rescue society, and the director's own brother -- a former Edmonton Eskimo -- called and wanted Moe, sight unseen. He had a farm and older kids and Moe sounded perfect to him. I was alone with baby Kennedy the afternoon he came to get Moe, and as he took the dog's leash with a hand sporting several Grey Cup Championship rings, I had to admit that I was sending Moe off to a better life; or at least that's how I comforted myself as I spent the afternoon crying and crying. I couldn't believe I had given away my dog. (And, yes, I understood the ironic symmetry with how my own parents had acted at the same age, getting rid of dogs when they became inconvenient; actions which I had spent a lifetime thinking of as weasly; at least we never asked anyone to shoot Moe in the head.) 

This dog history meant that when we got and eventually lost Libby -- as described at length here -- that was the first pet whose entire life I had been an intimate witness to. Yes, Andy eventually died, but I wasn't present for the last years of his life. And yes, I knew that Moe eventually died at some point, but I wasn't even aware of the when. Libby was my first actual loss of a pet, and I took it so hard that I still can't imagine opening myself up to the heartbreak again. I don't know if we'll ever get another dog -- not because I don't like them, but because I've loved and lost and that hurts.

In November, as I was taking the garbage to the curb one morning, the woman from across the street started talking to me across the way. She wanted to know if both my girls are away at school now, as she herself now has an empty nest -- if you don't count her elderly parents who live in her basement. I haven't spoken much to this newish neighbour before, and we were having a lovely chat across the street until she said breezily, "Well, at least you still have your dog to keep you company." I was still totally in control of myself as I said, "Well, we had to put her down in the summer actually..." The woman's hands flew in front of her horrified mouth as she exclaimed, "Oh my God! How old was she?" Her reaction took me totally by surprise and I lost it. I could hardly get out, "Four-our-our-teen", before I was sobbing and tears were running down my face. Horrified, she was trying to apologise, but my throat was so constricted that I could barely talk, and as I wiped the tears off my face, I was trying to make light of it and chuckle and tell her that I was fine, just slightly ridiculous, but nothing was coming out of my throat, and with some apologetic sign language, I indicated that I needed to go inside. She called after me that I could visit her dog anytime I like and I waved a thanks over my shoulder and went in to hide, feeling terrible for making her feel terrible.

I had told that story to Ken, and at Christmas, he asked me to repeat it to his mother-in-law. It does make a good self-deprecating story so I complied, and when I was done, Ken said, "And the funny part is that it was Krista who lost it. I could see if it was Dave or one of the girls, but Krista? That's so out of character."

Well, excuse me? Maybe Kennedy suffered as big a loss as I did, but Libby was by my side for all the days of her life and I was devastated. 

But see what I mean about what you can learn about people through their dead dog stories? I wouldn't have known that Ken thinks of me as such an ice queen; that it's unthinkable that I would cry over the loss of a furry friend who kept me company every day as my babies grew up and away from me. I still think there's something psychologically interesting or significant in all of this. As a note: I just googled images of all of these dogs  -- I do have pictures of Andy and Moe and Libby, but I guess I was just going for archetypes here.

Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater want Jet to always love me
Ah Mater...much later