Walks with Leporello, Thoughts on LOVE, GOD and DOG - 2. II. Fire Hydrants and Bougainvillea

II. Fire Hydrants and Bougainvillea

May 12, 2011

The first rush of colors and sound; new people and sensations; new whirls of experience; all of this for our puppy, Leporello, was literal; all new, while for his human companions, it was a chance to see the mundane through his eyes with unsullied sight. But sadly, so too is the first exposure to fright and lonesomeness – to separation and doubt. There are scary things in the world. For us, the “what ifs” loomed large: what if he’s lost; what if he runs into traffic; what if he encounters a bully dog who starts a fight and hurts him. But for Leppy, his frights were obstacles of menacing strangeness that darkly shadowed his path. What is a fire hydrant? Does it move; does it know I know? In time these frights work themselves out. Our human frights – our reactions to separation, to doubt and loneliness – these take more work; more time to resolve.

Considering the hundred or so pounds he would grow into, the little ten-pound puppy, on his towel, in my lap, seemed miniscule and fragile. Sunny drove most of the way back from Sacramento, Saturday, January 27th, 1996, while I sat with the new one. He mostly napped, but rose to his hind legs sometimes to put his front paws on the curve of the door where it became glass. He peered out on the rolling scenery, darkened by less than fair skies, with his ears alert and turned full-front. After a few moments, he’d glance at me, blink with lowered ears, then settle down again into a comfy ball on his towel. I expected signs of anxiety – panting, fidgeting and so on – but he was calm. Besides the periodic looking out the window, and the sometimes-turned Bambi-eyes that went up to me with a questioning gaze, he was fine for the long drive. I’d stroke his silky head, and tell him we would soon be “Home.”

I had the decidedly humdrum task of retracing the car’s path through the city streets downtown, dropping it off, and taking the streetcar back home. Mammoth undertakings, because after depositing Sunny and pup at our front door, there was nothing in the world I so wanted not to do than leave them. But soon we were bundled against the gloomy January evening and off for our first family walk. Because of his age, and not having had his final Parvovirus inoculation, we were to avoid any contact with other dogs; but walk we must.

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There is a magic street in San Francisco with a mere five short blocks that points the way every urban landscape could look, if the will were there to make it happen. This start of Noe Street had its utility lines buried in the late 1970s under pressure from one of the first neighborhood associations in the country. At the same time, they had the sidewalks widened into mini plazas near the corners. But what makes the entire magic are the towering and gracile ash trees planted at that time. Now mature, they arch upwards from the Victorian facades to form a three-story allée that everyone sighs just to be under. Every street could be as polished as these few blocks are; it only takes some people who care enough to do it.

So the puppy arrived at 128 Noe. It was his birthright to mature under the ash boughs and be surrounded by the green grass of several nearby parks. Later, after a couple of moves, I could always tell he longed to return to our first home. For many years after leaving this street, he’d turn into every travertine stoop that resembled our Noe Street steps. None of them were the correct one he hoped for, but such is life.

Even though, on this first evening with us, the pup had not received any leash training, he trod along like a pro. We began to practice the “sit at the curb” command (one he only ever partially acquiesced to), and within a block, we encountered the first bogeyman of his later bad dreams. Yes, there at the corner across from Duboce Park was the dingy-white trunk of a threat. The moment Leppy spied the fire hydrant, he stopped, his ears went flat and tail went tucked; a whimper and a faltering step backwards halted all progress. We cajoled, we gently tugged, but the dog-to-be was frightened. Finally, after much encouragement, he stiffened four limbs, straightened his jelly spine and leaned nose-forward, sniffing and stretching inch by inch as close as his firmly rooted back legs would allow. The cold pylon did not flinch as little by little a waving of the head side to side allowed the inspector nose to do its job. Partially assured by the findings, the head recoiled and led the way for quickly scampering legs to scurry to the other side of the menace and pause in shaky reassessment. His eyes looked to us. “What was that? I don’t think it likes us . . . . ”

Beyond the hydrant though was the world of the park. The park that would be the most wonderful place for our dog in the whole world. His first sight was slightly from afar, as he couldn’t meet any other dogs, but he witnessed myriad canines running after frisbees, balls and each other, all in a high and friendly frolic. Again he looked at us. “What is this place? Who are all those dogs and people?” His wide-eyed wonder imbued the scene for us with new curiosity. Who were all these people; how did they all raise such happy dogs?

There would be many more visits to Duboce Park and others – countless park visits – but only one first sight; only one time where the whole spectacle and promise was new.

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I probably have avoided mentioning that Leppy was our first dog, the first dog I had in my life that was not the neighbors’ or friends’ but the first I had as mine in my twenty-seven years. Sunny had a terrier and a Cocker Spaniel when a small boy, but despite all my childhood requests, and despite the fact that my mom had had dogs for all the years before I was born, I grew up with only neighbor canines in my life. This goes to explain that books provided any (inadequate) grounding for my puppy expectations. One subject they all agreed upon was that the newly arrived puppy would suffer terribly from separation anxiety. The first night, according to the authorities, would be full of whining, yelping and general misery for the small one looking for mom, dad and siblings. So I was prepared to have a restless night.

After the park came dinnertime, and then – mind you, it’s about 7:30 in the evening – the puppy laid his weary head down on Sunny’s hand-made slipcovered pillow, and slept. With his back curled and his face tucked over his one and only toy, the canvas mouse, he was zonked out cold. We thought, “Okay, it’s just a nap,” but he stayed that way, despite gentle attempts at rousing. We just wanted to let him know that around eleven o’clock we were going to bed and to show him where we would be. The lights went out, and it was a long time before I relaxed. I kept listening for the first bark, yelp, or worse. I finally drifted off with the puppy, who slept at the foot of our bed, not having stirred an inch since after dinner.

Exhausted from forcing myself to sleep lightly, I was deep in sleep at 3:00 AM when I roused to faint whimpering and toenails on the hardwood floor. I extended my arm from beneath the covers, held it out straight and gently called “Puppy.” Soon I felt a moist little nose bump into my fingertips, then heard a settling down on the floor by my hand as rest again overcame Leporello. That was it. Never again did he show even the slightest separation anxiety. I suppose he dreamt of car-riding, of green grass and a looming metal shadow that night, but he was resting for the big day ahead of him – ahead for all of us.

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The worst of his dreams would occur sometime later, when he was about three years old. One night we awoke to the clear sounds of nightmare – voiceless barking in his sleep, floor thumping from his only partially turned-off running limbs, and twitching muzzle and nose. I got up and switched on the light. I didn’t know how he’d awake, but when he did, he ran from us, clearly afraid. He went all the way down the corridor to the front door on shaky legs. There he sniffed, frightened, under the door at the threshold. From there he ran past us again, still on shaky legs, to the back door and gave it the same inspection. What happened next disturbs me to this day. He slowly approached us, ears flat, and sniffed every inch of my hand. He moved to my other hand and then to my mouth. Carefully, he smelled my lips, my nose and chin. With a satisfied but still unsure huff, he moved to Sunny and repeated the entire process. We tried to calm him, but he spent the remainder of the dark hours alert, eyes trained on the front door. Like a parent, I’m sure, we wish to shelter our innocent charges from everything frightening, real or imagined, and we are heartsick when we encounter a fright we cannot dismiss. I can still only guess at the horror of Leppy’s dream. Did we hurt him, or others hurt us?

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Boundless optimism greeted the first full day. I continued to feel awkward using anything but “puppy” to address him, but that would change as his unique characteristics grew into his unique name. Leporello is a stage name, the sidekick of Don Juan who wants nothing more than to be the boss. These are the opening lines to Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and the confidence level of the puppy made this a fine choice. The couple who first took him home titled him Macbeth, but such a tragic figure suited our dog not the least. This Sunday morning meant a walk around the block, with its first sights and smells of sidewalk trees, of travertine stoops and of shadowy setbacks with garage doors. But he had no idea what excitement awaited him at home that afternoon. We had organized a homecoming party with some friends. They came over, and one by one ogled the adorable puppy – for Airedale puppies are irresistibly cute. They are born all black, and slowly, as they grow, have tawny patches inch their way over the chest, up the legs from the paws, and most winningly of all, from the outer edge of the ears inward. The effect on the ears is particularly unique, and looks like a silky black mohair cravat, neatly triangled, and edged in amber-gold thread.

We assembled on the front room floor, and there the puppy was passed around from hand to hand, from lap to lap, each new guest presenting a treat or new toy to bolster his collection of one. When David Franklin arrived, he joined the confabulation with something hidden from puppy’s view behind his back. When this young pup was duly in David’s lap, everything else came to a halt, for seemingly from the thin air, a snorting honk arose.

Puppy froze, ears and eyes at full alert as out came a stuffed hedgehog from behind David’s back. Leporello blinked and divided his glance from brown furry thing to David’s eyes. “Is that for me?” he asked as David held it to puppy’s mouth – but before he surrendered it, David gave it a good squeeze. Out roared a sound akin to an il basso grunting and squealing at the same time. Leppy started and made a squiggle motion in David’s lap, but in the next instant the hedgehog was in his mouth. The same sound came again, the same momentary squiggle, but this time David reacted, startled. In the sheer joy of the moment, a bit of momentary bladder control lapsed, and a piddle spot was joyously deposited on David’s black denim. David laughed, and amid a riotous chorus of grunting squeaks, so did we all.

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It was a wonderful time to be a puppy, for toy-wise, the market was suddenly awash with the new generation of squeakers and squawkers and snorters. These plush toys with built-in voices made my humble mouse, with its single small squeak, seem even more old fashioned than it was. Toys teach dogs, but also dogs with toys teach us about them. A short time later I found a hot-pink monkey in the pet store. Its internal voice was far different from the grunty squawk that was typical. This one, when squeezed, positively screamed – piercing and manic in direct relation to the pressure exerted. I bought it, but could not have imagined how it would deepen my understanding of who Leporello was as ‘a person.’ I was on the floor, gave it to him, and after his first squeeze, he dropped it in horror. “I’ve hurt it . . . . ”

When he looked at me, his eyes were so pure, so filled with worry for the hot-pink monkey, that I can still see them now. I assured him, by saying in a high-pitched and silly voice (another gem from the ‘puppy books’), that everything was all right. I picked up the toy and squeezed it a few times myself. After several nervous blinks, he loosened up a bit and took it lightly in his mouth. After a few moderate squeezes of his own, he seemed reassured. As he relaxed and began to play, I came to the profound realization that this little one was born gentle – a gentility, with which when I look to compare to my own, I find far superior every time.

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The boundless optimism that seems the birthright of every puppy is something I sadly miss in my own nature today. We have Masetto, a nine-month-old Airedale puppy, but in that he is his own dog; he is quite a bit different from a puppy named Leppy. He confirms for me that Leporello’s remarkable attributes were his and only partially attributable to his remarkable breed. Masetto has many fine and developing strong points, in fact he has many fewer head-strong negative ways than the nine-month old Leppy had, but still, they are different – and that is the way it should be. Too often we are told dogs are all alike, but in my experience, people are sadly more true to type than our canine fellow travelers. And yet still, Masetto’s optimism is what I need, and quite frankly, it sustains myself in current times. Worries persist. Is Masetto safe, is he going to slip his leash and run into traffic, and on and on. Worries for us, in addition to worries for him.

With Leporello, at the end of fifteen and half years of life together, and of living with anxieties about him ever-present on my mind – does he have water, food; enough challenges and time to play with others; is he sick but I cannot tell – and oddly enough, at least for me anyway, I wondered for fifteen years and more if Leppy was happy. Was he content with us and the city life we led? Wasn’t there a better family somewhere else, where he’d be better contented?

The day he died, the foremost obstacle in my path, the looming shadowy menace in my way forward, was a mindset of dull nagging guilt. For all those years, every memory casting back over every day was dusted with the thought of him and his well-being – and sadly, a day arrives where any random tomorrow means he exists not even one more day in it. The back-burner pot of logic feebly simmers. It tries to steam a certain softness with weak-as-water platitudes – he lived a long life; he was not alone when he drew his last breath; he was with his family – but the forefront pain only knows one all demanding phrase – he is gone. It leaves for me no space without the anxiety of his everyday well-being, but the bare starkness of my own anxieties of separation, of my own doubts, of my own lonesomeness.

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On the evening of that first Sunday, walking around the block, we encountered a setback for one of those ubiquitous San Francisco garage doors. Because the full side of the neighboring building came out to the sidewalk, a mini vortex would sometimes arise. This day, the dried and fallen – but still beautifully crimson – petals of the bougainvillea growing next to the garage door were puddled in the driveway. As we came by, a gust of wintry wind swirled in the garage niche and picked up the flower petals into a sparkling tornado. Leppy jumped right into the middle of it as carefree as a kid jumping into a ball vat. He glanced at me momentarily, like he was wondering why I didn’t join him in the midst of so much fun. At the moment, mine were the worries; his was the pure unalloyed fun of living full in the present. He invited me, but could I not go? Sadly, no.

But as I stood there and watched, I felt that this young dog, whether he lived long or short, would like nothing so much as to be hoisted by the wind, and spun with the red papery triangles as far up as they could carry him. [i]

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