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RockyMarch 26, 2008 Weird how life tries to close in, cover up, and fill in the space formerly occupied by Dog. Got back from off-island on Saturday, called the shelter Tuesday (they're closed to the public Sunday and Monday), the vet was coming to OK the end of quarantine (sick dog recovered; no one else got sick), knew I was going to be off-island most of Thursday, something I can't remember what was going on Friday, could I pick Rocky up on Saturday? Rhodry would have been part of whatever I was doing, or he might have stayed at the barn or at Elaine's. All those people who can't imagine how they'd fit a dog into their lives, or fit writing or art or music making into their lives -- I had a glimpse, and I got it. Still, the idea of living indefinitely without Dog was not something I wanted to even think about for too long. It might start to seem thinkable, or normal even. I picked Rocky up around noon on Saturday, along with two cans of food and a bag of kibble. Rocky jumped into the truck like he belonged there. Rocky was a furry bundle of energy. I didn't dare let him loose at the barn, but we went for a stroll down the driveway, out to the construction site, through the woods. Rocky's leash manners were atrocious. He didn't show any sign of recognizing his own name. I put him in the extra stall while I did chores. His face and paws on the far side of the grille looked like Kilroy Was Here. He was already paying close attention to me; he knew I was his best hope of getting sprung eventually. At home he settled in quickly. I was surprised. His house manners were very good. His surrender papers to the contrary, he showed no sign of devouring my shoes. He loved chasing and carrying, catching and chewing on Rhodry's collection of toys. He managed to elicit squeaks from toys that had been silent for years. He settled happily into his crate (actually Tillo's, borrowed from Elaine) and slept well. As did I. Sunday morning I down-and-dirty (which is to say, with heavy use of cookies) established "Rocky, come." I was nervous at first -- what if he disappeared into the woods and didn't come back? -- but I couldn't figure out any other way for him to get the exercise he needed. Damn sure I couldn't run fast enough to keep him on leash. He caught on very fast. I wouldn't say the command was established, but it was good enough. Rocky loved chasing squeaky toys and carrying them on our walks. This was good. He ran three times farther than I walked. "Fetch" was never part of Rhodry's repertoire, though his mother, Nanu, the border collie-Samoyed mix, was a fetching fool. She'd drop a ball on your feet and then look up at your face till you picked it up and threw it. Sunday afternoon we visited the Shabazians', where Rocky got to play with Tillo. For such an energetic little guy, he was amazingly well behaved. By Monday morning I was thinking Rocky was a wonderful dog, and how much did I really want to drive to upstate New York for a malamute puppy? When I went downstairs to the bathroom, he'd follow, and wait outside the door. He'd be snoozing on my bed, and when I got up from my desk and went to the kitchen, he'd get up and follow. He didn't want me out of his sight. I was flattered. UPS showed up that morning. Clearly Rocky had never met UPS before, at least not on Martha's Vineyard: he skittered back, didn't want to get too close. (Rhodry would have been inside the truck at that point.) The driver held two unwieldy packages with one hand and offered a cookie with the other. Eyeing the parcels, Rocky edged closer and took the cookie. At the barn that afternoon Nina came by with Tilly (not to be confused with Tillo), a rambunctious Labradoodle who's about Rocky's age. At first Rocky seemed bewildered by Tilly's highly physical kind of play, but he caught on and they had a ball. Later he made a beeline for Allie in her pasture, then stopped short, crouched, and gazed at her. After a while she chased him; he scurried for the gate, whining all the way. He was fascinated by the cats, Dis Kitty and Dat Kitty, but I kept him on leash and didn't let him get too close. At the barn I was more tempted by puppies. Rocky could probably learn to settle down around horses, but I wasn't sure about the cats, or about how long it would take. The more I watched him, the less husky or northern breed I saw in him. On alert he looked like a large sheltie or a small collie, except for his face. In coloring and shape his head was -- what? German shepherd? Akita? Husky? His legs were slender, more collie-ish than northern breed. Whatever the mix, he was gorgeous. Smart, attentive, and sweet. Before I left the barn yesterday, I took Rocky up to meet Rhodry. I made introductions. Rocky didn't pay much attention. I didn't get any clear message from Rhodry either. Did you send me this puppy? What should I do? I don't think Rhodry had a strong opinion. Smile smile wag wag! It could go either way; it would be fine either way. I gave Rocky a good brushing this morning. Either he was blowing coat or he hadn't been groomed in a while. With the excess undercoat removed, his outer coat glowed golden; he looked more collie-ish than ever. Driving down the Edgartown–West Tisbury Road early this afternoon, I wondered if I was nuts. Rocky's a great little guy. He'd be a wonderful companion. He's here, and why do I have to have a malamute? Love the one you're with . . . Probably the shelter people would think I was nuts. If they did, they didn't let on. Rocky got all excited when he realized where he was. He was happy to walk through the door. If he'd acted miserable or scared, I might have changed my mind. Instead, I hung out and talked with Samantha, the shelter worker, about dogs and horses, and horse people and dog people, and about how both horses and dogs seem to be shedding more intensely this year. A woman came in, asking about adoptable dogs. She lives in Maine; she's visiting her son on the island. She was interested in Rocky. I was telling her how great he was. Later I rode by Elaine's, to tell her what I'd done. She's interested in Rocky too. So's Tillo. Michael -- if he is, he won't admit it. I said maybe I was nuts, and she said, "But you're on a mission," which is true; it's not that I haven't thought of it that way, but I'm not sure it's OK to say so. I'm on this malamute mission. It's a door Rhodry opened, and though it's not the only open door, it's the one I want to walk through. Rhodry died a month ago today.
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