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Search for DogMarch 11, 2008 Some people lose a beloved dog and can't bear to get another; five, ten, fifteen years later they're still dogless. Within moments of Rhodry's passing I knew I was not one of those people. Rhodry's passing left a hole in my life that demanded filling. So what if canine life spans are shorter than human, so what if my next dog will probably die before I do, and even the dog after that. Loss I can handle. Permanent doglessness is out of the question. The day after Rhodry died, I donated his uneaten food to the MSPCA shelter in Edgartown -- and filled out an adoption application. Northern breeds preferred, I wrote. Must get along with horses. I also filled out an application for AMRONE, Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England. Some people don't get another dog because they're afraid that they'll never love another dog the way they loved the one they just lost -- or maybe they're afraid they will love another dog, and that seems disloyal. I know there'll never be another Rhodry, and I'm glad he was a mixed-breed malamutt because that makes it clear from the get-go that he was unique. Nevertheless, over the years I've read up and listened and come to believe that Rhodry took after his malamute side, so I've been looking at malamutes -- Alaskan Malamute is the official breed name. I've been visiting dogs-for-sale sites and following links to kennels, lots of kennels. Hoo boy, beautiful dogs, beautiful, beautiful dogs. I set some limits: I intend to pick my puppy up in person, my puppy will not be flown to its new stranger mom on a big airplane. How far was I willing to drive? Pennsylvania, I decided, is in. Ohio is out; Maryland is out. That meant that Rumania and the United Kingdom were out. Ditto Western Australia. I also prefer the "standard"-sized malamutes, about Rhodry's size, not the giants, which can mature at 120, 140 pounds and up. Partly this was due to a suspicion that big is not better, that the bigger the dog, the shorter the life expectancy -- even though responsible breeders of the "gentle giants" offer the same health certifications as breeders of smaller dogs. Mostly my concern was practical. During his last two months -- and occasionally in his earlier years -- I had to help Rhodry up the stairs and into the truck. Sometimes I had to lift all of him up from the ground. At age 56, I can lift 80 pounds, which is about what Rhodry weighed, but I'm glad I never had to carry him unaided up a flight of stairs, because I'm not sure I could have done it. When my next dog gets to be Rhodry's age, I'll be closing in on 70. However good shape I'm in, I sincerely doubt that I'll be able to lift more than 80 pounds. A 140-pound dog is out of the question. So I searched and searched, and I kept coming back to a kennel in upstate New York. Two litters were born the last week in February, one the day after Rhodry died, the other the day after that. Loved the dogs, loved the feel of the website (the kennel owner spins dog hair, just like my old friend Marilyn did, and maybe still does!), and really liked the owner once I started corresponding with her via e-mail, asking questions about her dogs. By this morning I was ready to put down a deposit. I was thinking about who to crash with going and coming on a late-April journey to upstate New York. Maybe a week ago a friend asked if I'd asked Rhodry to send me a new dog; she'd asked each of her just-passed dogs to send her a new one, and so far the results had been good. I'd been telling Rhodry what I was up to, but it wasn't till last Saturday, in the pouring-down rain, that I sat down on the grass just above Rhodry's grave and asked him to send me a dog that he thought would be right for me, a dog that maybe was looking for someone like me. This morning I woke intending to write a deposit check and mail it to the kennel in upstate New York. Just before noon the phone rang: it was the MSPCA shelter. This weekend they'd brought some dogs to the Vineyard from Springfield. One of them was a Samoyed-Husky mix, a male, about a year and a half old. They knew I was interested in the northern breeds . . . My fantasies had gone so far down the Road to Puppy that this was a jolt. I said I'd come by tomorrow. Would I? Would I dare? Could I imagine meeting a dog that needed a home, getting along with him well enough, and telling the shelter people I didn't want him? Nope. How much did I have to have a puppy? How much did I have to have an Alaskan Malamute? I've never owned a purebred dog; my family never had a purebred dog when I was growing up, although my maternal grandmother at various times had a Dalmatian and a Cocker Spaniel and a Boxer and a Labrador Retriever. After doing barn chores and before going for a ride, I went up the hill to sit with Rhodry. It hadn't escaped my attention that on Saturday I'd asked him to send me a dog and over the weekend the shelter people had found this Samoyed-Husky mix. So, Rhodry, what should I do? I watched Allie and Dolci in their paddocks and Pernod in the back pasture. I listened to dogs barking across the dirt road to my right and tools whining way down the driveway to my left. Allie and Dolci's water trough -- a double sink resting on stacked cinderblocks and leaning against the side of the barn -- looks even more Leaning Tower of Pisa from above than it does from up close. Go meet this dog, I thought. You'll be off-island Thursday through Saturday, and the shelter is closed Sunday and Monday. If you like the dog, he can come on Tuesday for a home visit and stay a couple of days. If it doesn't work out, you can still get a puppy. It's a plan.
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