My Dad and his Dogs (I)

      Observers noticed my dad's heart was in the grave. At that age, he had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore.I was warned my dad might not live long.

The story of my elderly father first appeared in the Animal Scene magazine written by my college buddy Mona Sabalones Gonzales (copy paste her blog -- http://monasabalonesgonzalez.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-dog-gave-new-life-to-its-elderly.html on your address bar). It's the story of how a dog prolonged the life of a 79-year-old widower -- who thought he had nothing to look forward to anymore -- by an extra 15 years.

During my mom’s one-year hospitalization, friends and relatives warned me that my dad could just as soon follow after her. They had been together for 53 years. How can a man find a new life after all that? All my siblings were abroad and I was living on my own apart from them. So he was, indeed, doomed to live alone after my mom dies. On Christmas eve my mom died. I can imagine what must've gone in his head that day after the funeral. In two months he will be 80. Too late to start anything new.
              That's why old people look back. They see nothing up ahead.
              I have to give thanks to my cousin Marimi whose parents were also aging at the same time. She was the one who led me to the right direction. “Find something your dad loved to do when he was young,” she said, passing on the same advice her father’s geriatric doctor had told her. “That indicates his natural talent, a passion which he can do easily.”

My dad headed the legal dept of the military. Here he is shown reviewing arms surrendered by rebels. This was taken probably in the late 1950s or early 1960s, at the height of his career.

I looked at my dad and took stock of his “passions.” He was a military man, through and through. He loved military law. It was his life. He loved golf too. He also loved jazz music. He enjoyed tinkering around the house. He had a good hand with plants. He was also good with animals.

I decided a new dog would be easier for me to give.

But I didn’t address that until several months later. Soon after my mom died I packed my stuff and went home to keep him company. There, I saw the silence that surrounded his life. He read all day. TV in the evenings. Monday mornings we’d visit the cemetery. Once a week he’d trek to the market to replenish food supplies. At home, he’d read again.

When I found a new job in a magazine office I’d leave him alone until I come home in the evening. Observers noticed his heart was in the grave. At that age, it seemed my dad had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore. I was warned he might not live long.

One day, I was sent to interview a dog owner who wanted his prized Boxer dog featured. It had just won the All-Breed Championship title the third time in a row at a nationwide dog show.  

It turned out the dog owner named Joey, kept a lot of dogs too. I saw a long kennel of snub-nosed canines leap and bark excitedly when they saw me. They were the most attractive animals in the world. That smart military stance, that alert and intelligent look in their eyes, and that dignified hold of their heads – they were Boxers! Joey had a lot of them. He was a breeder.

During the interview I had many questions outside of the article I planned to put together. I told Joey about my dad. I told him stories of how my dad was good with dogs but I was not familiar with Boxers. Would that be a good breed for an elderly?

After the interview Joey walked me out but led me first to a cage where a tall 6-month old Boxer rose when it saw us. Joey took it out and presented it to me. “Give it to your father,” he said.

That Ugly Dog

The dog had a small head. But it was a purebred. “It won’t qualify for show,” Joey warned me, explaining that he breeds only show dogs. “Those that don’t qualify either I sell cheap or give away to friends.”

I looked down at that brindle pup with its black mask and miserable-looking wrinkled expression. It looked the ugliest dog in the world. It didn’t look as smart as those other Boxers in the kennel (especially the tan and white ones). My heart didn’t go out to it. But maybe my dad’s heart would. Maybe this dog was meant for him.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (II)

       Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life.

             

           The love affair started slowly. Every morning as I’d leave for work I’d see my elderly dad sit at his favorite chair in the living room, his book for the day, and an ugly brown dog on the floor by his side. When I come home in the evening, he’d open the door for me and I’d see that same ugly brown dog with him.

But my dad was becoming enthusiastic. “The dog is beside me all day long,” he remarked. “When I go to the kitchen she follows me. When I go back to the living room she follows me too.”  He reminisced a similar dog that stayed by his side when he was a little boy. Life was getting interesting.

It took many days before my dad named the dog. Finally he decided on “Alfa.”

One day I saw a new book by his seat. It was a book about Boxers. He had gone out that day to buy the book that would soon be his new Bible. He studied it all day and would tell me the new things he was learning.  

When my dad had gone through the book, he announced to me what he wanted to do next: he wanted to breed Alfa.

I went back to Joey to tell him that Alfa was in good hands, my dad was interested in life again, and that he wanted to have the dog bred. We arranged for the stud date and on that day I brought Alfa back to Joey where she stayed a few days.

The Extended Years

Alfa gave birth to six tiny puppies. I brought them home from the vet in a laundry basin and my dad greeted me upon my arrival to see them. A few days later, I returned to the clinic with all six to have their tails docked. When I came home after the pups’ minor surgery, my dad gave a remark that indicated the new obsession he was developing: “So that is what was done.  I couldn’t sleep all week thinking how the surgery was going to be like!”

All six pups grew robust and happy. In the beginning we relegated them to the den and my dad bought a pup crib upon the vet’s advice for them to stay until their booster shots were complete. Soon, all six pups were crowded in the crib. Every morning my dad would enter to feed his wards and the growing youngsters, waiting for breakfast, would raise an uproar soon as the door opened.The den was next to my room so the racket was my alarm clock!

But I was facing new challenges now. If my mom was still around, she would've never let dogs inside the house. But when she left, life at home evolved to a new personality. There were 7 new rambunctious members sharing the space. Everyday the dogs were full of antics that delighted my dad no end. The downside? The house was often dirtier! The problems of housecleaning and housebreaking became my territory. We consulted the book on Boxers often. In the end, I experimented on leaving the front door open so the pups could run in and out as they wished. I taught them to do their Nature's Call downstairs.

The dogs scramble for their master's attention. At right is Alfa.

We quickly became famous in the neighborhood. The canine youngsters were a beautiful sight. Joey had told me not to look down at Alfa critically because though she was ugly, she can produce a superb line of Boxers. She did. For blocks around our house was a fascination. People would purposely pass by our house just to get a glimpse of those seven snub-nosed Boxers lounging at our front gate watching the world go by. A charming sight.

Having the Boxers turned out to be the ideal breed for us. By then, we had a new maid with a six-year-old daughter. As I’d leave for work every morning, I knew my father would’ve been vulnerable. I was leaving behind one female househelp, one child, and an elderly. But vulnerable they were not. The seven Boxers, to the uninformed, looked fierce!

Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life that relatives and friends found amusing his rushing home in the afternoons to “feed the dogs." But nobody appreciated the big picture then. The dogs were my dad's second lease on life in his old age. They were what kept him alive.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (III)

      The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself.

But as the puppies grew up, it looked like my dad had every intention of keeping all six. They were his pride and joy and the dogs scrambled over each other whenever they saw him. Housekeeping remained difficult and when they were teething we had to bear a lot of furniture damage. I shook my head at all these and remembered my mom. She would not be able to bear the way the dogs were turning her beautiful home into a doghouse. 

My dad and King Kong

Finally, things came to a head. My dad had this habit of letting his dogs loose out in the street for their morning exercise and I’d see and hear neighbors scramble to their homes and shut their gates (and peer over the fence at the fascinating sight). At first I thought it was amusing. But when I saw the six siblings charge back to my dad from the end of the street shoulder-to-shoulder like a pack of wild horses, to the uninformed, to face that head-on was frightening! The youngsters were growing bigger and looking more scary because they were Boxers. Though the breed is known as non-aggressive and gentle, many people did not know that. Neighbors’ complaints repeatedly reached us. One day, after much discussion with me, my dad let me put out an ad and slowly, the dogs left us.

The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself. The last dog that left us was “Negro,” a big and beautiful Boxer that almost looked like a Mastiff. I remember before Negro left, my dad cupped the dog's large head in his hands, looked at his wrinkled face  and said, "Be a good dog," as his farewell blessing and admonition. But in his new home, the neighbors feared this gentle dog because of its looks so one night some idiot tossed a piece of bread laced with poison over the fence...

There was one dog which my dad kept behind, the only tan-and-white pup in the litter, a lookalike of his stud father who was one of Joey's champions. His name was King Kong. But with the other pups gone, the house was lonely and quiet again. Some days my dad would ask me to find those new owners and just inquire if he could visit his former dogs. I could see that they were a part of his heart and he missed them. But I never got around to doing this for him.
             Finally my dad announced he wanted to raise a new brood so off Alfa went to Joey. But by that time Joey was slowly phasing off his kennel hobby and didn't have an available stud so he referred us to one of his Boxer friends. We took Alfa to another Boxer owner but we had waited too long. Her critical heat period had already elapsed. Since female dogs go in heat every six months, we waited another half a year. 

Alfa's second litter didn’t do so well; they were born during the summer and one very warm night my dad made the mistake of positioning an electric fan steady on them while they were in the whelping box. All the pups died except for one: another tan-and-white youngster we named Butchie Boy.

Butchie Boy grew to be a beautiful Boxer. But by then my dad was older. The maid was taking care of it more often. When Butch was three years of age, Alfa was in her sunset years. I wanted to get the playful Butch a new playmate and at the same time inject a new breed into our household. I brought in a Dalmatian puppy.

Alfa was twelve years old when she developed a growth in her uterus. Her vet diagnosed it as a tumor and warned it may spread. As it grew larger, my dad suggested we put her to sleep. Alfa was very old and very sick. As the months passed the maid reported pus was coming out the dog’s ears. It was proof that the tumor had already spread. My dad made his request. The dog was beginning to get smelly too.

A few weeks before we were to have visitors flying in from abroad, I made the decision to finally put the dog to sleep. The vet came. After it was all over, I told my dad in his room. I had Alfa buried at the side of our house. The dog that had opened an amazing new door in my dad’s life had fulfilled her purpose successfully. Now it was her turn to go.

The Last Years

A Dachshund followed – a lively self-assured little pup that initiated chase games with Butch and the Dalmatian named Spotty. My dad watched at the antics, fascinated with the spunky newcomer. But the Dachshund was not ours; it was to go to my cousin Marie a month later. When Marie came to pick it up, she read my dad's expression. A few weeks later she sent a new Dachshund to replace the first. We named the newcomer Packy.

My dad at his 90th birthday party. With him are Butchie Boy (left) and Alfa (right).

When Packy joined us my dad was 93 years old. My mom’s death which had left him empty and abandoned was 14 years ago. People had thought he was going to follow her but he didn’t. A new adventure had opened in his life and he had enjoyed it thoroughly. It was full of new experiences, challenges, and knowledge. He had discovered a new life after widowhood in his late sunset years. But by the time Packy came around, he had become an observer. I know he would've wanted to live on but he was burdened by his physical disabilities denying him further enjoyment of life. He was too old to move around, osteoarthritis had confined him to his chair. He couldn't go out and buy the dogs their food anymore, or wash the bowls and prepare their meals. Macular degeneration wouldn't let him enjoy a book and learn more about them; he couldn’t even see them well enough to enjoy their antics which were his daily delight.
                Life was closing in on him.

Packy was not as spunky as the first Dachshund. But he spent his puppyhood napping at my dad’s feet and spending his days in his room. In the mornings whenever my dad would be in the front yard neighbors would remember him as sitting in his chair to catch the early morning sun with a Dachshund puppy sunbathing along with him on his lap. That was Packy's role for him in his very advanced age.

My dad died at the age of 94 in his sleep a few months later.

Maybe it’s good my dad left before Packy became an adult. This is one dog that gives us a very challenging life at home. He keeps trying to train us. Packy would've had his little furry paw around my dad (which would clash with me as I learned more about dog training).

So is there more to life when it seems empty and feels like there's nothing further up ahead? Definitely. Sometimes it will come up to you and bark.

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