Ninja
(cute, smelly black ball of fur)
We had to put down our dog last night.
Dogs - and really pets - mean different things to different people. To some, they are companions. To others, merely domesticated animals. To others, family.
I'm not interested in where I fall on the debate. What I do know - what I do care about - is that something that was in my life for 13 and a half years is no more. And be that a teddy bear, a favorite picture, or our black lab, that is a sad thing.
I was the first one of my siblings to see her. I was 11, so I was up later than my sisters and brother. My Mom told me to come outside, and I went out to the front porch. I remember it in great detail, and am happy to do so; how I couldn't see what it was, at first, until the black puppy opened her eyes. Her coat was midnight black, and if she wasn't looking at you, you couldn't make her out from the night. But her green eyes glowed with curiosity. She was barely more than a ball of fur, I could hold her in my two eleven-year-old hands. That evening she bounced around the front yard, her legs bounding everywhere and I laughed and was having fun... despite the fact that I had never wanted a dog.
That summed up so much of my time with Ninja - I had never asked for her... but she was so much more than I thought. If I had known what having a companion like this was like, I would have asked for one.
The kids all wanted to name her different things, so my parents decided that we could each put a name in a hat and we would randomly draw to see what the dog's name would be. Emmie chose something that I can barely remember, but it ended with III ("The third"). Grace and Rosie, combining their names and forces, both put in Annabelle. Mike - for reasons unknown - chose Pizza.
Looking at the black ball of fur, and remembering how I couldn't see her and how her legs bounded everywhere around the yard, I chose Ninja.
I won.
(Later on, we found out that my parents - normally very fair, reasonable people - rigged the selection process. As my Dad put it, "There was no way I was going into the neighborhood calling out for Annabelle." I couldn't agree more.)
So Ninja was part of the family.
She was an incredibly patient dog, a major reason we got a black lab; the young sibs, Mike, Grace, and Rosie, would ride on her, tug her ears, and give her hugs around her neck, all of which she took with stoic restraint. She loved licking anyone who fell on the ground - which happened every 2.3 seconds in our house - and spent the better part of a decade leaping up onto visitors in an effort to lick them as well. She had all the rage and bitter protectiveness of flour.
The turning point in Ninja's life was when my parents purchased and built Chautauqua. Dog heaven, we called it. With our nearest neighbors barely in visual sight, Ninja ran around Chautauqua like mad, sniffing trails, exploring fields, chasing birds and deer, and suntanning on the porch. A total snow dog, she loved playing in snow forts and chasing after us on the sled in winter; in summer, we played frisbee and threw sticks and chased her around, which was one of her favorite pasttimes. Whe would always let us get just close enough to grab at her when she would put on the afterburners and blow by everyone. She would play "throw the stick" at any time, and would always fall for the "fake throw" trick, and then get confused and look around, wondering where the crazy stick had gotten to this time. Most of the time when you did throw the stick, she would grab it and tear around with it, running away from everyone trying to get it back and then wrestling her for the prize. Ignore her, and she would be so disappointed that she would come trotting up to you and put the stick in your lap so that you could start wrestling her for it again.
We would take her to the lake, where she would nearly drown (indeed, we had to keep her away from it in her later years, fearing she really would) chasing the ducks. Ninja would be on a pier out into the lake, when a herd (herd?) of ducks would go by, quacking. Ninja would bark like mad - how dare ducks intrude into her territory - and the ducks, unconcerned, would continue on by, quacking away. This inevitably would cause Ninja to launch herself off the pier, splashing into the water and swimming after the ducks. She would try to bark at them, getting out one bark, and then water would rush into her mouth, and she would cough for 15 or 20 seconds, while the ducks (still extremely unconcerned) would swim around, quacking away. Ninja would continue paddling after them, never with any hope of catching the ducks, and intermittently barking and coughing up water until she was too exhausted to swim. She would then make it to shore, standing on the side of the lake, water dripping off her black coat. On average, it would be five minutes before she would get so infuriated at the quacking ducks that she would tear off into the lake again.
As lovable/hysterical as her "stupid" moments were (and there were many), she had two great kills in her lifetime that were badges of pride, both (fittingly) at Chautauqua. She killed a raccoon at one point, which she had then to be checked for rabies, but her highlight - the ultimate pinnacle - of her career as Ninja, Dog Huntress was when she took down a massive groundhog. This thing was HUGE, a big, mean, fully-grown thing that was waddling across the road up to our Chautauqua house. Ninja, out on a walk with Dad, spotted the thing and immediately ran up to it, snarling. The groundhog - smartly - held its ground, and Ninja began circling it, teeth bared, hackles raised, in full kill mode. Dad - trying to protect Ninja - tried to pull her away by the leash, and the groundhog took that moment to swipe at Ninja, opening a gash on her nose. Ninja looked up at Dad with a "Why would you do that?" look. Dad said that he felt so bad, then let her off the leash. "Get 'em, Ninja!" he cried, and Ninja skidded back into the fray, snarling and growling. They circled, each feinting attacks at each other, when finally the groundhog made its move. It charged for Ninja, teeth and claws first, going for a bite; but Ninja, now at age 9 but calling upon her prime, leapt over the groundhog, landing behind it. She then whirled around before it could react and sank her teeth into the back of its neck and shook for all she was worth. It fought, but Ninja gave a violent jerk of her head, snapping the groundhog's neck.
There was never a prouder dog than that day. She carried her prize back to the house, where she dropped it - literally - on the doorstep to the kitchen. Mom absolutely freaked. All the kids gave high fives and petted Ninja, who stood in her "noble protector" position - legs straight, head up, gaze noble. It was hysterical to see how proud she was, really proud. Mom chased her out. The kids all crooned that they had a great dog. Ninja was taken to the vet. But she also got a free run of chewsticks for the day... which she had while lounging around on the porch in the sun (after her kill).
So many memories.
- The way she would run next to you on runs, and then get tired, falling back until the leash caught, which would insult her pride and then cause her to run ahead of you, trying to prove she wasn't tired.
- The time she put down an entire Hershey's Pot of Gold, including wrappers.
- The way, when chastised, she would look so bummed.
- The way she gassed everyone out and the entire family would go (always in the same tone of voice): "Oh, NINja!" And Ninja would immediately leave the room. As she got older, she would leave the room as soon as she did it, thus avoiding the scolding; we learned that when Ninja suddenly got up and left the room, there was a 50% chance that it was due to full chemical warfare.
- The way she would choose one trail in Bird Park, want to go that way, HAVE to go that way, WHY AREN'T WE GOING THAT WAY??, to the point that you needed two hands and all your weight to pull her the way you wanted to go - which she would then suddenly agree to and take off down that trail, eager to see where THIS trail was going, and nearly jerk your arms out of your sockets.
- The amount of nicknames she had from the siblings: Snookums, Bookers, Snizzlewigs, almost any nonsensical sound combination you could think of.
- Dad saying at the dinner table countless times that he wished she would get a tumor and die already, when (not that) secretly he was a bigger fan of her than all of us.
- The way she would bark out the window at dogs going by, then come up to you wagging her tail, wanting to be petted for protecting the house.
- The way she would growl pleasurably when you rubbed her ears, and then when you stopped, how she would shake her ears violently and rub them along the couches.
- The way she would yawn if you were talking about her but not to her. This never failed. When we found this out, we would sit around the dinner table talking about Ninja, not even saying anything but just saying her name a lot: "Ninja, blah blah, today, NINJA, blah blah blah, Ninja, blah Ninja blah...." and she would start yawning. Never failed.
- All the pictures Rosie and Grace used on the dog - cameras worth - of her laying down, standing, wearing hats, etc., which Mom would then scold them for wasting film. "WE ALREADY HAVE 300 PICTURES OF THE DOG!" she'd say.
- The way she'd creep up to the table during dinner, and then be told to "Go lie down" by the family, which would cause her to go to the very edge of the TV room, ready to pounce if, perchance, a stray meatball would hit the floor.
So many memories. So much of my life.
I never wanted a dog. Didn't ask for it, didn't want to take care of it. I complained about having to walk her at night, in the cold, at having to go on runs with her, at her having the bladder capacity of a koosh ball. Being at college for 4 years and on my own after that, I might have spent the least time with her of any of my siblings.
And I am very sad she is gone.
What a great dog you were. You brought happiness and fun and life to the Calland household. So many places - Chautauqua, the dinner table, the backyard - won't be the same without you. I wish I could pet you again and give you a hug, and maybe wrestle with you for a stick. Great times. You were - and it's absolutely true - a real part of the family.
Some day, when I have kids, I hope they grow up with a dog that is half as good as you were.
Thanks, Ninja.
We had to put down our dog last night.
Dogs - and really pets - mean different things to different people. To some, they are companions. To others, merely domesticated animals. To others, family.
I'm not interested in where I fall on the debate. What I do know - what I do care about - is that something that was in my life for 13 and a half years is no more. And be that a teddy bear, a favorite picture, or our black lab, that is a sad thing.
I was the first one of my siblings to see her. I was 11, so I was up later than my sisters and brother. My Mom told me to come outside, and I went out to the front porch. I remember it in great detail, and am happy to do so; how I couldn't see what it was, at first, until the black puppy opened her eyes. Her coat was midnight black, and if she wasn't looking at you, you couldn't make her out from the night. But her green eyes glowed with curiosity. She was barely more than a ball of fur, I could hold her in my two eleven-year-old hands. That evening she bounced around the front yard, her legs bounding everywhere and I laughed and was having fun... despite the fact that I had never wanted a dog.
That summed up so much of my time with Ninja - I had never asked for her... but she was so much more than I thought. If I had known what having a companion like this was like, I would have asked for one.
The kids all wanted to name her different things, so my parents decided that we could each put a name in a hat and we would randomly draw to see what the dog's name would be. Emmie chose something that I can barely remember, but it ended with III ("The third"). Grace and Rosie, combining their names and forces, both put in Annabelle. Mike - for reasons unknown - chose Pizza.
Looking at the black ball of fur, and remembering how I couldn't see her and how her legs bounded everywhere around the yard, I chose Ninja.
I won.
(Later on, we found out that my parents - normally very fair, reasonable people - rigged the selection process. As my Dad put it, "There was no way I was going into the neighborhood calling out for Annabelle." I couldn't agree more.)
So Ninja was part of the family.
She was an incredibly patient dog, a major reason we got a black lab; the young sibs, Mike, Grace, and Rosie, would ride on her, tug her ears, and give her hugs around her neck, all of which she took with stoic restraint. She loved licking anyone who fell on the ground - which happened every 2.3 seconds in our house - and spent the better part of a decade leaping up onto visitors in an effort to lick them as well. She had all the rage and bitter protectiveness of flour.
The turning point in Ninja's life was when my parents purchased and built Chautauqua. Dog heaven, we called it. With our nearest neighbors barely in visual sight, Ninja ran around Chautauqua like mad, sniffing trails, exploring fields, chasing birds and deer, and suntanning on the porch. A total snow dog, she loved playing in snow forts and chasing after us on the sled in winter; in summer, we played frisbee and threw sticks and chased her around, which was one of her favorite pasttimes. Whe would always let us get just close enough to grab at her when she would put on the afterburners and blow by everyone. She would play "throw the stick" at any time, and would always fall for the "fake throw" trick, and then get confused and look around, wondering where the crazy stick had gotten to this time. Most of the time when you did throw the stick, she would grab it and tear around with it, running away from everyone trying to get it back and then wrestling her for the prize. Ignore her, and she would be so disappointed that she would come trotting up to you and put the stick in your lap so that you could start wrestling her for it again.
We would take her to the lake, where she would nearly drown (indeed, we had to keep her away from it in her later years, fearing she really would) chasing the ducks. Ninja would be on a pier out into the lake, when a herd (herd?) of ducks would go by, quacking. Ninja would bark like mad - how dare ducks intrude into her territory - and the ducks, unconcerned, would continue on by, quacking away. This inevitably would cause Ninja to launch herself off the pier, splashing into the water and swimming after the ducks. She would try to bark at them, getting out one bark, and then water would rush into her mouth, and she would cough for 15 or 20 seconds, while the ducks (still extremely unconcerned) would swim around, quacking away. Ninja would continue paddling after them, never with any hope of catching the ducks, and intermittently barking and coughing up water until she was too exhausted to swim. She would then make it to shore, standing on the side of the lake, water dripping off her black coat. On average, it would be five minutes before she would get so infuriated at the quacking ducks that she would tear off into the lake again.
As lovable/hysterical as her "stupid" moments were (and there were many), she had two great kills in her lifetime that were badges of pride, both (fittingly) at Chautauqua. She killed a raccoon at one point, which she had then to be checked for rabies, but her highlight - the ultimate pinnacle - of her career as Ninja, Dog Huntress was when she took down a massive groundhog. This thing was HUGE, a big, mean, fully-grown thing that was waddling across the road up to our Chautauqua house. Ninja, out on a walk with Dad, spotted the thing and immediately ran up to it, snarling. The groundhog - smartly - held its ground, and Ninja began circling it, teeth bared, hackles raised, in full kill mode. Dad - trying to protect Ninja - tried to pull her away by the leash, and the groundhog took that moment to swipe at Ninja, opening a gash on her nose. Ninja looked up at Dad with a "Why would you do that?" look. Dad said that he felt so bad, then let her off the leash. "Get 'em, Ninja!" he cried, and Ninja skidded back into the fray, snarling and growling. They circled, each feinting attacks at each other, when finally the groundhog made its move. It charged for Ninja, teeth and claws first, going for a bite; but Ninja, now at age 9 but calling upon her prime, leapt over the groundhog, landing behind it. She then whirled around before it could react and sank her teeth into the back of its neck and shook for all she was worth. It fought, but Ninja gave a violent jerk of her head, snapping the groundhog's neck.
There was never a prouder dog than that day. She carried her prize back to the house, where she dropped it - literally - on the doorstep to the kitchen. Mom absolutely freaked. All the kids gave high fives and petted Ninja, who stood in her "noble protector" position - legs straight, head up, gaze noble. It was hysterical to see how proud she was, really proud. Mom chased her out. The kids all crooned that they had a great dog. Ninja was taken to the vet. But she also got a free run of chewsticks for the day... which she had while lounging around on the porch in the sun (after her kill).
So many memories.
- The way she would run next to you on runs, and then get tired, falling back until the leash caught, which would insult her pride and then cause her to run ahead of you, trying to prove she wasn't tired.
- The time she put down an entire Hershey's Pot of Gold, including wrappers.
- The way, when chastised, she would look so bummed.
- The way she gassed everyone out and the entire family would go (always in the same tone of voice): "Oh, NINja!" And Ninja would immediately leave the room. As she got older, she would leave the room as soon as she did it, thus avoiding the scolding; we learned that when Ninja suddenly got up and left the room, there was a 50% chance that it was due to full chemical warfare.
- The way she would choose one trail in Bird Park, want to go that way, HAVE to go that way, WHY AREN'T WE GOING THAT WAY??, to the point that you needed two hands and all your weight to pull her the way you wanted to go - which she would then suddenly agree to and take off down that trail, eager to see where THIS trail was going, and nearly jerk your arms out of your sockets.
- The amount of nicknames she had from the siblings: Snookums, Bookers, Snizzlewigs, almost any nonsensical sound combination you could think of.
- Dad saying at the dinner table countless times that he wished she would get a tumor and die already, when (not that) secretly he was a bigger fan of her than all of us.
- The way she would bark out the window at dogs going by, then come up to you wagging her tail, wanting to be petted for protecting the house.
- The way she would growl pleasurably when you rubbed her ears, and then when you stopped, how she would shake her ears violently and rub them along the couches.
- The way she would yawn if you were talking about her but not to her. This never failed. When we found this out, we would sit around the dinner table talking about Ninja, not even saying anything but just saying her name a lot: "Ninja, blah blah, today, NINJA, blah blah blah, Ninja, blah Ninja blah...." and she would start yawning. Never failed.
- All the pictures Rosie and Grace used on the dog - cameras worth - of her laying down, standing, wearing hats, etc., which Mom would then scold them for wasting film. "WE ALREADY HAVE 300 PICTURES OF THE DOG!" she'd say.
- The way she'd creep up to the table during dinner, and then be told to "Go lie down" by the family, which would cause her to go to the very edge of the TV room, ready to pounce if, perchance, a stray meatball would hit the floor.
So many memories. So much of my life.
I never wanted a dog. Didn't ask for it, didn't want to take care of it. I complained about having to walk her at night, in the cold, at having to go on runs with her, at her having the bladder capacity of a koosh ball. Being at college for 4 years and on my own after that, I might have spent the least time with her of any of my siblings.
And I am very sad she is gone.
What a great dog you were. You brought happiness and fun and life to the Calland household. So many places - Chautauqua, the dinner table, the backyard - won't be the same without you. I wish I could pet you again and give you a hug, and maybe wrestle with you for a stick. Great times. You were - and it's absolutely true - a real part of the family.
Some day, when I have kids, I hope they grow up with a dog that is half as good as you were.
Thanks, Ninja.
posted by Mat | 2:14 PM
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