Dog Days

Early morning walks with man’s best hound

By Cassie Bustamante

Except for a blip of time between entering high school and graduating from college, I’ve been a dog owner for most of my life. Even during those teen years, when my parents repeatedly said no to a puppy, I bought myself a fish and named it Dog. You could say I am a dog lover, but there’s one hound who completely stole my heart.

Before we began having kids, Chris and I were happily a one-dog family. We’d gotten Charlie, a beagle who preferred his own company over anyone else’s, early in our relationship. But just a few months after our nuptials, a friend informed me about a litter of “bagles” — basset beagle pups — in need of homes.

“I think Charlie needs a friend,” I tell Chris on the phone, nervously bobbing my knee. What I really mean is that I need a friend.

“He’s perfectly fine as a loner,” he replies. But he knows me better than that. So he asks, “What’s going on, Cassie?”

“Weeeeell, Cyndee told me about these basset beagle puppies that are absolutely adorable and need homes and I just thought — ”

He interrupts, “Are you at the shelter right now? You are, aren’t you?”

“Oh God, no. If I was, I’d be calling to tell you we already have a puppy,” I answer.

He pauses while my foot tap-tap-taps, and then answers. “OK, but this is your dog.”

Two days later, we bring Jake, our white-and-tan bagle, home. He darts through the door, long, velvety-soft ears flapping behind him, and greets Charlie, who sniffs a bit and then promptly ignores him.

But I’m smitten. I feel a connection on a soul level with this pooch as I gaze into his dark brown eyes, which appear to be lined in charcoal. And, as it turns out, we’re kindred spirits when it comes to chow. As I gain a whopping 40 pounds the next year while growing the first Bustamante baby, so does Jake. (In our defense, we thought bassets were just “big-boned” canines.)

At his next check-up, the vet, shocked by his 75-pound weight, puts him on a diet. Knowing how much he loves to eat, I decide to implement a more rigorous exercise routine and cut back his food a little less than recommended.

And so begins our love affair with long, early-morning walks together. Through the marshlands of Louisiana, by the rivers near Annapolis, Maryland, and up-and-down countryside hills of western Maryland, we walk. For 13 years, we walk, adding two more dogs — Catcher and Snowball — to our little crew.

We walk until arthritis takes over Jake’s spine and he can no longer join me and the other two pups, until the vet tells me that I need to let him go. “He loves you so much that he will stay with you, in pain, as long as you allow it,” she tells me.

On his last day by my side, I walk him to the bus stop to retrieve the kids. We take it as slowly and as cautiously as we need to, taking breaks every now and then. But we need one last walk together, no matter how short.

Back at home, we all stroke his ears, nuzzle his pitch-black nose and tell him how loved he is. And we say good-bye. Almost two years later, I say good-bye again as we prepare to leave the house where Jake and Charlie are both buried in the backyard, for the greener pastures of North Carolina.

These days, I still walk with my dogs in the quiet stillness of the morning and, while I miss Jake, his spirit is never far. In fact, many mornings, Catcher will incessantly turn around as if he senses someone behind us. When I look, no one’s there. But if I listen carefully on windy mornings, I can hear the breeze flapping Jake’s ears.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.