Walk On, Dino
Noble, sweet, and handsome Dino.
We said “goodbye” to Dino last week. Our sweet, handsome, noble boy was just 10 years old. A fast-moving cancer claimed him. I’ll have a Dino-sized hole in my heart for some time, but I will fill it with his memories and all the love and joy he brought to our home.
We adopted Dino from a rescue in Winfield, Illinois, in 2015. He’d been on the run in rural Indiana when the rescue found him. A part of our family since, he endured dozens of foster dogs, the loss of one dear packmate, Daisy, and three new packmates Lucy, Roy, and LuLu (rest in peace), with kindness and grace. Though sometimes, I swear I could hear him thinking, “Hey guys, what’s with all the dogs?”.
He was our walking buddy. On walks around our neighborhood, Dino was always on guard. But get him into the village and Dino chilled. He loved to go to our Depot Market, kind of a combination flea and farmers market. And people at the market loved Dino. I joked with Susan that I often benefited from the “Dino Discount” at the market. People were so charmed with him that they’d almost give their goods away.
Dino did have his triggers. Deer and squirrels, of course, But cats and workers wearing reflective yellow, orange, or green vests set him off. I always wondered what it was about reflective clothing that triggered him. Now, I’ll never know.
This cancer seemed to us like it moved fast. But likely, it had been progressing for some time. In September, we noticed a limp and began treating him for arthritis or a leg strain. Weeks later a choking incident led to the discovery of his cancer. At the exam, the veterinarian at the animal hospital ordered X-rays to make sure he didn’t have anything lodged in his throat or stomach. The X-ray revealed that his lungs were filled with either an infection or cancer. I’ve never rooted harder for an infection. It took a few days for the test results to come in, ruling out infection, and confirming cancer. Our veterinarian said that with the state of his lungs, we likely had days or weeks with Dino. Turned out it was days.
Dino on his last morning.
It’s almost like once Dino knew we knew the diagnosis, he went downhill quickly. His back legs weakened. He couldn’t walk even around the block. He was restless, had trouble breathing, and seemed to be in constant discomfort and pain. We scheduled an appointment with our vet. It was time.
On his last morning with us, I took Dino out on our deck so we could enjoy the autumn air together. Every time we go on the deck, Dino wants to go into our gazebo. Usually, I’m doing something on the deck, so I’d say, “No, Dino, not today.”
On this morning, he again went toward the gazebo door and this time, we went in. I brought along Jim Harrison’s Complete Poems and thought I’d read a few to him. Harrison loved dogs and many of his poems included references to them. His poems have also brought me comfort in difficult times.
I opened the massive volume to a random page and began to read. The verse I turned to was this stanza from “Sonoran Radio”:
The cow dog licks her cancerous
and bloated teats.
Otherwise, she’s the happiest
dog I know, always smiling,
always trying to help out.
I couldn’t get through the stanza without sobbing. That was Dino. Always happy. Always gentle. I read a few more poems. Did some more crying. And mostly just stayed there soaking up his presence this one last time.
Along with walks and naps, one of Dino’s favorite pastimes was standing guard at the tall windows in our kitchen, alerting us to passing deer. During his final days, he’d silently watch the deer. Too tired and in too much pain to stand or bark. That last morning, beside him in the gazebo, I wrote these lines:
Now that you’re gone
I will stand by the window
And bark at the deer
In your honor
That’s just one way I’ll remember Dino. Though I’ll miss him on my walks around the neighborhood, I’ll also keep his memory close in my heart and with every step. My life is better for knowing this sweet, gentle, noble, and handsome boy. I’ll try to continue to live up to his example.
Walk on, Dino, walk on.
More Dino Stories:
Izzy, Our First Rescue, She Saved Us and Almost Outlived Us
Izzy, our first rescue who also rescued us. Mike Barzacchini photo.
Izzy, a yellow-lab mix, was our first rescue dog. Susan and Jonathan found her at a shelter in Cincinnati. We brought her home when Jonathan was two. He grew up with Izzy.
Izzy was a gentle dog. All she wanted was to love and to be loved. Not a big barker. Not a big player. In fact, I called her my labrador non-retriever because she might go after the ball, but she never brought it back.
I remember a lot of things about Izzy, how she liked to go out with me in the middle of the night while I looked at the moon. The bones she’d bury in the backyard but never remember to dig up. How much she loved to lay in the sun and take car rides. I'll remember two things most of all about Izzy. Once she saved our lives and once she almost outlived us all.
One weekend evening when Jonathan was about nine or ten, he and Susan were in our kitchen. I worked at my desk in our upstairs bedroom. Izzy slept on the floor by my side. My desk faced a window overlooking our backyard. Our kitchen also had a big picture window that faced the backyard. A tall privacy fence enclosed the yard. On the other side of the fence was a road. On the other side of the road were railroad tracks for the Northwest Chicago Metra line.
izzy at rest. Mike Barzacchini photo.
Visitors rarely came through our back gate. That night, approaching 11 p.m., a man with a backpack, did pass our gate. He started down the walk to our back kitchen door.
At the sight of the intruder, I raced down the stairs, first with Izzy trailing, then she bolted in front of me. Through the storm door, I confronted the stranger, asking him his intent. His answers were nonspecific and suspicious. He kept the backpack, now slipped off his shoulder obscured behind his legs.
I may have stopped him from approaching. But it was Izzy’s aggressive barking and the way she threw herself against the storm door that turned him away. We’d never seen her so fierce. She sensed the danger and responded to protect her family. Susan called 911 but by the time police arrived, the intruder had disappeared into the night.
A few weeks later, the news carried a story about a woman stabbed to death in her home. She lived on the same Metra line in a neighboring town. The intruder had entered through a back patio door. Was she killed by the same person who invaded our backyard? There’s no way to tell, but Susan, Jonathan, and I remain convinced that Izzy saved our lives that night.
Flash forward about six years. Izzy was near the end of her life. She was in pain. Her legs and bodily functions failing. We’d made the appointment with our veterinarian to have her euthanized in a few days. But now it was Sunday, a beautiful late summer evening. Jonathan, Susan, and I drove to a neighborhood pond with our younger dog, Daisy. Jonathan fished while Susan and I walked Daisy around the lake path, a path Izzy could no longer travel.
Before going home, we stopped for takeout food. We looked forward to a quiet evening. On the way home, a car ran a stop sign and t-boned us, sending our car on its side. Fortunately, we survived with minor injuries. I’ve often thought since that if the worst had happened, Izzy might have outlived us all.
Later that week, we helped Izzy pass on in peace. I don’t know about heaven and hell. I expect to learn someday. I do believe, like Jim Harrison, that our beloved dogs will be wherever is next, patiently waiting to greet us. I look forward to seeing Izzy basking in the sun, with her smiling eyes, and wagging tail.
The Ballad of Chris, the Dog
Chris the dog, aka Romeo (Mike Barzacchini photo)
I wrote about the adventures of Chris, the dog who adopted us, and published the story on Vocal as part its 24/7 Companion contest. You can read the story of his amorous excursions on Vocal.
Thinking About the Old Yellow Dog
Thinking about Izzy today, our sweet, old yellow dog. She wags and nuzzles in my memories asking from one more scratch behind the ears.
Goodnight, old yellow dog. See you in my dreams.
Dog Stories: Remembering the Yellow Dog
Izzy was our sweet yellow dog. She’s been gone nearly 10 years, but sometimes it feels like she’s by my side still. Here’s what I remember and treasure about Izzy.
Izzy was our sweet yellow dog. She’s been gone nearly 10 years, but sometimes it feels like she’s by my side still. Here’s what I remember and treasure about Izzy:
Izzy was our first rescue dog. She was found at the pound in Cincinnati by Susan and Jonathan.
They found her on the “private side” of the pound, a place for dogs that weren’t technically up for adoption. Why was she there? Because the staff loved her so much. They wanted to keep her around.
While in the pound, she had puppies. I’ve often wondered what they looked like. All were adopted out before we adopted Izzy.
We called Izzy our Labrador Non-Retriever. She would not fetch, even if you wrapped bacon around the ball. If you gave her a chew toy or bone, instead of playing with it, she’d bury it in the backyard and immediately forget where she buried it.
When we adopted Izzy, she a year or two old. She joined Lydia, our Bichon Frise. Izzy recognized Lydia as her elder, almost treating her like a mom. She became Lydia’s “follower,” which led her on some interesting adventures.
For a time after Lydia died, Izzy was an “only dog.” Then we brought Daisy, another Bichon, into our home. Now the roles were reversed with Daisy bonding to Izzy as her mother figure. I think Izzy may have felt this was doggy deja vu.
Izzy never ran away. She did walk away a couple of times but always came back.
Izzy liked to bask in the sun, especially as she got older. We used to speculate that the warm sun felt good on her bones.
When Izzy was happy, she would roll on her back and yowl.
She was a big dog who liked small spaces and could sometimes be found sleeping under the buffet table or in a laundry basket.
Scared by the sound of thunder, Izzy would seek shelter in the bathtub.
Izzy likely saved our lives when a stranger entered our gate and approached our backdoor late one night. A quiet, gentle dog, she possessed a fierce bark and protective nature when she felt her pack was threatened.
She was my favorite moon-watching companion. Sometimes when I go out at night now, I wonder if she’s watching me watch the moon.
I’ve written dozens of yellow dog poems about Izzy. I hope to collect and publish them one day.
I miss Izzy, our old yellow dog.
Dog Stories: LuLu Is
LuLu is our most recent rescue. She’s the latest addition to our little pack.
LuLu is our little heart patient. She came to us with a prognosis as short as six-months left to live.
It’s been eight months and LuLu is alive.
LuLu was Lucie. When we adopted her, we already had a Lucy. So, Lucie became LuLu. You know what, she never missed a beat. She responds to LuLu like it’s always been her name. I think she may have always been a LuLu at heart.
LuLu is a Shih Tzu. I never imagined I’d be a Shih Tzu daddy. Now I can’t imagine life without her.
LuLu is loved.
Dog Stories: Roy and Max
When we brought Roy home in May 2020, any stuffed toy we gave him had a life expetency of five minutes or less. It took him no time at all to “kill” the squeaker and eviserate the poor creature. There was stuffing everywhere.
Recently, Roy’s behavior has shifted, especially with one toy, a small stuffed dinosaur that Susan and I have dubbed Max. Max has become a constant and comforting companion for Roy. It’s great to see him making new friends.
Happy Valentine's Day From My Spirit Animal and Me
Happy Valentine’s day from Dino, my spirit animal, and me. Or am I his spirit animal? I can never remember. And yes, it’s true. We do share the same hair. May your day, your week, and your life be filled with love and joy.
Dog Stories: The Ballad of Dino, the Runaround Dog
We adopted Dino, our standard poodle mix rescue, in March 2015. Gentle and loving, I remember the one disclaimer his foster mom shared before we took him home.
“He did wander off once. We found him walking down the sidewalk. It didn’t seem like he was running away. More like he was just going out for a walk.”
In our first few weeks with Dino, we experienced this runaround nature first hand. He bolted from the backseat of our car after a trip to town. He once ran past my father-in-law and out the front door prompting a family search of our neighborhood. When our son Jonathan was home from college, Dino also got away. That time, Jonathan coaxed him into the backseat of a neighbor’s car. Perhaps the only thing Dino likes better than a walkabout is a car ride. Then there was the time Dino took an unplanned off-leash adventure with me in pursuit.
It was early April and spring weather was finally making an appearance in Northern Illinois. I’d craved a long walk with Dino for weeks. He needed the activity and I needed the exercise. It was Sunday morning. No work or chores to get in the way. Let’s go.
I woke early and slipped the dogs out of the bedroom without disturbing Susan. My plan was to feed both, take Daisy, our bichon, out for a quick squirt, then go on my long jaunt with Dino.
Daisy changed my plans with her mournful gaze. “Take me too, Dad,” she seemed to say. I could never resist her big eyes. So, I hooked up both dogs and we started down our road into town.
Just outside the center of our small town, Dino stopped to do his business. I transferred both leashes to my left hand so I could pull a poop sack from my back pocket. For a moment, my grip on Dino’s leash loosened. That’s all it took.
Dino bolted toward town, dragging his leash. I followed, trying not to drag Daisy, but urging her to move her short legs as fast as possible. I knew we couldn’t keep up, but I was trying to at least keep Dino in view.
He ran past the town depot, through the restaurant district, and took a right toward the Fox River. I swear at least twice, he looked back at me as if to ask, “Hey Dad, are you coming?”
By the time I reached the street he’d turned down, I was gassed. and Daisy and I could barely jog. It was 6 a.m. on Sunday morning. There was no one around except for me, Daisy, and runaround Dino. Then a gray pickup pulled to a stop at the corner coming up the street Dino had run down.
Before I could ask the driver if he’d seen a dog, he rolled down his window and said, “Hey, are you looking for a big black poodle?”
“Yes,” I said,
“Well, he’s down the street in a parking lot and it looks like he’s waiting on someone.”
I thanked him and headed that way. Before I could take two steps, Dino came up the street toward me looking way too pleased with himself.
I’d seen this trick before. He’d gotten off leash and ran toward both Susan and me only to bolt past us and continue the merry chase. I braced myself to try to tackle him, but this time was different. He stopped just in front of me, sat down, and let me take his leash. I alternately praised and cursed him, but was so grateful that he had returned.
The three of us headed back to the picnic tables near the town square so I could get a catch my breath and get my pulse back somewhere near normal.
Since that time, Dino has settled (somewhat). We haven’t had any runaway or runaround incidents. And I’m thankful that this last time he at least met me halfway. Have a great weekend and keep a tight grip on the leash. I know I will.
In Search of Happy Places
It’s important to find our happy places, especially during challenging times. And once we’ve found them, it’s good to go back and revisit them often, even if it’s just in our mind.
One of my happy places is the Coronado Beach Dog Park. These photos are from our visit there in October 2019. Watching these dogs splash and play in the surf was my definition of pure joy.
I’m not sure when we’ll get back, but I’m glad Coronado Beach exists in my happy place memory bank.
Where are your happy places?
Deer in the Dark
You never know what you’ll find when you take your dogs out for that last walk of the night, or what might find you.
We had storms rolling in last night, so I hustled the dogs out for their last walk before bedtime. Lucy and Lulu, the little ones are easy, I just let them out behind the gate, but I leash Dino and Roy and take them to the side yard.
Dino was first. As soon as I got him out past the gate, he started to growl and circle and wanted to go back. Dino has two alert behaviors. When he barks and moves forward, it means he spies or smells something that warrants further attention. A squirrel or chipmunk, perhaps. When he growls and retreats, I pay attention. We kept close to the gate entrance so he could finish his business, then I hustled him and the two littles inside. I still had to take care of Roy, our three-legged, almost eighty-pound hound mix.
I leashed Roy and grabbed a flashlight. At least I’d be able to see what we were walking into. Roy doesn’t typically alert in the dark. He just bounds forward. It may be that he’s not easy to surprise after all his time spent in the Tennessee woods before we rescued him.
Lightning flashed in the distance as I walked Roy toward the side yard. I scanned the flashlight left. Nothing but trees. I flashed the beam in front of us. More trees. Then I moved it right to Roy’s “go-to” spot. A big buck stood tall and regal less than ten yards from us. I didn’t take the time to count his points, but he was easily the biggest specimen I’d seen on the hill this season and his gaze was fixed on us.
I’ve been chased by a buck while trying to navigate dogs on leash before and didn’t look to relive that experience, especially in the dark on the cusp of a storm. The thing about bucks this time of year, they act like they own the place. And even though I can produce the deed, they’re adamant. Roy and I retreated. He could make like the little ones behind the gate tonight.
Not long after, safe and warm inside with all dogs, the storm hit full force, wind, thunder, lightning, and driving rain. I thought about the buck and wondered where he sheltered. I thanked him silently for allowing Roy and me a graceful retreat from our nighttime encounter.
Roy, my fellow deer finder (Mike Barzacchini photo).
Enjoying the Ride
I’ve passed this field just after sunrise every week since late August. Each time I think, “I should stop and take a photo.” Yesterday, I finally did.
I don’t have much of a commute these days unless you count my trip to the home office, formerly our dining room. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I drive Roy, our three-legged foster dog about 20 miles roundtrip for training and daycare.
Each time, I pass a field of prairie grass, weeds, and I’m sure more than a few invasive plant species, cast in the bright glow of sunrise. Every day, I think, I should stop and snap a photo of this. Yesterday I did.
Roy has five more weeks of training. This means ten more times driving past this field. I look forward to seeing how the view evolves into late fall and perhaps the first frost.
This won’t be the last time I stop for a photo. It’s a reminder for me to enjoy the journey, no matter how strange and challenging the days and to start with each beautiful moment that makes up each day.
I hope you enjoy your daily drive or trip to your home office. What’s your favorite recent view of the world?
