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:

• Happy Adoption Day, Dino

• Remembering Dino, Our Runaround Dog

Dino, Our Runaround Dog

Dino, our sweet, handsome runaround dog. Rest in joy, my friend.

We said “goodbye” to our sweet, handsome, noble Dino this week. I’ll have more to write later about his passing. For now, I wanted to share this happy adventure from the summer of 2015

When Dino joined our pack, he had a habit of bolting. After a few months, it seemed we were making progress. But he’s still giving me gray hair. Here’s just one of the adventures of our runaround dog.

I’ve craved an early morning, long walk with Dino for weeks. He needs the extra activity and I need the exercise. The weather or schedules or sleeping in has undone my plans these past few weeks. Not today though.

I woke early and slipped the dogs out of the bedroom without disturbing Susan. My plan was to feed both, take Daisy out for a quick pee, and then go on a long jaunt with Dino. 

My plans were undone by Daisy’s mournful gaze. “Take me too, Dad,” she seemed to say. I can’t resist those big eyes. 

So, I packed water for myself and the air can to curb Dino’s barking. I hooked up both dogs and we started down Roslyn.

My plan was to take a left on Summit, but the deer were up early (the early deer get the acorn?) and one of them was staring me down. What we’ve heard from friends and neighbors is that you have to beware of the staring deer. It’s usually a buck and they will often charge. So we three trotted past the deer, on down Roslyn. All seemed well.

We headed up Van Buren, toward downtown and Dino decided it was time for him to poop. Picture this, I’m leaning over to pick up his poop. To do so, I transfer the end of Daisy’s leash -- the big, bulky retractable reel -- to the same hand in which I’m holding Dino’s leash. I fish a plastic bag from my pocket and bend over. Just for an instant my grip on Dino’s leash loosens, he pulls, he bolts, the leash slips from my grasp, and he’s gone. 

Down Van Buren, right on Barrington Avenue, left at the Depot, and through the Depot park in the center of town. Daisy and I are giving chase as best we can. I know I can’t keep up, but I’m trying to keep him in my line of sight.

And I swear at least twice, he looked back at me as if to ask, “Hey Dad, are you coming?”

By the time he reached the corner of River and Jackson Street, I was gassed. Daisy and I jog, barely, to the spot where he turned right on Jackson toward the Fox River. Keep in mind, it’s just past 6 a.m. on a Sunday. There’s no one around except for me, Daisy, and runaway Dino. Then a gray pickup pulls to a stop at Jackson coming from the way Dino ran. 

I start to ask the driver if he’s seen a dog. Before I could, 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 thank him and head down the street. Before I can take two steps, here comes Dino up the street toward me looking way too pleased with himself.

Now, I’ve seen this trick before. He’s gotten off leash and ran back 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 returned. 

The three of us headed back to the picnic tables near the Depot so I could get a drink of water and get my pulse back somewhere near normal.

Since then, Dino has settled (somewhat) and we have had no runaway or run-around incidents. And I’m thankful that this time he at least met me halfway. 

Stay safe, stay well, and keep a tight grip on the leash. I know I will. And Dino, I miss you, buddy. Long may you run.

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.

Double-Dog-Dare

The couch brothers, Dino and Roy (Mike Barzacchini photo).

The latest Vocal challenge I completed involved writing a poem about my place of comfort. Not surprisingly, my entry revolved around dogs, in particular Roy and Dino. There is nothing quite as relaxing as sitting on the couch after a long day of work between each of these snoring boys. Their sleep generates positive, relaxing vibes. You can read the poem and my story behind it on Vocal.

What places or experiences bring you comfort, happiness, and joy?

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.

LuLu is…

Lulu is…
Joy
Laughter
Resilience
Strength
Pound for pound, Lulu makes me happier and brings more laughter than any of our other dogs or any dog I’ve ever known. She’s in pain at times and has multiple medical challenges, but it never slows her down. She’s a great example for me.

Photo by Susan