by Karen Dugan Holman, B.S., B.S.E., M.S.
Scrunch scrunch, jingle jingle, click clack. Those were the sounds that
grew familiar to me while growing up in my family’s 1960s rambling ranch-style home. I was hearing heavy canvas rubbing together, zippered compartments, and the boots of my dad’s flight suit as he walked down the long hall to my bedroom. I dreaded those sounds because I knew it meant my dad was flying with the Air National Guard and would be leaving for the morning, weeks, or sometimes months, depending on his orders. Each time he would leave to fly, it was very early in the morning, and we would all be deep in our dreams. He would come to my bed, lean over and tell me he loved me, give me a kiss, and then say, “Take care of the dogs.” I was very young during the Vietnam War, and I truly did not understand the magnitude of Dad’s departures or the true meaning behind the phrase “take care of the dogs.”
My dad was larger than life, not only in stature but in his presence. He was an avid quail and pheasant hunter, and we raised English Setters for his sporting adventures. Those dogs were never meant to be pets but were working dogs. Although we loved, trained, and cared for the dogs, they were not allowed to sleep in the house. After all, they needed to be acclimated to the cold weather and were bred to be outdoor working dogs. We trained them using positive reinforcement, love, and repetition. It was magical to watch the dogs work with my dad. He had a relationship, a bond with each and every pup. I looked forward to spending one-on-one time with my dad.
There was one particular dog, the best trained of our dogs, the dog all hunters wanted their dogs to emulate. He was a master at hunting and a beautiful English Setter specimen. Spot was white with one large black spot on his back and black surrounding each eye. I have many, many memories of Spot and our antics that we
shared, but I would like to revisit one particular life-changing experience.
“I had to be strong”
We were experiencing a heavy snowstorm with bitter cold temperatures. You could hear the north wind howling as it came up
across our pond toward our home. That is a familiar sound if you have lived in Oklahoma. Spot and I were both in our teenage years, and my parents had separated. I felt as if my world had flipped. I was perplexed about how my dad could leave us and how he could leave his dogs. Spot had grown older and weaker, so we made a warm bed for him near the front door behind a rock wall. This protected him from the extreme weather, and we could keep a closer eye on him. The storm was gaining in strength, so I bundled up in layers and headed out to feed the dogs and horses.
As I walked out the front door, I kicked over Spot’s water, noticing he was not there to greet me. After carrying warm water in a bucket to give fresh, nonfrozen water to each of the animals, I began my search for Spot. “Maybe he had wandered off to die alone,” I thought. He was 16, beyond the “golden years” for a large dog, the vet had said to me on his last visit. I checked the dog pens, the barns, any place Spot might go for protection and warmth. He had dignity and pride and was almost regal in his stature. Although his age was changing his physical structure, his confidence had not wavered. He was feeble, almost bony in appearance, and I could not imagine him walking against this Oklahoma wind or trudging through the knee-deep snow.
It was darkening outside, and I began to panic. I asked my mom and sisters to join in the search. We bundled up and searched for what seemed like hours. We found no dog tracks, no hints of where Spot might have headed. We returned to the warm house, and Mom tried to gently convince me that he was probably gone, and heaven had a new angel. I sat by the fire, knowing I could not cry. I could not let my family see my weakness because I had to be strong for them, but the knot in my throat was swelling. Dad had told me to “take care of the dogs.”
I could not accept the implication that Spot was gone, and I could not let Spot die alone. He had been a best friend, a
confidant, a teacher, a great listener, and a protector. I owed it to him to search. I put on my boots, hat, mittens, and work coat, grabbed the big flashlight, and left without saying a word to anyone. My mind was racing. I remembered the place I would go to laugh, cry, chase lightning bugs, gaze at the clouds, sketch, and learn that my dogs loved me unconditionally. I had learned to write my name in cursive in Spot’s fur. I would take my finger and softly carve my name in his fur. I would always follow the last letter with a firm love pat, my imitation of an exclamation point. As a little girl, I believed Spot could read my letters and that it made me “his girl.”
Thinking about our times together in the warm summer sun helped keep me warm as I continued my search in the snow. After all the times we had shared at our special place, how could I not consider this location a preferred, comfortable resting area for Spot to spend his last hours? I began to run as fast as I could and headed up the steep hillside. Our patch of heaven was a thick green grass in the springtime, shaded by a large bald cypress. It was now covered by a deep drift of snow.
I saw no sign of Spot, so I began to dig furiously through the snowdrift with my mittens, thinking I would find his body underneath. I dug and dug as if I were a dog myself, seeking a bone I had buried weeks ago. I knelt in the snowdrift, my heart sinking. I remembered knocking over Spot’s frozen water bowl, and deep down, I knew. I stood up, afraid to look for fear I might actually see him. I slowly turned to face the painful north wind, snowflakes stinging my face and my eyes adjusting, trying to see the pond. There on the bank of the pond at the base of our
hillside was a large white pile — my bird dog, my pet, my Spot.
He had tried to get water and slipped on the ice, falling, unable to get his feeble body back to a stance. I took my coat off and softly covered him, rubbing his head ever so lightly, trying to feel his muzzle for a breath. I realized his fur had frozen and stuck to the ice. I delicately freed his fur small sections at a time, while wondering how I was I going to carry this large, lifeless dog back to our home. I prayed that God would help me with this insurmountable task. I picked Spot up, cradled him, and trudged through the snow. The snow helped to cushion us both from each fall. I reached the heavy, wooden front door, which was locked to keep the wind from blowing it open. I kicked and kicked until my sisters finally opened the door. Rushing in, I laid Spot on the big sheepskin rug in front of the warm fire. My Mom and sisters tenderly covered Spot and me with warm blankets and tended to my bleeding fingers. I was unaware that I had torn the ends of my fingers trying to free him from the ice.
“Take care of the dogs”
Spot recovered. He lived almost another year before he developed cancer. It was my first experience putting a dog, a pet, to sleep with dignity. I lay with him and made sure he knew he was loved and not alone. Spot, my friend, had helped me pull an unknown strength from within myself and find peace amid turmoil.
Many years have passed, and the marks I made in the door with my boots remain to remind me of the strength I was given on that snowy day. My dad became weak with a terminal illness, and before his passing, we had time to relive some of our dog stories. Those shared memories gave us a much needed reason to laugh. I finally gained the courage to ask him how he could have left his dogs behind when he separated from Mom. His response was, “I left them for you! I knew you would need them more than me. Spot had to stay at his home with the other dogs, they were a pack. They were a family, and I felt it more painful for you if I took them to live with me.” I was stunned. Dad was thinking of me all along when I wasted so many years harboring anger at him for leaving them behind. My secret was out! I had made Spot my pet, and Dad had known it all along!
The day my dad passed away, he was comfortable in his own home, in his own bed. His last words to me were, “I am proud of you, and please take care of my dogs.” It took me years to understand the meaning of “take care of the dogs.” It might have been easier to say “Hold it all together” or “Be strong. Don’t show weakness.” But Dad was, in his own cantankerous way, guiding me to learn who I was, who I was capable of becoming.
I gain strength from my childhood memories and am now writing my name in the fur of my Oklahoma rescue doggies, Maddie, Halo, and Brownie. Maddie and Brownie are licensed therapy dogs, visiting hospitals, schools, and nursing homes. As a team, we share canine love and of course, a dog story or two.
Each day, I look into my dogs’ big brown eyes, and I can almost hear my dad saying, “Job well done. You have taken care of the dogs.”
