My Dog, Harley, and Me

12 years ago, just a few weeks after getting married and moved into our brand new home, I answered an ad in the AJC for German Shepard puppies.  I was building the Avenues down in Peachtree City and the ad was from a “breeder” about 20 miles away, so I went to the bank, withdrew the asking price and started out on a trek that lead me past Atlanta Motor Speedway to a rundown duplex.  The “breeder” led me out back where I found 2-3 rag-tag puppies following their mother around the backyard.  The yard had no grass and the dogs were orange because the mud had become so entangled into their fur that you couldn’t really tell what color they were.  These were not reputable breeders, but rather puppy-mill type people who made a considerable living off breeding their two adult German Shepherds.  The dogs were not well kept or loved on at all.  All the dogs trembled when the redneck, err, man of the house spoke and I found my fists clenching up when I observed his demeanor towards the dogs.  You know the type, loves to yell at women, kids, and animals because they lack the ability to punch him in the nose.  One of the puppies caught my eye though.  He wasn’t the biggest or the fastest one; he was the one that was most frightened at the man’s voice.  My heart was taken by him.  I scooped him up, paid those rednecks their money, and put him in the front seat of my single cab 1992 Ford Ranger, mud and all.

On the ride home, he shook with fear as he huddled on the floor board of my truck.  I’m sure my voice was just as frightening to him as his previous “Owner”.  I told him how I would never hurt him, how I would always take care of him, and I promised him that we would have great times together.  He didn’t seem to be buying any of my spiel; he just stayed curled up on the floor board, occasionally peeking at me through the mud.  There was no way I could present him to my new bride covered in mud, so I called my Mom, who is the one who instilled my love for German shepherds in me in the first place, and I drove him straight to her house to give him a bath.  He was definitely less afraid of her than he was of me, but he was still frightened.  We cleaned him and got all of the mud out of his coat and discovered his was almost entirely black except for some “leggings” of tan on his legs.  He looked regal.  Not a traditional German bloodline, but I couldn’t have cared less, I loved him already.

At the time, my wife had bested me in the puppy acquisition department by a week and we had a devilishly spoiled Siberian Husky puppy at our home.  I don’t think I ever asked or discussed getting another dog with her until I pulled into the driveway that night.  Whether it’s a dog, a gun, guitars, or strange women, my wife always meets me with a resounding, “ARE YOU CRAZY”, whenever I bring them home; that night was no different.  Just a minute later though, she loved him too( his new “Brother”, not so much).  It took a couple days and a couple wrestling matches, but the two puppies figured it out as well.  I named him Harley, not because I liked the motorcycles, but because it seemed everyone I knew was buying the bikes and since I had a family to take care of and I didn’t want to end up as a hood ornament, I got a dog.  He was my Harley.  It didn’t take us long to find out that Harley lived to chase tennis balls.  He was so fixated on chasing tennis balls, that I could have trained him to do anything if the reward was chasing a tennis ball.  His vet said that his tennis ball fixation is what police and others look for in a “working” dog.  I started buying used tennis balls from tennis centers, which put them on Ebay; I could get a couple hundred balls for $50.  We went through several cases of them over the last 12 years.  My wife and I both probably will need rotator cuff surgery one day; even though she always threw the ball all girly and underhand.  He would chase tennis balls until he fell over with exhaustion.  He would try to stuff 2-3 of them in his mouth at the same time to bring them back to me, so I could throw them again.  He loved to fetch them so much that he didn’t trust me enough to bring it all the way back to me, instead he’d drop it within 10’ and take off again to wait for the next projectile.  But one, little “EH” from me and he’d sheepishly pick up the deposited ball and walk another 8’ closer to me and drop it before taking off.  Many times, I would leave work a little early and spend the later part of the day in the backyard throwing tennis balls to him and conducting business on my cell phone at the same time.

We were like to peas in a pod.  My wife didn’t allow him in our bed, but when she was gone or would beat me out of the door in the morning, he would jump up in the bed with me every time.  A couple times, she would catch us in there and get all pissed about me “spooning” the dog, but it wasn’t long before she realized that I am one of those dog lovers who can’t seem to see really distinct lines between our beloved pets and people.  If he could have, he would have called Papa John’s on his own.  It was the one visitor to our house where he did not go all ape shit and bark for a half hour.  Instead, he just peered out the door quietly waiting for the transaction to be completed so that he could follow me into the kitchen for the spoils.  I once conceived a new diet plan where I would eat anything I wanted to but would cut my portions in half by feeding the other half to Harley.  I’d always leave a lot of meat on the bone when we ate out so that he could eat out too!  If his lips could have held it, I am sure he would have gotten a dip or two of Copenhagen with me.  He was happier when no strangers are around, so am I.  The only thing we never agreed upon was college football.  As soon as he’d see or hear the Michigan game come on the TV, he’d disappear because I use to scream at the TV during the games and it probably reminded him of the original “yeller” before I got to him.

Harley never got over the man with the booming voice from his earliest days.  He would not let anyone other than my wife and I touch him.  My parents and my In-laws never touched him, my friends I’ve had for 15 years have never touched him.  Oh, they got close a couple times, but Harley always veered away at the last moment and hid in the back of the house or behind me or my wife.  He was peculiar in that sense, but I’m sure he suffered abuse before I scooped him up that day.  He was never aggressive towards anyone.  Well, there was that time the little Latin boy installing our hardwood floors thought it would be a good idea to lunge at my Wife in a threatening manner to gauge Harley’s reaction.  I tackled Harley mid-air as he was going for the jugular, both literally and figuratively.  After the kids were born and grew into toddlers, Harley patrolled the yard anytime the kids were outside playing.  Well, in between tennis ball throws, he patrolled the yard.  He loved our kids, just not as much as a Penn.  As he got to be 10 years old, he’d let a group of the neighborhood kids pet him, but never too long and never anyone he hadn’t seen grow up.  Even though he was more afraid of you than you were of him, he had a ferocious bark that would scare anyone who wasn’t expecting it.  His bark was so loud and mean sounding, I used to laugh that it was meant so we wouldn’t open the door and let them in so he’d have to go hide.  There were many nights when I was on the road that I felt good knowing he was here with my wife and kids though.  There was no doubt in my mind, or in that little Latin fellas, that Harley would lay down his life to protect his family, even though he just as soon bark you away.

He had noticeably slowed down over the last year.  I teased him about his grey beard and the tennis ball tosses were only 2-3 before he took the ball and went and laid down.  His eyes were getting bad because he could no longer catch the ball in the air or the hop; instead he preferred to pick it up on the roll before walking back to me.  I knew he was not going to be around forever, but I’d thought for sure he’d be here a little while longer.  Then last night, something went horribly wrong, and he went from having a little trouble clearing his throat to waking me after midnight with these god-awful guttural sounds that sounded like a bear.  I threw on my clothes and my wife and I loaded him into the back of the Tahoe as I rushed him to the doggie ER off Thornton Road.  In between prayers, I tried to calm him down and reassure him it was going to be okay, just like I did to that little mud-stained puppy 12 years earlier.  I knew it wasn’t going to be okay.  I prayed for God to give his pain to me and to not let him be afraid.  The doctors said it was a distended stomach, a condition that requires procedures and surgeries a young healthy dog could only expect a 50-50 shot at surviving.  He was in so much pain and was having trouble breathing with the amount of bloating in his abdomen.  I made them do all the tests.  They said I had to make a decision.  I just didn’t want him to hurt anymore or to be scared.  They brought him to me so I could spend some time with him.  He wouldn’t even look at me; it was as if he knew.  Maybe it was the pain, or maybe he knew.  I promised him on that first ride home that I would always take care of him, but I couldn’t do anything.   I laid on the floor with him, rubbed the inside of his ear the way he liked, and I just talked to him; told him I loved him and I hoped I had kept all those promises.  My hand was the last thing he felt rubbing his ear and my voice was the last thing he heard as he left us.  I drove home numb and inconsolable.  I let out the angriest quasi-prayer on my way home.  I didn’t know how I was going to tell Shannon.  I got home about 5am and she met me at the door and all I could say was, “He’s gone, He’s gone”.  We cried the rest of the night, called in to work and have spent the better part of today squalling.  My heart is broken, Shannon’s heart is broken, and my kids’ hearts are broken.  I hope he knows how much we loved him and how big a part of this family he was.  Some people wouldn’t understand the depth of our grief; I feel sorry for them. 

Matt called; told me there are animals in Heaven.  Said he thanked God for his dog today.  I never had in 12 years, but I thanked Him today for 12 years with my Harley.  I had him cremated and I will get his ashes back in 7-10 days.  I don’t know what I am going to do with them yet, but there will be a tennis ball involved.  I have my good moments and my bad moments.  Writing this helps me, but I’ve snotted all over my keyboard and my shirt.  I think its Shannon’s turn to cry (we’ve been alternating).  If you call me or come up to me and talk about my dog, I’m going to get choked up or worse, so be forewarned about snot and tears.