From upstairs I could hear my father, like a broken record, repeating, “Sit, lay down, stay, come.” Over and over on into the night. This is how my father trained every dog we got. He would take them to a quiet place and teach them the basic commands. They would sit, get a treat, lay down, get a treat, stay, get a treat, and come for a treat before repeating the process over and over and over again until they mastered it. Slowly the treats were removed. Our new dog would get a treat for laying down after sitting and for coming after staying, and eventually they would have to do all four commands for a single treat.
My father had far more patience for pets than he did for people. If you have owned dogs and especially if you have ever trained a dog you understand that they don’t always listen. Sometimes you’re not sure if they are even learning, and often times they regress. There it was, night after night, my father in the basement telling a dog to sit, lay down, stay, come. After a week or two the dog would be trained well enough that they would do all the commands for my father without a treat and for anyone else for a treat, and if they ever lost their training back to the basement they would go to start from scratch.
It wasn’t until more recently that I realized just how much my father loved pets. We always had dogs. Dogs were always a part of our life whether it was the dog that followed my sister home from a farm or the dog my mother purchased because they were in the pet shop for too long and she felt bad for them. The story of Dory is one that highlights just how deep my father’s love for animals goes.
Dory was a Bichon. A small white powder puff of a dog. Dory was also a killer. Dory came to be known among my high school friends as, “The dog that eats other dogs,” and when she wore her muzzle around them they called he the Hannibal Lector of dogs. Dory was sweet with people though. Dory was stuck at a pet shop for several months. No one took her home and each day my mom would visit to see if the little white dog had found a home. Eventually she took pity on poor Dory and brought her to our house where Dory promptly attacked our Dachshund and she had to get several stitches. After a couple more attacks my mother demanded Dory find a new home.
The new home that Dory found was my father’s office. She lived in his office and would travel with him in his car. My father loved that dog, and wasn’t about to give up on her. He did try and re-home her and his lack of success in that matter was probably due more to his own attachment to her than anything else. Dory was always with him. She came in his car to pick me up from school and take me back to his office to work on my homework and accounts receivable. Dory was with my father when he drove me and my friends to Ozzfest ’98. Dory was exiled from the house but my father cared so deeply for that dog that he was going to keep her no matter what.
Eventually Dory was allowed to come home after our Dachshund passed. I cannot say I ever forgave Dory fully for those attacks but without the trigger there she was a sweeter dog, but still my father’s dog. She walked between his legs and always set on his lap while he watched TV. She eventually grew old and did not do so gracefully. I will tell you my father once again had a hard time letting go but when it was time for her to cross the rainbow bridge he said his goodbyes and had her put to sleep.
Since Dory passed my father has had several other dogs and has shown the same level of care and attention to all of them. Even as he is now growing old and approaching his own transition he still has love for animals. Even on the days with all sundown and no sunrise he manages to have grace and care for his pets. As an animal lover my father is an expert and I’d like to think that has a lot to do with my love and devotion for pets.