Keisha the Dog
Our dog Keisha died this week. It happened in a cozy dog bed in Tahlequah, where she nested with her longtime sitter, Steven. Keisha stayed with Steven every time we traveled. The truth is that she loved him best. When he came to the door, she made happy circles and went to his truck without a backward glance. He had a gift for observing her need for space and moving toward her when she felt the need to be touched. I think that she also liked the sound his voice, which has the reedy buzz and range of an oboe.
Alice, my wife, should be writing this messsge. She was Keisha’s primary person apart from Steven and paid her close attention every day. We all have roles in life and marriage, and Alice’s job is to choose our dogs. I did it first, but failed spectacularly. True Fitzerman-Blue was an Australian Shepherd who thought we were cattle and spent all day herding us. If we did not move to the center of the house she nipped at our ankles and made our children cry. After that, Alice took charge and all our dogs carried her last name.
I would still argue that Alice stumbled during COVID. After the death of her beloved Murray, Alice impulsively brought Stanley home from the shelter. She sprung him on the family like a concealed weapon. Stanley looked like a possum and hated all of us, growling and snapping for the first six weeks. Then he bit the groomer twice on the hand, and they blacklisted him from PetSmart for a term of forever. Even Alice could see the justice.
But in short order she brought home Keisha, a Giant Schnauzer. At least she didn’t look like a rodent, but she was a muscular extrovert who needed more than we could offer. No amount of walking tired her out and we felt the mismatch from the very start. At first I thought it was me alone. I couldn’t lift her into the bath and she was always grabbing for my hand with her mouth. Not like Stanley, but a pain in the ass. The best I could do was put my hands in my pockets.
But then, after a while, I found out that Alice had changed. She was done with the hair all over the house. Done with the stink of Schnauzer on the upholstery. But unlike me, she never really gave up. She kept the promise she made at the beginning, to give Keisha Blue the best life possible. She had been trapped in the yard when her first owner died, and Alice always saw her as a case of PTSD. She may not have organized romps in the woods, but there was “real” food from Farmer’s Dog, Prozac from the vet, and meds for arthritis. And when the lumps emerged on her belly and her flanks, Alice watched her carefully for signs of distress.
We would both say that the distress never came. The Angel of Death came on little cat feet when our gaze was turned in another direction. Steven used to say that Keisha Blue was not the best dog ever. She was simply a very good Giant Schnauzer. And she got the good, quiet death that she truly deserved.