My Wild and Crazy Gal

It was the evening of December 26, 1995, and my daughter, Tina, was at her post checking groceries at the supermarket where she worked. It was cold and quiet. The manager on duty was casually going about his business making sure everything was in place. Gondolas of canned goods were meticulously stacked. Fruit was loaded into bins with orderly precision just waiting for some small child to reach up and pluck one apple out of the center of the bottom row to create an apple avalanche. Little racks of wood were stacked outside the door for those wishing to purchase firewood - as if anyone in Nederland, Texas really needed a fire to stay warm. (I can practically count the number of times it went below freezing for any stretch of time on one hand.) It was expected to be an uneventful evening now that the holiday was past. In the process of surveying items around the store, the manager glanced out the glass doors and observed a man walking in the direction of the public trash receptacle and the firewood stacks. He threw what appeared to be a wad of brown paper down near the woodpiles. The manager, in disgust, said, “And there’s a trash can right there…..why couldn’t he throw his trash in there?” At that moment, the little ball of paper hit the ground and unfolded and appeared to roll back toward the man. The man kicked at the little wad and shoved it back. “That’s a puppy!” Tina exclaimed and the manager charged for the door to confront the man who was already running away with the pup desperately trying to follow. The manager picked the little creature up in time to rescue her from parking lot traffic and brought her into the store.

Well, you can imagine by now that all the checkers and stock boys were gathering. The girls were sniffling and “poor sweet baby” was the choice phrase tearfully being murmured. They brought out a cardboard box that would keep the little dog safe and contained until they could decide what to do with her. Yeah, you guessed it. My daughter told her boss to call me - Mother Theresa of the Animal Kingdom, also known as the Cat Lady of 6th Avenue. I arrived at the store to pick up my newest child - a puppy obviously too young to have been taken from her mother. Since she appeared to be a Shepherd mix we dubbed her Gretchen.

We went home and started a feeding routine of mashed canned dog food and milk, which she would only take from the tip of my finger. We made the trip to the vet the next week and he recognized her. She was one of a litter that had been dumped at various places around our small town. He knew the mother dog and admonished us that, if we were going to keep her, we needed to be aware of her lineage because undesirable behavior may arise in the future. Her dame was a fine German Shepherd owned by a farmer who lived near the Neches River. Coyotes abound in the wooded areas of our region, and the farmer made the mistake of letting his prize Shepherd go outside to spend time in the yard. He heard a commotion and went running to check out the scene, only to discover that a coyote was leaping back over the chain link fence to return to the cover of the woods. The farmer waited until she showed signs of pregnancy before he took her to our local vet. They determined that it was best to let the dog carry the litter because aborting could damage her for further breeding. After the litter was born, instead of taking the puppies to the vet, the farmer chose the evening after Christmas to discard them around town. Had he not been so heartless, Gretchen would not have entered our lives.

The vet also advised us that our new-found friend would likely have a life span of only eight or so years. Wild animals have a shorter life span than domesticated animals, so the hybrid breeding would lessen our expectations. We accepted everything he said and deemed it the proper thing to do to give her a good home as long as we could.

As with most dogs, Gretchen grew fast. It wasn’t long before she was playfully running behind Tina nipping at her housecoat belt as it dangled when she walked down the hallway. They were inseparable. Gretchen was a good dog for the most part, except when it came to teething. Even with plenty of chew toys, she was avidly teething on anything and everything.

I arrived home from work one evening to discover an absolute fiasco. My antique Duncan Phyfe dining chairs were destroyed. The center fan-shaped back splats were missing out of some. One of the captains’ chairs had a whole arm missing and the other had one arm torn off. Several of the side chairs’ heart-shaped back frames were punctured as if a monstrous steel punch had nabbed them. I wondered how on earth such a small dog could do so much damage. I failed to notice that there was very little wood remaining on the floor. She had actually eaten, literally eaten, the furniture. I could hear myself telling future guests, “My dog ate my furniture.” Tina’s homework for the next few years was doomed.

My voice opened with a shrill, “GGGrrreeetttccchhheeennn.” The dog wheeled and headed for another room. I trapped her in a corner, brandishing one of my precious chairs in the air. Instead of beating the dog, I beat the chair and screamed, “Bad dog, bad, bad, bad.” over and over until I was sure she got the message. For weeks I shook a chair at Gretchen every time she entered the room. Gretchen’s reaction was to back far away with fear in her eyes as if to say, “What chairs? I didn’t eat any chairs today.” This went on for months until I was certain the antiques were safe.

As she got older, her parentage really started to show. Her eyes were shaped slightly different - rounder with exotic black eye liner all the way around. Her paws had the protruding center toes of her sire. She didn’t bark, but had a strange howl and a yip when she exercised her voice. Her nose was shorter than a Shepherd’s nose and her eyes were all coyote. But her behavior was very domesticated and she took her charge of belonging to Tina seriously. Or, should I say, Tina really belonged to Gretchen?

There was one thing Gretchen never outgrew. She loved people. Anyone. Everyone. She greeted every person who entered our home with extreme delight and a yellow puddle. If you entered and said, “Hello, Gretchen.” she peed. If a guest walked in and put their hand on her head for a friendly pat, Gretchen peed. If Tina’s boyfriend came in the door and said, “Stupid Dog.” she peed. You get the picture. We kept bundles of dog towels beside the door and welcomed every visitor with the phrase, “Don’t pet the brown dog. Don’t even look at the brown dog. Don’t let the brown dog know you even know she’s there or she’ll …..drat….. you shouldn’t have spoken to the brown dog. Now she’s peed again.” The routine of entering the back door and walking blindly past the dog was something with which we all became very familiar. Once folks were established in the house, she would get over the excitement of people coming and going and the fear of a puddle on their shoes would diminish. Until, that is, the next unknowing soul came to the door and didn’t learn the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules in time to avoid the inevitable. (I said we had Brown Dog Rules because we also had a black lab/chow mix in the picture, but she loved to splash in the water, not leave water at your feet.)

Oh, but, Gretchen wasn’t finished eating things yet. Years had passed and Tina was in her senior year of college. She was going to school day and night trying to finish after changing her major. I was working two and three jobs. We were rarely home except to let Gretchen out for a few trips between our schedules. Gretchen fretted over her Tina being gone so much. The dog started to chew again, so we closed bedroom doors. Not liking the fact that she was locked out of her beloved child’s bedroom, Gretchen fixed it so she could peer into the room. She ate the door. I am not kidding. She must have spent the whole day clawing at the wood and the carpet to gain a small enough hole to lock her teeth onto. From there she ripped and ate and chomped and clawed until she made a semi-circular hole at the bottom of the door at floor level so she could lay flat and shove her whole head in to see the room. That is not a small hole we are talking about. Think German Shepherd sized head here . . .

I arrived home and stood in the hallway at the door to Tina’s room and stared in disbelief. I didn’t even raise my voice. I knew what had transpired and why. Gretchen’s instinct and need to be with Tina were so great that she was in despair from being forced away from her mistress whose schedule kept her gone day and night. I didn’t have the heart to even be angry. I just said, “I’ll buy a new door when you pass on to that great big patch of grass in the sky.” Just guess the look on everyone’s faces now as they walk through our home. “My dog ate my house.” was now added to my speech to incoming company. I was probably labeled crazy, but I didn’t care. Gretchen was part of the family. When your old Aunt Grace goes nuts and makes a new dress out of the curtains you don’t put her away in a nursing home or put her out into the street. I didn’t listen to people when they said, “That dog’s nuts. You should do something about her.” Wait, I did do something. I loved her.

I came to appreciate Gretchen’s instincts for protecting Tina even more after I moved away to another city, albeit those instincts often proved to be destructive to the building and fatal for fragile furniture. When I made the move to Baytown Tina remained in the house in Nederland. She wanted to finished college, graduate and remain in that area. She was already engaged to be married, so the best answer was to let them live in the house after they married until they got established as a couple and could afford a home of their own. Her fiancée had a band and the band rehearsed in the house for years before I moved, so leaving Tina with four big strapping guys to stand watch gave me a peace of mind over the decision to leave my little chicken behind. Besides, there was still Gretchen on duty, and yes, all the boys in the band knew the Ignore the Brown Dog Rules. Every one of them had the ignominious chore of mopping up Gretchen’s excited little liquid offerings at least once in their career as musicians in my home. Some of the boys were dumber than others and got to experience it more than once.

With the band rehearsing in our house, it was obvious that all the equipment would be housed there. We were fairly certain it was safe because the guys were in and out at all hours and barking dogs were a good deterrent if one was needed. However, Gretchen went one better than barking on the night someone must have come snooping on the property.

Tina and the drummer’s wife went off to run an errand one evening. When they returned home there was a snarling wild dog in the driveway. The drummer’s wife exclaimed, “Oh, my. There’s a wild wolf in your yard ready to attack us.” Upon closer inspection Tina realized it was her own beloved pet whose hackles were raised almost 6 inches high as the dog fiendishly paced up and down the drive. Tina cautiously rolled her window down, wondering if this was the day the vet had warned us about - the day the wild in Gretchen would come out and she would turn on us. It turned out to be not so. The moment Tina called her name, Gretchen calmed down and came right to her. About that time the fat black dog of the house came limping around the corner. Since she was bleeding Tina was afraid the black dog had been injured on the street. Curious as to how or why the dogs got out, Tina nabbed the escapees by the collars and brought them back into the house. As soon as the guys in the band returned Tina grilled each one trying to discover which of them let the dogs out. No one owned up to the release. It wasn’t until Tina walked into her bedroom and saw the curtains blowing in the window. Gretchen immediately went to the window and started her crazy behavior again. Tina moved the fabric and discovered a missing pane of glass in the eighteen-pane bay window. This put everyone to thinking someone tried to break into the house in an attempt to steal equipment, but this was not the case. No glass was found inside. All the glass was broken from the inside out - all the shards were on the ground outside as if the blows came from the inside. The only logical deduction we could make was that someone did come onto the property. Gretchen must have become aware of a presence that didn’t seem to behave as it should and the dog took action. I don’t know how hard that dog had to work at it, or if all it took was one running leap, but she smashed through an 18”x18” pane of glass. Gretchen forced her large body through the opening and sailed out into the yard to confront the intruder. Following on her heels was the fat, black dog. I can just see number two dog hauling herself out the window - one of those cartoon images comes to mind where the fat lady pulls through something and layers of her erupt out slowly through the opening before falling with a splat on the ground. That would also explain the injured paws on the black dog as she must have struggled to get up in the glass scattered on the ground. At the end of the evening all was safe and we didn’t think we needed to worry about anything like that happening again. I mean, would you be stupid enough to come back to a house where the family coyote came after you? I didn’t think so.

Gretchen lived well beyond her expected eight years. She lived to be thirteen and was a favorite at the vet’s office when she went for a visit. Her exotic eyes with the black eye liner and her funky toes were always a source of discussion. We could entertain the whole waiting room if we could get her to howl or yip. She had a beautiful coat and a tail which curled up over her back when happy or hung straight down stiff when on guard. As she got older her tail lost all its hair and went bald. So, like the proud lady she was, she tucked it up under her belly so no one could see that it was less than the glorious, fluffy banner it used to be. She remained the lead dog in the house no matter how many fosters I brought in. Over the years Gretchen spent countless hours watching while Tina danced around her, practicing ballet and jazz. She saw her Tina graduate from high school and college, then supervised as I fit Tina in the wedding gown I toiled over. Gretchen even tolerated being booted to the floor when the husband entered the picture to share Tina’s bed. Although she did show her disdain of that circumstance by refusing to sleep on the padded bed they placed in a corner of their bedroom. Gretchen took one look at the soft flannel bedding, put her nose in the air, placed her back squarely to it and settled herself on the floor exactly four inches away from it. She took that position every night for the years that followed.

At just over thirteen years old, cancer took hold of Gretchen. When she departed in March of 2009 she left her stamp upon everyone’s heart. I held her in my arms as I said goodbye in the vet’s office. I told her I loved her as she drifted quietly away, and I promised her I would write an ode to my wild and crazy gal.


So goes the ode . . .
One of such refinement
was meant to be loved for long.
Your memories still bind us
Though from our midst you’re gone.
Your antics now well noted
A story to pass to our heirs,
And rest assured in heaven
There are no antique chairs.