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"The Day the Crape Myrtle Bloomed", Anonymous
Copyright © 1998
After months of hard work, our backyard was finally being transformed into the dream my husband and I had envisioned, complete with swimming pool, deck, and a garden with many wonderful types of plants. Being something of a novice and a brown thumb, I was fortunate enough to have the assistance of my mother-in-law, one of those women who have been blessed with many talents and the patience of Job.
Now, my satisfaction and pleasure in our new garden area was tempered with sadness as I watched our almost thirteen-year old dog, a Keeshond named Koko as he walked slowly, painfully across the patio, his only pleasure in life being as close to us as possible. A sweet, gentle dog who, even in pain, patiently endured the attentions and calls to play of our three grandchildren, ages 9, 4, and 2.
In fact, that has always been his greatest pleasure. We got him when our son was 10, in November, right before Thanksgiving of 1985. An adorable bundle of fur with prick ears and a tightly curled tail, we soon found out that he would not be ignored. All of the experts’ advice about confining puppies went right out the window, and soon, he was sleeping with our son Curt. Many weeks went by, with ruined furniture and carpet before he could be judged “potty trained.”
Keeshonden are a Dutch breed of dog, first popular during the reign of William of Orange in the 17th century. Intelligent, beautiful, and amiable, they were bred to be companion animals on the barges in Dutch canals They never were bred to hunt, fetch, retrieve, or anything remotely useful or practical to their human owners. This being unknown to us in the beginning, we tried in vain to interest Koko in a wide range of “puppy toys,” or in bringing back sticks that we would throw. Our enthusiastic cries of “Go get it, Koko. C’mon boy, go get it,” were met with a curious gaze, as though he wondered why we were exerting ourselves throwing things across the lawn. What was the matter with this dog anyway, was he dumb, or what? We couldn’t figure it out until we bought a book on Keeshonden, but we were only just beginning comprehend what this dog was all about!
As we discovered, what he DID like, was our complete attention. He loved to play and scuffle and jump on the bed and bite our noses and give us the “Keeshond grin.” And, as he grew older, we discovered another thing that he really, really liked. And that was sweets - of almost any kind. It wasn’t that we GAVE him these willingly, we did know better. But from the time he first stole his first sweet treat, we had to be on constant alert. We had no idea what a compulsion it would be for him in the future.
He soon figured out, of course, that he was not supposed to have these extras, so he became sneaky, and waited until we were out of sight. His first big moment came back in 1986 when our daughter baked her Dad a cake for Father’s Day - a two-layer yellow cake with chocolate icing. We each had a piece, then put it back on the cabinet. Later, my husband, Jim, called out from the kitchen, “where’s the rest of that cake Kelly baked?” Well, I didn’t know. So we looked. Stuck back in the corner of the utility room was the cake pan, only a few crumbs remaining. We didn’t suspect Koko at first, so we carried on for a half-hour or so of accusations aimed at first one and then another. Finally, the truth dawned. We all looked at him at the same time, curled up in the corner, asleep, bits of cake stuck to his muzzle. How could this be? He had eaten three quarters of a cake. At the age of one, he had begun his career as a candy, cake, and sweets criminal.
Throughout the next decade, our carelessness in leaving forbidden treats within his reach always came back to haunt us. There was the time when we bought some candy from neighborhood kids selling door to door for their grade school. We bought chocolate covered “turtles” and left them pushed back on our dresser, having eaten only two or three. Next day, they were all gone. How in the world had he gotten them? He would have had to stand on his hind legs and stretch himself across the dresser and “paw” the candy to the floor. And this is just exactly what he did on more than one occasion. You would have thought it would have made him sick, but amazingly it didn’t, so we decided he must have a cast iron stomach!
Very intelligent and alert, we sometimes had the impression that he knew exactly what we were thinking and what we were going to do. His most memorable moments of thievery came during the holiday season. My husband’s parents were usually here visiting during Christmas. Busy and preoccupied as we were, it brought forth perfect opportunities for Koko, in a string of holiday events that we remember and chuckle about even now.
About seven or eight years ago, when my in-laws were here at Christmas time, we were sitting around, watching the holiday specials on television. Edith, my mother-in-law, got up to get something from their bedroom. She came back with a puzzled look on her face. “Did any of you get into my suitcase and take my Metimucil cookies?” Was she serious? No we had not, none of us having the need for cookies of that type. Pondering this mystery for a while, we came to the only logical conclusion. Koko had smelled them out while we were all watching television in the living room and had consumed about fifteen of them, a barely opened package. We look at him in horror. Omigod, would he get sick, would he throw up or poop all over? Get him out of the house! He spent the night outside and was none the worse except for drinking about a gallon of water.
Several of his escapades occured while we were all attending Christmas Eve Communion service at our church. One time, two or three years after the “cookie” episode, we were headed out to church. While we were gone, Koko began his search for forbidden treats. Under the Christmas tree were several packages from Edith’s family sent from Arizona. He apparently sniffed out each and every package until he came across one that stood apart from all others. Just as we walked in the door, Koko was preparing to gorge himself on chocolate covered cherries! Attempt foiled - this time!
A year or so later, we again celebrated the season on Christmas Eve at church. Edith and I had outdone ourselves in preparation for a grand family gathering on Christmas day. We baked a blackberry wine cake and a Dutch apple pie, a favorite of our son-in-law. We pushed both to the back of the kitchen cabinet, confident that they would be safe.
Upon returning from church, my husband was the first one to enter the house. “Oh no, you better come in here,” were the words that caused my heart to sink. Walking cautiously into the kitchen, I saw the pie pan on the floor, right side up, the entire middle eaten out of it. Koko stood back, ready to bolt, depending upon what action we took. I looked at him and told him what a bad boy he was, a very, very bad boy. But he didn’t believe me and by then it was too late to do anything about it. At eight o’clock on Christmas eve, most grocery stores were closed. However, we finally located one several miles away that would be open for fifteen minutes more. I told her the story and begged her please, please to wait for my husband and father-in-law. They would be there as quickly as possible. She possibly thought we had been drinking, but agreed anyway. Away they went, and came back in about half an hour with an apple pie that was a pitiful, plain shadow of the beautiful Dutch apple pie we had planned to serve. The next day, I showed John, our son-in-law, the remainder of his pie, as a joke, and he had a decidedly un-Christmas like remark to make about Koko and his possible short-term future!
In addition to his compulsion for sweets, he had another bad habit, more evidence of his “sneakiness.” For years prior to his illness, he would jump up onto the dining room table and look out the window for cats that would occasionally stray into our back yard. I would come home to see candlesticks on the floor and the scattering of other items. Of course, by then it would be much too late to scold him for it. Attempts to remove chairs and otherwise discourage him did no good. Because Koko was an “inside” dog, there was not much we could do about it, and after all, we were hopeless fans of this beautiful, sweet “kees” with big, brown eyes.
All of these memories were going through my head as I looked at our new garden with its newly planted trees, flowers, and grasses. Koko had been diagnosed with an enlarged heart, water on his lungs, and only six months to live. Massive doses of medicine had helped only a little. He could no longer control his bladder, he ate very little, and coughed and wheezed and hacked at night. Clearly miserable, there was only one choice remaining to us. On a clear, hot June Saturday morning, Koko was going to make his last journey with us to the veterinarian. He would not be coming back. Tears streaming down my face, I looked out the window. The crape myrtle was blooming for the first time.
This was written in July of 1998. Three years later, we still miss him a lot. My mother-in-law, an artist, painted a portrait of him for Christmas , December, 1999. It hangs proudly in our entry hall, where we can enjoy it and our memories of him daily.
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