My Hound Dog
Blacky was one such dog. It was small, kind of shy, and very playful. When I lived on Cherry street, downtown Carbondale across from the Dairy Queen, Blacky would roam the alley behind our house looking for garbage and whatever else he could find. One couldn’t help but feel sorry for him; his ribs showed right through that thick black coat of his.
Of all the dogs I ever owned, however, Beethoven was my favorite. He was a small mix between a Beagle and a Basset hound. He would sit for hours with me on the front porch when I was coaching too many years to say. When I’d walk off into the woods, he would walk beside me checking out every tree for territorial scents left by other canines.
The thing I liked best about this strange dog was his ability to read what I was thinking. He also valued his space and preferred not to be handled like other dogs. He hated a leash, and if he was in hot pursuit of a female, he would stop at nothing, including a commanding voice, to get over to her and check her out.
After two or three years of relentless pressure in trying to get Beethoven to be obedient, I just gave up. He was his own dog to say the least. The only time I could get him to do something on command was when I had some food in my hand. Nothing else could change him because his character was that way.
When I moved to Iowa and began coaching in college, my fitness runs became consistently longer due to the desire to have some separate time away from my family, to think about coaching and have some quiet time with Beethoven. As we grew older together, he seemed to enjoy running as much as I did. He would start out frisky, then lapse into a pace, step for step with me. There were plenty of country roads where we could run without any traffic or air pollution.
One day, when we were out on a long six-mile run, we passed a big farm, and out of the barn came a large white German Sheppard dog barking at us and threatening to come closer. Beethoven stopped, went over to that dog, and stood shoulder to shoulder with it. The hair on his back stood straight up, and his look was so cold that it made that big dog back-off and hi-tail it back to its barn. Once I was clear from the farm, Beethoven showed back up at my side and got into that pace of his. As I continued to run, it occurred to me that as selfish as Beethoven appeared to be on the outside, he held an unceasing desire to show me his love. Even at the risk of being battered by another dog twice his size, this mutt-dog of mine was willing to go the distance and protect me from possible harm.
I learned many lessons from Beethoven and miss him today, some thirty years after his death. They say that dogs take on the personalities of their owners. Well, I don’t know if that’s true, but as I grow older, it becomes more apparent that the way Beethoven lived his life has many parallels to what I value in life: a good family; someone to love me enough to let me grow in character; a trust in me; the knowledge that I’ll sit beside you on the porch when I’m needed, but you’ll let me go my own way to learn what makes life so exciting; the knowledge that I’ll return my love honestly, never taking advantage of that love shown to me; a willingness to not be led with a leash but to be able to walk step-by-step beside the one I care for; a willingness to stand and fight when in danger, even at the risk of losing the fight or even a life in order to protect and honor those virtues we hold so dear.
I can still see the sparkle in Beethoven’s big brown eyes as I write this. That look lets me know that my dog loved me more than life itself.
enough
