There is a mystic bond between man and dog as exist between no other species.
Strider was a mix.
A mix of black Labrador Retriever and Chow.
A mix of nobility and at times raw fear turned sharp.
Dogs easily weave themselves into the warp and woof of a family's life fabric; or in deference to the canine-american perspective, the fabric of the pack (as we believe he saw it). Strider was different than many, if not most all dogs, but when it comes to mixing with the family life and weaving into it with all of his furriness, Strider was no exception. That mystic bond was tight between the two of us.
Strider was of noble appearance and countenance and this was the outward Lab on display. As a noble, he had well established lines of decorum and which made him a pleasure in so many ways; he never raided the trash, no matter what manner of tempting odoriferous scraps where thrown in. We always left the house confident he would not cause any trouble when left alone. He had nearly impeccable manners, he would wait at the door until given the command to enter, he would sit, stay, lay down, shake or leap on his hind legs ("Be Shamu!" was his command to leap into the air). He was not to get up on the furniture, nor was he to eat from plates of food or snack left at his nose level on the coffee table. These bounds were never broken. He was a gentleman. His boundaries were solid and unwavering. He was a noble beast. He was a beast, yet a beast that was part of the Suneson family fabric.
He asked not for much, but he cherished those special opportunities when made available. When the kids where underclassmen in high school, the morning invitation was at first; "Strider, do you want to go see some Mustangs?" Yes he did. For that was an invitation to jump in the back of my 4Runner and ride to Inga's High School where I would roll down the back window and he would stick his big black wet nose out the window crack (his "smell hole" as we called it) and take in the sights, sounds and smells of kids getting ready to go to class. When Grant entered a different High School, the invitation to Strider was; "Strider, do you want to go see some Owls?" For him, the answer and tradition was the same, though the route was different.
Strider was of noble countenance, and spoke only when he had something to say. Always thankful that he was never a 'little yapper', constantly making noise for little or no reason. He was quiet and dignified, a small woof or even a punch at the back door when he wanted to be let in. No need to press the issue. However, if there was an unknown on the door step or a stranger traveling down the alley, he was pleased to announce his presence. I encouraged such behavior from my 72 pounder hounder. When younger and spry, he would hurdle himself at the front door when a stranger approached. The cable guy admitted he almost wet his pants one day. Back a few years, when the trains traveling on the tracks at the end of our subdivision were allowed to blow their horns, he would sometimes sing the "The Sad Doggy Song". A mix of howl and whine that was a primal response from his wolf ancestors to the harmonic resonance of certain engineers and how they sounded the train horn. We delighted in his singing.
Strider as a mix, was a mixed blessing as well. His well established boundaries included his clear warning to never cross his lines; he would not tolerate being handled when he was frightened or scared and did not like anyone coming close to his head with binding devices such as muzzles or harnesses - we called this his "Chow brain". We learned to respect his wishes as dictated by his Chow brain.
His nobility may have been interpreted as aloofness by some, but I understood Strider and he understood me. It was a mystic bond. His peculiar personality precluded him from being the kind of dog who ran to greet the master with kisses and a furiously wagging, curled and feathery tail. No, that just was not who Strider was. But, when I would go upstairs to work in my office there, he would soon follow me and come lay at the top of the stairs or curl up next to my chair in front of the computer. Strider's affection was quiet and subtle and constant. I would extend my hand and scratch behind his ears, and then he would re-position himself to make sure I also scratched his ever-itchy tail joint. Always his favorite form of petting interaction. When down stairs in the living room, he would come by and stand over my extended toes as my heels rested on the foot stool, this way I would be encouraged to scratch his belly with my toe knuckles. His communications were clear. He was cool, and that was cool with me. I understood.
Inside Strider there was a precise "dog clock", and inevitably, when he asked to go out for the last time at night, it was 10:20 PM plus-or-minus 2 minutes. Early on, he put his metal tags hanging from his collar to good use. If me and the wife spent too long in bed on a weekend morning, he would rise from his bed at the foot of our bed, stand staring with tensed lips and an expression of definite disapproval, and jangle his tags as a scolding reminder that we were burning day light and he wanted us up and out of bed. Now. The irony is that once he got me to rise, he would go back to bed himself.
Indeed, Strider was a mix. He was a noble beast. At times he could be a sharp and fearful beast. But he was my beast. I miss him. For all the mix of personality, daily interactions and routines with him, he left his mark on me and the Suneson Family like a track of muddy paw-prints that walked all through our life for the last 13 years. Those muddy paw-prints may fade with time, but they are indelible markings and they do not seem to be washed out by my tears over the past few days.
Good-bye my old and faithful friend. That mystic bond of ours now severed has left me me grieving - not for you ol' hound, for it was time to go. Your dog clock knew it, as did I.
But I grieve for the ceasing of the familiar wet nose against my forearm, your humble expression of the Creator's purest form of joy seen when merely offered the opportunity to take a walk beside your master.
I grieve for all that is and all that was, wrapped in the great life-affirming mess of a beloved dog's muddy paw prints tracked across my life, that shall now be no more.
****
When I took rhetoric in college, I came a cross this tribute to a dog given by George Vest, US Senator from Missouri (1879-1903). Earlier in his law career, a friend was trying a case where his client was asking for compensation for the death of his dog. The attorney, knowing of his friend's polished oratory skills, asked George Vest to give the closing arguments to the jury. This is the moving tribute to a dog that clinched the case for his friend:
Gentlemen of the Jury:
The best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.
The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer. He will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.
George Graham Vest - c. 1855
 |
| Strider ol' Friend 9/11/2001 to 3/30/2015 |
A mix of black Labrador Retriever and Chow.
A mix of nobility and at times raw fear turned sharp.
Dogs easily weave themselves into the warp and woof of a family's life fabric; or in deference to the canine-american perspective, the fabric of the pack (as we believe he saw it). Strider was different than many, if not most all dogs, but when it comes to mixing with the family life and weaving into it with all of his furriness, Strider was no exception. That mystic bond was tight between the two of us.
Strider was of noble appearance and countenance and this was the outward Lab on display. As a noble, he had well established lines of decorum and which made him a pleasure in so many ways; he never raided the trash, no matter what manner of tempting odoriferous scraps where thrown in. We always left the house confident he would not cause any trouble when left alone. He had nearly impeccable manners, he would wait at the door until given the command to enter, he would sit, stay, lay down, shake or leap on his hind legs ("Be Shamu!" was his command to leap into the air). He was not to get up on the furniture, nor was he to eat from plates of food or snack left at his nose level on the coffee table. These bounds were never broken. He was a gentleman. His boundaries were solid and unwavering. He was a noble beast. He was a beast, yet a beast that was part of the Suneson family fabric.
He asked not for much, but he cherished those special opportunities when made available. When the kids where underclassmen in high school, the morning invitation was at first; "Strider, do you want to go see some Mustangs?" Yes he did. For that was an invitation to jump in the back of my 4Runner and ride to Inga's High School where I would roll down the back window and he would stick his big black wet nose out the window crack (his "smell hole" as we called it) and take in the sights, sounds and smells of kids getting ready to go to class. When Grant entered a different High School, the invitation to Strider was; "Strider, do you want to go see some Owls?" For him, the answer and tradition was the same, though the route was different.
Strider was of noble countenance, and spoke only when he had something to say. Always thankful that he was never a 'little yapper', constantly making noise for little or no reason. He was quiet and dignified, a small woof or even a punch at the back door when he wanted to be let in. No need to press the issue. However, if there was an unknown on the door step or a stranger traveling down the alley, he was pleased to announce his presence. I encouraged such behavior from my 72 pounder hounder. When younger and spry, he would hurdle himself at the front door when a stranger approached. The cable guy admitted he almost wet his pants one day. Back a few years, when the trains traveling on the tracks at the end of our subdivision were allowed to blow their horns, he would sometimes sing the "The Sad Doggy Song". A mix of howl and whine that was a primal response from his wolf ancestors to the harmonic resonance of certain engineers and how they sounded the train horn. We delighted in his singing.
Strider as a mix, was a mixed blessing as well. His well established boundaries included his clear warning to never cross his lines; he would not tolerate being handled when he was frightened or scared and did not like anyone coming close to his head with binding devices such as muzzles or harnesses - we called this his "Chow brain". We learned to respect his wishes as dictated by his Chow brain.
His nobility may have been interpreted as aloofness by some, but I understood Strider and he understood me. It was a mystic bond. His peculiar personality precluded him from being the kind of dog who ran to greet the master with kisses and a furiously wagging, curled and feathery tail. No, that just was not who Strider was. But, when I would go upstairs to work in my office there, he would soon follow me and come lay at the top of the stairs or curl up next to my chair in front of the computer. Strider's affection was quiet and subtle and constant. I would extend my hand and scratch behind his ears, and then he would re-position himself to make sure I also scratched his ever-itchy tail joint. Always his favorite form of petting interaction. When down stairs in the living room, he would come by and stand over my extended toes as my heels rested on the foot stool, this way I would be encouraged to scratch his belly with my toe knuckles. His communications were clear. He was cool, and that was cool with me. I understood.
Inside Strider there was a precise "dog clock", and inevitably, when he asked to go out for the last time at night, it was 10:20 PM plus-or-minus 2 minutes. Early on, he put his metal tags hanging from his collar to good use. If me and the wife spent too long in bed on a weekend morning, he would rise from his bed at the foot of our bed, stand staring with tensed lips and an expression of definite disapproval, and jangle his tags as a scolding reminder that we were burning day light and he wanted us up and out of bed. Now. The irony is that once he got me to rise, he would go back to bed himself.
Indeed, Strider was a mix. He was a noble beast. At times he could be a sharp and fearful beast. But he was my beast. I miss him. For all the mix of personality, daily interactions and routines with him, he left his mark on me and the Suneson Family like a track of muddy paw-prints that walked all through our life for the last 13 years. Those muddy paw-prints may fade with time, but they are indelible markings and they do not seem to be washed out by my tears over the past few days.
Good-bye my old and faithful friend. That mystic bond of ours now severed has left me me grieving - not for you ol' hound, for it was time to go. Your dog clock knew it, as did I.
But I grieve for the ceasing of the familiar wet nose against my forearm, your humble expression of the Creator's purest form of joy seen when merely offered the opportunity to take a walk beside your master.
I grieve for all that is and all that was, wrapped in the great life-affirming mess of a beloved dog's muddy paw prints tracked across my life, that shall now be no more.
****
When I took rhetoric in college, I came a cross this tribute to a dog given by George Vest, US Senator from Missouri (1879-1903). Earlier in his law career, a friend was trying a case where his client was asking for compensation for the death of his dog. The attorney, knowing of his friend's polished oratory skills, asked George Vest to give the closing arguments to the jury. This is the moving tribute to a dog that clinched the case for his friend:
Gentlemen of the Jury:
The best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.
The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer. He will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounters with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.
George Graham Vest - c. 1855
 |
| Strider and Me, December 22, 2004 Strider was a lover of the rare Dallas snowfall. The kids built a snowman & Strider would rush it and knock it down and then chew on the snowman's stick arms. |
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