By Samantha Ducloux Waltz
I guess you don't really own a dog, you rent them, and you have to be thankful that you had a long lease.
~Joe Garagiola
"It's a moving van," Joel, my six-year-old, announced one summer morning as he ran from the breakfast table to the front window. I joined him and we watched the truck move warily past us toward the only other house on our narrow, gravel road.
"Let's give them a country welcome," I suggested. Tami, my twelve-year-old, helped me make chocolate chip cookies and our family headed to meet our new neighbors. Rex, the Golden Retriever we'd recently rescued, bounded beside us. A Japanese woman answered the door. Within moments a man and a boy about Joel's age stepped up beside her.
"Hello," she said with a little bow, her eyes glowing with pleasure as I handed her the cookies. "I am Machiko Tomita. This is Mas, and our son Ken."
I introduced my family. Her eyes settled on Rex.
"He is so big," she said, her eyes sparkling. "And so beautiful. We have no dogs like this in Japan."
"He is very handsome." Mas nodded.
Rex was handsome, ninety pounds of gleaming, feathered coat, doleful brown eyes in a broad face, and a gentle disposition.
"How old is he?" Machiko asked as Ken tentatively ran his hand along Rex's long back.
"About two and a half. A teenager in dog years," I replied.
"A teenager. He wants to be busy and always meeting people," she said laughing. "Please come in. Excuse the boxes. Our boys can play."
We accepted a cup of tea and chatted for a few minutes about the neighborhood and about Mas's work.
"Where did you get Rex?" Machiko asked.
"His first owners didn't want him. They hardly fed him," I answered.
"How could anyone not want him?" Machiko asked in wonder, kneeling beside him and petting him. We visited a few more minutes, then my husband Hal, Tami and I headed home, leaving the boys to play. Rex trotted at our side. An hour passed before I realized Rex wasn't underfoot, as usual.
"Rex," I called out.
He didn't come. I went outside and called again. If he wandered down our road to the street it intersected, where the occasional car sped by, he'd be in danger. My heart lifted when I looked toward the Tomitas and he galloped into view, long ears flying.
"You're grounded for a week," I told him as he skidded to a stop and I gave him a hug. "You really worried me." But I couldn't be very angry with him. As a puppy, he probably hadn't felt wanted. Now he had new friends.
Within a week Rex was making daily trips to visit the Tomitas, like a teenager hanging out with his buddies.
"It's wonderful," Machiko assured me. "I never had a dog before."
At first I felt a stab of jealousy, but the feeling quickly evaporated. How could I deny Rex the added love and attention?
Rex courted Machiko the way a high school sophomore courts his first big crush. He often took her gifts, a slightly damp apple or orange from the fruit platter, cookies from a tray left on the counter, or a bag of chips intended for a child's lunch. Heading into the kitchen one afternoon, I saw him nose open a deep kitchen drawer, take a bag of corn flakes in his mouth, and carry it to the front door. Standing on his long hind legs, he put a front paw on the curved door handle and pressed down. One click and he was off to the Tomitas. In return, Machiko always had a dog treat for him.
With the awkwardness and exuberance of youth, he knocked flowerpots off the Tomitas' deck, stole sushi off their counter, and splashed water from a proffered water bowl all across their tiled kitchen floor. She forgave him everything.
It was a halcyon summer. The boys ran through a sprinkler on Machiko's front lawn, Rex pushing the sprinkler head around with his nose, spraying everyone from surprise angles. They gathered materials from our house-cum-construction site and built forts in the woods of fir, maple, and scrub oak that covered the hillside between our houses, Rex darting about, acting as foreman. Boys and dog splashed in the shallow creek that ran along the edge of the Tomitas' pasture, happy shouts filling the crisp country air. Then Rex put the Tomitas' generous hospitality at risk in true teenage style.
Machiko had been cleaning and cooking for days so she and Mas could entertain all the dignitaries connected with his job. I made sure Rex was at my side as the chatter of guests reached us, followed by the aroma of steaks on the grill. I was making a simpler meal of turkey tacos for my family and turned to offer Rex a bite of browning ground turkey, but he wasn't in the kitchen.
"Have you seen Rex?" I called to the kids, panic tightening my chest. I needn't have asked. I knew where he'd gone. I grabbed a leash and car keys. A big, salivating dog was surely the last thing the Tomitas would want on this important occasion. It took me minutes to drive up the hill, but Rex had already crashed the party and was circulating among the guests, feathered tail wagging. Machiko had filled a lovely, lacquered wooden bowl with water for him. Mas had given him a steak.
"He can stay. He is very welcome," Machiko assured me as I hurried to the deck, leash in hand, gushing apologies and feeling as out of place as my dog. I couldn't believe they weren't cross. Then I looked at Rex's big Golden Retriever smile and understood. They truly loved him.
Over the next four years, our families shared every snow day, every outing to the park, every holiday. Rex was always with us. Then one day he grew desperately ill and I rushed him to the vet. An hour later I called Machiko, sobbing. "He has congestive heart failure. The vet can't do anything to save him."
"I want to say goodbye," Machiko said, her voice breaking.
We got Tami and the boys out of school and gathered around Rex in the waiting room of the veterinary hospital, tears streaming down our faces. I cradled his head in my lap, Machiko stroked his back, and the kids patted him and told him what a great dog he was. Machiko and I were both with him when he was euthanized and the two families gathered to bury him in the woods between our homes.
"It's so sad," Machiko said dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Just six years old." I put my arm around her shoulders.
"But he had four wonderful years. Not many dogs have two families."
Machiko smiled wistfully. "That's right. We all really loved him. He went from no love to double love."
I guess you don't really own a dog, you rent them, and you have to be thankful that you had a long lease.
~Joe Garagiola
"It's a moving van," Joel, my six-year-old, announced one summer morning as he ran from the breakfast table to the front window. I joined him and we watched the truck move warily past us toward the only other house on our narrow, gravel road.
"Let's give them a country welcome," I suggested. Tami, my twelve-year-old, helped me make chocolate chip cookies and our family headed to meet our new neighbors. Rex, the Golden Retriever we'd recently rescued, bounded beside us. A Japanese woman answered the door. Within moments a man and a boy about Joel's age stepped up beside her.
"Hello," she said with a little bow, her eyes glowing with pleasure as I handed her the cookies. "I am Machiko Tomita. This is Mas, and our son Ken."
I introduced my family. Her eyes settled on Rex.
"He is so big," she said, her eyes sparkling. "And so beautiful. We have no dogs like this in Japan."
"He is very handsome." Mas nodded.
Rex was handsome, ninety pounds of gleaming, feathered coat, doleful brown eyes in a broad face, and a gentle disposition.
"How old is he?" Machiko asked as Ken tentatively ran his hand along Rex's long back.
"About two and a half. A teenager in dog years," I replied.
"A teenager. He wants to be busy and always meeting people," she said laughing. "Please come in. Excuse the boxes. Our boys can play."
We accepted a cup of tea and chatted for a few minutes about the neighborhood and about Mas's work.
"Where did you get Rex?" Machiko asked.
"His first owners didn't want him. They hardly fed him," I answered.
"How could anyone not want him?" Machiko asked in wonder, kneeling beside him and petting him. We visited a few more minutes, then my husband Hal, Tami and I headed home, leaving the boys to play. Rex trotted at our side. An hour passed before I realized Rex wasn't underfoot, as usual.
"Rex," I called out.
He didn't come. I went outside and called again. If he wandered down our road to the street it intersected, where the occasional car sped by, he'd be in danger. My heart lifted when I looked toward the Tomitas and he galloped into view, long ears flying.
"You're grounded for a week," I told him as he skidded to a stop and I gave him a hug. "You really worried me." But I couldn't be very angry with him. As a puppy, he probably hadn't felt wanted. Now he had new friends.
Within a week Rex was making daily trips to visit the Tomitas, like a teenager hanging out with his buddies.
"It's wonderful," Machiko assured me. "I never had a dog before."
At first I felt a stab of jealousy, but the feeling quickly evaporated. How could I deny Rex the added love and attention?
Rex courted Machiko the way a high school sophomore courts his first big crush. He often took her gifts, a slightly damp apple or orange from the fruit platter, cookies from a tray left on the counter, or a bag of chips intended for a child's lunch. Heading into the kitchen one afternoon, I saw him nose open a deep kitchen drawer, take a bag of corn flakes in his mouth, and carry it to the front door. Standing on his long hind legs, he put a front paw on the curved door handle and pressed down. One click and he was off to the Tomitas. In return, Machiko always had a dog treat for him.
With the awkwardness and exuberance of youth, he knocked flowerpots off the Tomitas' deck, stole sushi off their counter, and splashed water from a proffered water bowl all across their tiled kitchen floor. She forgave him everything.
It was a halcyon summer. The boys ran through a sprinkler on Machiko's front lawn, Rex pushing the sprinkler head around with his nose, spraying everyone from surprise angles. They gathered materials from our house-cum-construction site and built forts in the woods of fir, maple, and scrub oak that covered the hillside between our houses, Rex darting about, acting as foreman. Boys and dog splashed in the shallow creek that ran along the edge of the Tomitas' pasture, happy shouts filling the crisp country air. Then Rex put the Tomitas' generous hospitality at risk in true teenage style.
Machiko had been cleaning and cooking for days so she and Mas could entertain all the dignitaries connected with his job. I made sure Rex was at my side as the chatter of guests reached us, followed by the aroma of steaks on the grill. I was making a simpler meal of turkey tacos for my family and turned to offer Rex a bite of browning ground turkey, but he wasn't in the kitchen.
"Have you seen Rex?" I called to the kids, panic tightening my chest. I needn't have asked. I knew where he'd gone. I grabbed a leash and car keys. A big, salivating dog was surely the last thing the Tomitas would want on this important occasion. It took me minutes to drive up the hill, but Rex had already crashed the party and was circulating among the guests, feathered tail wagging. Machiko had filled a lovely, lacquered wooden bowl with water for him. Mas had given him a steak.
"He can stay. He is very welcome," Machiko assured me as I hurried to the deck, leash in hand, gushing apologies and feeling as out of place as my dog. I couldn't believe they weren't cross. Then I looked at Rex's big Golden Retriever smile and understood. They truly loved him.
Over the next four years, our families shared every snow day, every outing to the park, every holiday. Rex was always with us. Then one day he grew desperately ill and I rushed him to the vet. An hour later I called Machiko, sobbing. "He has congestive heart failure. The vet can't do anything to save him."
"I want to say goodbye," Machiko said, her voice breaking.
We got Tami and the boys out of school and gathered around Rex in the waiting room of the veterinary hospital, tears streaming down our faces. I cradled his head in my lap, Machiko stroked his back, and the kids patted him and told him what a great dog he was. Machiko and I were both with him when he was euthanized and the two families gathered to bury him in the woods between our homes.
"It's so sad," Machiko said dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Just six years old." I put my arm around her shoulders.
"But he had four wonderful years. Not many dogs have two families."
Machiko smiled wistfully. "That's right. We all really loved him. He went from no love to double love."
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