#Dogs # Pets Chuck's Dog Part 1

Chuck’s Dog

I'm reposting this because I miss this wonderful dog.

What follows is a true story. It's about a dog named Duke. Other key players in this drama are Chuck-that's me, Leanne-my wife, Barb-my sister, and Ed-my brother-in-law.

Duke was a faithful companion for a decade. Early in our relationship, we got up at 3:00 a.m., M-F during the school year, and walked about an hour each day. I'd drive 60 miles to work, teach, and drive 60 miles home. Duke was waiting for me at the door from the garage at least 90% of the time. 

He was my dog.

Life Before Duke
Neither my wife nor I had a dog when we got married. As soon as we moved into our first house—1973—we bought a puppy. It was a Sheltie/Chihuahua mix. Big eyes and ears. A great howler. We named her Taffy.

The first Taffy. Howling with Ed.

We adopted our first son, Steve, in 1976. Taffy was not happy with the demotion to the last dog in the pack pecking order. She hung in there, however, until our organic son, Doug, was born in 1980. Being 5th in a five-dog pack was too much. When she began snapping at our youngest, we had to take her to the animal shelter.

The next two dogs were transients by their choice. Both escaped the confines of our quarter-acre fenced yard.

When Doug was at camp in the summer of 1989, we bought an AKC dachshund. The result of a breeding mistake between a standard and miniature, Taffy—creative naming, right?—was long, tan, and not too big. He was our dog for 16 years. He died just after Thanksgiving of 2005.

 We knew we wanted another dog, but we had no timeline for acquisition.

Taffy #2 Guarding the Backyard

Discovery Day
My sister and I went to a rescue dog adoption event at the PETCO in Rancho San Diego during the last week of 2005. There were many dogs. Most were yappy Chihuahua mixes or large breeds. One small black dog lay in a crate ignoring the cacophony around him. When we go to the end of the line, I asked the rescue dog lady if I could see him.

“There’s no little black dog,” my sister said.

“There’s one,” I replied.

Minutes later, I was walking the black dog on a makeshift leash. Duke was a dachshund mix. Long like a doxie with teeth like a Rottweiler. Go ahead and think about potential parents. I’ve done it hundreds of times.

Photos of Duke at the rescue event.

I called my wife, who came over during her lunch break. She sat with Bart—as we called him then. When she watched me walk him, she said, “He prances like he’s something special. We should name him Duke.”

I’d wanted a dog named Duke for a long time, so it was an easy call.

Duke’s left eyelid was turned under. The eyelashes were always in his eye. Part of the fee we paid included the operation to turn the lid out. The vet donated most of the cost of the surgery. We picked up a spayed Duke with no eyelashes in his eyes a little over a week later. Oh, yeah. Keep track of veterinary issues as we go along. Leave a lot of room on the list.

As we were putting Duke into his harness to ride in the car, we found out from one of the rescue crew that Duke normally held both urine and feces until he was out of his crate. If he couldn’t hold it, he always went in the same spot.

“Some of these dogs just let it go anywhere. They end up coated in the stuff,” was the final comment before we took off.

Speaking of car harnesses, I don’t think any dog should ride in a car without one on. This routine was soon a habit. Whenever we just stuck Duke in the back seat while we got the harness, he went to his side, sat, and waited to be hooked in place.

Duke and Hogan in my car. WITH HARNESSES ON. Duke was always behind the front passenger's seat, so I could turn my head and see him.

 Three vets agreed that Duke was about 18-months old when we got him. He was rescued from Imperial County, California, and rescued from the overflow—next to be euthanized—room of an animal shelter just outside El Centro.

The Friendship Begins
I’d just finished listening to Caesar Milan’s book on dog training while driving to and from Great Oak High when we got Duke. We adopted several of his techniques. The most important from our point of view are

• Don’t let the dog go into your house the first time before you. You are the pack leader. The house is your den. As the alpha dog, go in first and invite the newbie in.
• When the dog acts out, use your hand and “mom’s mouth.” Grab the dog at the base of the neck. Squeeze. Push the dog down to the ground. Hold him in place until he relaxes. Release your grip and move your hand to cover his eyes. Removing your hand is when it’s okay to get up.
• Only high-ranking dogs in the pack control food distribution. Keep reading for more about this.

The day we brought Duke home, I went in first. Once he was inside, we unleashed him. He sniffed around. We went to the doggie door. Three trips through with our help were all he needed to master the task. His first solo exit ended with him drinking out of the fishpond in our backyard.

BTW. Duke never defecated inside our house. He urinated maybe twice in spite of being trapped inside from 4:30 a.m. when I left for work, and 3:30 p.m. when I got home when Leanne forgot to open the doggie door before she left for work.

I took Duke to training sessions at a reduced rate from PETCO. The most important things I learned there were

• The size of the reward for obedience isn’t important to the dog.
• The command “WAIT” is the best command in the world. STAY means don’t move until released. WAIT should have a released gesture or sound, but it’s a temporary position.

By the end of class, Duke could SIT, SHAKE, WAIT, ROLLOVER, and LAYDOWN. It was common for him to go through the whole list if you commended him to do any one of them while you were holding a treat.

He didn’t need much help with the leash. By the third or fourth walk, he’d go in front until the leash was tight. Then he’d slow down until the leash rested on his back. The only times he pulled on the leash were

• When he saw a white pick-up truck. Silver was a trigger, too but no other color. Spotting one of those trucks ignited a sprint to the end of the leash and rotate 180-degrees when the leash tightened. I suspect he’d been abused by white pickup trucks in the fields around El Centro.
• When, for some reason, he was done walking. At that point, he’d flop on his side and become dead weight. I’ve pulled him for several feet until it was obvious he wanted to turn around. Fortunately, that behavior was rare and ended quickly.

Speaking of walking, in his prime years, Duke and I would walk at least 25-miles per week. He never had much of a weight problem.

Veterinarians
We bought disaster coverage insurance the first year we had Duke. It covered surgery, emergency rooms, and other major issues. Beginning the second year, we switched to a comprehensive plan through Banfield. Two free comprehensive exams, shots, free office visits per year. As you see, those coverages were good to have.

Banfield's clinic is inside Pet Smart. We walked to most vet visits. 

The first time he went to Banfield for his comprehensive, all the doctors, nurses, and assistants that day were females. When I picked him up, I saw an $8 charge for Aggression Management. When I asked, they explained that meant that they had to use multiple personnel to keep him from biting the vet and vet assistants. The boldface print in the first sentence explains why. Once Duke learned females weren't all bad, those charges stopped.

By the time Duke died, everyone in our Banfield was a fan of him and Hogan. In fact, when his primary care doctor moved out of state, she told me that she'd miss Duke and Hogan, "and not too many others. They're like family."

U.S. Letter Carriers & All Diesel Delivery Trucks

Most dogs don't like delivery people. The most reasonable explanation for that I've heard is that they approach the den but never enter. Dog's interpret that as a sign of aggression against the pack

Letter carriers were the favorite target. FedEx trucks on our street were almost always diesel. That noise ranked second. Squeaky brakes by any truck sparked at least token barking.

While both Duke and Hogan barked like crazy, Duke almost always initiated the full-volume vocal attack. He always hip-checked Hogan out of the window beside the door. The hip-check was an uncommon act by Duke. Hogan always wiggled to the front of the line when ear scratching or other PDAs were handed out. 

If it was food, Hogan didn't stand a chance.

Family

Duke loved the house I grew up in. It's in Spring Valley, California. The backyard is about one-quarter acre. It slopes slightly up to the back fence. Bancroft Drive runs on a berm above the back fence. 

People walked, jogged, and rode bicycles on Bancroft. That was unacceptable to Duke. He'd barrel out the back door and sprint up the slope, barking to beat the band. Hogan usually joined the defense move, but Duke always led the charge. It was amazing to see stubby little legs propelling a nearly flat black blur toward the fence.

Guarding mom's backyard at night from the safety of the lighted patio. Note the tail is in the take-off position! 

We’d had Duke for about a year when we adopted a second dog. Hogan was my organic son’s dog. Allergy issues were one reason for the adoption. Nice dog. Completely different personality from Duke. They were as different as black and white.

They became buddies. People asked if they were littermates. That I never understood. 

Hogan: Chihuahua and Jack Russell Terrier mix. Long legs. Can jump on a dining table and has for sweet foods.

Duke: Dauschund and ?? Had the canine teeth of a Rottweiler. Stubby legs. Long body. 

Part 2 picks up the story with more about family. It continues through the fight Duke put up to live the rest of his life.