The Loss of a Close Friend of Many Years Brings Recollections of Happier Times

A few weeks ago, I read about a retired merchant seaman from San Francisco who was described as “inconsolable” after his dog, Piccolo, wandered off during a walk.

Piccolo, a mixture of Chihuahua and rat terrier, had made the news once before. Incredibly, the little dog--living with his master in New York--had managed to stow away on the Queen Elizabeth II for a round-trip cruise to Nassau.

My sympathy for the ex-seaman was instantaneous. Tam and Piccolo would have been the same age but for the first time in 13 years, my own canine helper is not around to tidy up cookie spills in the kitchen, or fluster the quarrelsome jays at our birdbath. Back in 1973, we didn’t know that cocker spaniels, once the most popular dogs in the country, had--through over-breeding--acquired a reputation for sometimes being temperamental. Nor did we want a show dog, just a lovable pet--and that’s exactly what we got.

When we first saw him in the small home-kennel in Lemon Grove, I began to understand why a pedigreed male cocker, silver-buff in color, sired by Champion Bel Air Jeremy, was advertised for only $75. He was the runt of a litter of 8, the last to be sold, and at 4 months weighed only 5 pounds. Still, he was playful and well-formed. And being from rural Tennessee, I knew that shining eyes and a cold clean nose were in his favor.

The overburdened name we gave him, Golden Tam O’Shanter, quickly became just plain Tam. He took one look round our patio, sighed contentedly and began to eat everything in sight--unfortunately, not only the nourishing diet we provided, but also my husband’s hiking boots, our lawn chairs and assorted plastic milk containers.

Ironically, this active playfulness almost killed him while he was still a puppy. Enjoying his favorite game of toss-and-catch--playing it alone, after exhausting us--he somehow managed to swallow the large rubber ball. Without the surgical abilities of a fine experienced veterinarian, he would have starved to death. So in a sense he was always living on borrowed time--but he certainly made good use of the loan.

Parties brought out the clown in Tam. He managed to sample everything from pistachio nuts to guacamole dip. He had long since mastered the rules: anything held below knee-level belonged to him. Tasty-bits were instantly and cleanly spirited away but fingers were never damaged.

It is this heightened sensitivity to their human masters, this most ancient of bondings, that makes dogs so beloved. Where else can one find a nose with 14 times the olfactory powers of humans, and ears capable of detecting sounds as high in pitch as 60,000 cycles per second? Here is a creature with the bravery of Achilles--and this courage combines with a love that is not prideful but will not swerve even for death. Is it any wonder that the old seaman wept for Piccolo, and would not be comforted?

The veterinarian who had saved Tam as a puppy, and tended him all those years, was the one who had to reclaim that life. There would be no pain, he assured us. In a not-completely-successful attempt to disguise his own grief, he kept talking too fast--kept saying how lucky Tam was, what a great life he had had. No dog could expect a better!

He did indeed have an enviable life with us, although he began it as a shapely bag of bones. He had great affection, good food, long walks--even a feline bete noire from next door to give substance to his role as lord of the patio. He got into fights but never suffered a major injury. Certainly he never sailed to Nassau, nor was he permitted to join up with the gang of stalwarts on our hillside in Del Mar--but then he was never struck by a car, either. And in the park, set free, he would run so far and so fast in that sideways style of cockers that his long ears floated well behind him in the slipstream.

Tam loved it all. And to take the measure of our affection for him, one must picture his alpha-master--normally a mature and well-mannered engineer--down on all fours, nibbling, smacking his lips over special diet nuggets in an attempt to induce an ailing Tam to swallow this canine caviar with the antibiotic pill tucked inside.

These mornings, as in the past, I watch the early sun project a shaft of light onto the living-room carpet, creating a perfect “V.” Tam liked to fit himself neatly into that sunbeam and nap there, warm while the rest of the house still held the night’s cold. We had wanted him for one more Christmas--but 91 is a ripe old age, and he was healthy almost to the last.

My new “Heavy Hands,” though they may increase aerobic benefits from walking, will be a poor substitute for that indescribable lightness of leash--as though the chain floated on air--I used to feel whenever Tam and I were striding along as a team, really moving on down that road.

Later on, I found myself smiling again because of a new report on Piccolo. Several days after he was lost, his grieving owner heard a car door slam, went outside and there stood the enduring mutt, safe at home again.