Don't Let Go!

Rascal was that dog. You know, the dog who's lifespan runs parallel to the most formative years of your childhood. We adopted Rascal from the Humane Society in Erie, Pennsylvania, when I was five years old.

She was a unique, muttly mix of Husky, Chow Chow and German Shepherd, with long, soft, red fur that she shed around the house in clumps, like tumbleweeds rolling across the plains. Reminiscent of a Chow Chow, her main coat had a small, plush, mane of fur around her face. She also had a long black streak of fur down her back, like a German Sheperd that turned red as she aged. Her pointed ears and curled tail were her most distinct Husky attributes. All of these traits together were beautiful, but caused her to be mistaken more than once for a small wolf or a large fox.

My father freely adores animals, a tendency he has most definitely passed to me and my sisters. So when Candy, our ten-year-old Beagle, died, it couldn't have been more than a week or two before we headed to the shelter to find our next family member. Since I was five, and my sisters nearly ten years older, an executive decision had been made. Like the patient parent who allows their child to push every button in the elevator, my father decided I would choose our next pet.

Having not been alive when Candy was adopted, it was my first time through the pet adoption process, and I think we can all agree that shelters aren't the most serene places to spend your time. In fact, I can attest that despite the adorable animal factor, they are quite loud and overwhelming, particularly for a highly sensitive five-year-old.

I walked past each small kennel, slowly studying every dog with hawk-like precision and focus. Each one growled, yipped, barked, or jumped at me, pleading to be taken to a permanent home, and a nice warm bed. I wanted to rescue them all. I still do.

It was about this time that my overt sensitivity got the best of me, and a feeling of dread gradually crept into my subconscious. A fear rumbled just below my psychic surface. This decision was so important to my father. What if I couldn't select just the right dog to make my family happy. And then, I began to cry.

Afraid his plan had backfired, my father quickly distracted me, pointing to a small kennel with a sweet, spritely, Beagle. My dad always wants the Beagle, in fact, my parents adopted one again, that is curled up in their home right now.

Not content that all the options had been properly weighed, I decided to enter the "large dog" section of the kennel. I have no idea why I thought it would be any calmer in there, but needless to say, it wasn't. In fact, it was even louder and more boisterous than the first area. Barks echoed through the space as I marched down each aisle.

And then, I came upon Rascal. Beyond the kennel bars she sat, stoically staring at me in complete silence. She didn't bark, she didn't jump, she didn't whine, she didn't growl, she just cocked her head to one side and stared while sitting perfectly upright and still, as if she were assessing my qualifications. After all I had seen, she completely mesmerized me. That was one smart puppy. And she was still a puppy. Though she was fully grown, she was only nine months old, but she certainly knew how to stand out from the crowd.

"Daddy, I found the one I want! She's in there," I yelled, pulling my father's sleeve.

"Are you sure you don't want the Beagle?"

"No, this one! She's so good and she's really pretty."

And that was how Rascal ended up as the dog, my dog.

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It took a few months, but Rascal eventually settled in quite nicely with our family, although as I recall, there was a bit of a learning curve. One of the first times we left the dog home alone, we returned to find every shred newspaper, toilet paper, and paper towel in pieces all over the living room and kitchen. I guess she was bored. Lesson learned. Huskies have a lot of energy. Wear her out.

At that time, we lived on a spacious lot in a suburban cul-de-sac of ranch homes. I remember thinking it was such a large yard when I was seven, but when my husband and I drove through Erie about 14 years ago, we drove to my old home, and it seemed incredibly small. When you're small, everything seems huge, but when you're grown, everything seems so much smaller.

As I recall, my older sister, Cindy learned about the size differential between Rascal and I, the hard way. At seven years old, my mother had decreed that I was not to walk the dog. She was too big and too strong for a seven-year-old. So, of course, I desparately wanted to walk the dog.

My sister would have been about 15 at the time. Since I couldn't walk the dog, I would follow her out the back door to the top of the small hill near the back of our large yard when she took Rascal out. Little sisters never want to miss anything, even a giant poop.

So the dog's doing her thing and my sister says,

"Here, you hold it," and hands the leash out towards me. To this day I don't know why she did it. It's not like she had a cell phone to stare at or something. This was 1986.

"Mom, says I'm not supposed to."

"Oh, go ahead, it'll be fine."

Reticently, I took hold of the leash. Instantly sensing the change of command, Rascal took off and sprinted down the hill towards the front yard, immediately pulling me off my feet and onto my stomach behind her. I could feel the grass burn rubbing against me as I screamed in pain from the leash yanking my wrist and pinching my tiny fingers.

"Don't let go! Don't let go," my sister yelled as she desperately chased us both, while coming to the realization of the trouble she was in.

It wasn't until just before she reached the sidewalk in the front of our house, that Rascal finally ran out of steam. Huffing and puffing my sister grabbed the leash, as my mom came running out of the front of the house. Everything after that was a blur. I do know one thing though, that was one smart, fast puppy.

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A few years later, the ranch was sold, and we moved to a two-story home in upstate New York to re-locate for my dad's job and to live closer to family. Rascal of course tagged along, and very much enjoyed our new home. She zoomed from one living room to the other bouncing gleefully from couch to couch, much to my mother's dismay. By this time she was finally a fully grown "Super Puppy" complete with super skills.

She developed selective hearing. Miraculously, blocking out the annoyances of us calling her name, yet still hearing the sound of ice cracking or a Kraft cheese wrapper being opened. She honed her ability to unlock doors by jumping on them until they popped, and zipping all around the neighborhood or beyond.

Yes, Rascal certainly had a sense of wanderlust. As my sisters were now out of the house, whenever Rascal escaped the confines of our home, I was sent out to find her in what I'm sure she thought was a massive game of hide and seek.

I think this game was, by far, her most favorite activity. I trapsed though meadows, waded streams, ran down busy streets and through wooded areas trying to track her, stopping only momentarily every few hundred yards to catch my breath, and listen for the jangling of her chain.

If I'm really being honest, most of the time, Rascal won these games. There were only two times, I remember her voluntary forfeiture.

One time she got a front paw hooked into her chain collar and hobbled out of the tall grass on three legs with her head hanging in disgrace. The second time, I could hear jingling as she came running up the side of the house. Pressing my back firmly against the siding I prepared to jump out for a surprise attack.

Gotcha! After hours roaming the neighborhood in the middle of the night, I jumped out and threw my arms around her neck only to be hit by an overwhelmingly, noxious odor. Needless to say, I've never forgotten the smell of skunk spray since. That was the final tally of our epic hide and seek adventures, Rascal - 347, Me - 2. I suppose you could genuinely question who actually "won" that second game.

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Just like everybody, Rascal began to slow down with age. When I graduated from high school, I was accepted to music school but Rascal was still, my dog.

I was going to school several hours away, and never seemed to get home very often to see her. I was always sad when my dad would talk about how she was slowing down, and getting older. She was nearly 17 years old by this time. No small feat for a larger dog, but she was "Super Puppy", after all.

My mom spent hours cooking Rascal chicken and rice every night to help her digestion when she started having trouble eating, it was all she could keep down.

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My junior year at school, I was selected to compete in a music competition. It would require serious preparation and rehearsal with a particular accompanist. I did my part to prepare and set up a time to work with the pianist who lived just south of my parents where the competition was scheduled to take place. For ease of travel, I had plans to stay at home just before I went to rehearse and compete.

The day before I was to return, my father called.

"Well, we were hoping to tell you after you got through with your competition, but since you're coming home, you should know, we had to put Rascal to sleep last week. She was just going downhill so quickly. She couldn't even go out to the bathroom on her own anymore. We were really upset, but it was for the best."

"That makes me so sad. She was such a sweet girl. Ok, I'm glad you said something. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

" See you then. Drive safe."

I cried for hours.

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And that was the end of "Super Puppy". That smart, fast, beautiful, super puppy. It's been thirty years since Rascal "took off", but I still haven't let go of that sweet girl.