by Beth Dolinar, Contributing Writer
We said goodbye to our beloved Smoothie last month, taking the aged Sheltie for his last ride before he went to sleep for the last time. I started that sentence with “we” because, although Smoothie and I lived only with each other for most of his life, so many others knew and loved him.
He was a quirky dog, and his odd behaviors made him interesting to those who met him. Every morning as I reached for the coffee pot, Smoothie freaked out, running in circles and barking. Although I never figured out what it was about coffee that he objected to, his outbursts were so loud and sharp I felt I had to warn visitors.
“Anyone for coffee?” I’d ask, and then, “maybe cover your ears while I do this.” When I hosted holidays, the after-dinner coffee was always a topic at the table. My guests would wait for Smoothie to erupt, and then he’d return to his spot under the table to await the usual cuddles and head rubs.
People knew Smoothie in the way that we all come to know other peoples’ dogs. This was especially true when I was growing up on a little dead end street, back in the time when dogs tended to roam freely through neighborhoods. The tighter leash rules are better now, but somehow those free-range dogs added to the personality of a place.
Fifty years later, I still can name the neighborhood dogs: Peppy lived atop the hill; his owners were my daily playmates. Schnitzel was a scotty dog who lived next door and was often in our back yard. His owner would whistle for him. Daisy and Charlie were our own dogs, and I’m sure they sometimes wandered away from us—maybe to pay visits to the other dogs on the street.
My dad was and is among the greatest dog lovers ever, and when we moved to a wooded street when I was ten, we met Nicky, the black Labrador retriever next door. Often, I’d see my dad playing catch with Nicky and whatever dog we had at the time. Once, I came home to find the lab in the upstairs bathtub. She had wandered over and climbed in, hoping someone would fill up the tub. I’m guessing our dad obliged her.
We see dogs and their owners strung together with leashes, and it’s easy to think of the pair as solitary and self-contained. But the ripples from a pet reach beyond the human at the other end of the tether. Back at home there are children who love the dog; there are the friends who greet the dog with every visit. The circle extends to mail carriers and hired walkers and groomers.
Every few months my parents would do me the favor of taking Smoothie to a groomer near them. And each time, the staff would greet the dog with hugs and shouts. “Smoothie’s here!!” (I should make a point of dropping by to let them know that Smoothie has passed, and to thank them for being among his many friends.)
Twice every day, I would walk Smoothie the several blocks to a dog park at the end of my street. There, he would greet Elvis the Bernedoodle, or allow the little girl who visited her grandmother nearby to pet him. I haven’t seen the little girl lately, but I don’t like the idea of having to tell her that Smoothie is gone.
Maybe the hardest moment came when I had to tell my dad. He and my mom were always happy to host Smoothie when I had to go out of town. And dad asked about him on every phone call. My phone call to break the news was a rough one for both of us.
It’s been said that we humans don’t really own our dogs. Rather, we are their keepers. I hope that as Smoothie’s keeper, I earned the silly affection he gave me all those years. And I’m happy to know that he was surrounded by so many others who knew him, and loved him as I did.
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About the author: Beth Dolinar is a writer, Emmy-award winning producer, and public speaker. She writes a popular column for the Washington “Observer-Reporter.” She is a contributing producer of documentary length programming for WQED-TV on a wide range of topics. Beth has a son and a daughter. She is an avid yoga devotee, cyclist and reader. Beth says she types like lightning but reads slowly — because she likes a really good sentence.
