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BAMBI
Bambi is dying. Technically, I realize, you could say we all are.
But this is not a technical issue, or a philosophical one. It's
not an addressable issue of any kind. It simply is what is: we're
going to lose our little girl.
She came into our lives in an unlikely fashion. Because I travel
so much in my work, my wife Daisy asked if we could get a handgun
for protection. I've never owned a handgun, for the same reason
I've always refused to have garage sales: you have to get too close
to the victims. But I understood her concern, so for her birthday
that year I got her a German shepherd puppy, which she named Freud.
It was clear early on that Freud had enough of the wild left in
him to become a problem., so when he reached six months Daisy decided
it was time for the obedience school at the park near our house.
She was working him after class one day when they came across a
young woman walking her miniature pinscher, Bambi.
Daisy had told me more than once about growing up with miniature
pinschers on her family's farm in Brazil, dogs so small that her
father would carry the pups in the pockets of his raincoat. Since
I'd never heard of the breed, I assumed it was a Portuguese translation
for some type of chihuahua.
Now Daisy told me about seeing one at the park, and how the encounter
completely fascinated Freud. He couldn't decide if the tiny dog
facing him down was real, or if it was some kind of toy. And while
Daisy said she knew the last thing we needed was another dog, she'd
given the woman her number in case, in a year or two, she decided
to breed Bambi.
I didn't give it a second thought until two weeks later, when Daisy
phoned me while I was on the road. Did I remember the woman with
the miniature pinscher? She'd just called to say she was being forced
to either move out of her apartment, or get rid of the dog. She'd
thought about trying to sell it (they can go for up to $1000), but
since Daisy'd been so obviously enamored of Bambi, the woman wondered
if Daisy could take her. Was that okay with me?
To be honest, as much as I love dogs I've never had any use for
the really small ones. From my experience they were all either yappy
or hyper or lap hounds, more high maintenance fashion accessories
than companions. But I liked even less the idea of being asked my
permission for anything by Daisy, especially something as emotionally
loaded as this. So I swallowed hard and told her of course we'd
take Bambi, as long as she'd promise to never ask for my permission
again. (I think my exact words were "I'm not your fucking father.")
When I got home I was surprised to find, not some chihuahua derivative,
but a sculpted, muscular eight-pound knock off of a doberman. Only
instead of the classic black and tan doberman coloring, Bambi was
a silky reddish brown (they come both ways). With her cropped tail,
clipped ears, prancing gait and deep brown eyes, she resembled nothing
so much as a pygmy deer, rendering what I'd first thought was a
nauseating name so fitting that we never considered changing it
(even though the pairing of "Freud and Bambi" sounded
as ridiculous as it looked).
That was nine years ago, and the four of us have been a family
ever since. Daisy, of course, adored Bambi from the start. She was
afraid at first that Freud might kill the little dog - either from
jealousy or by accident. But after a few weeks, when she finally
felt comfortable enough to leave the two of them alone together,
Freud's fascination quickly grew into a loving and protective friendship.
His only frustration was being too big to really play with her (though
they did devise a few games, including a comical tug of war where
the shepherd would lie flat on the floor with one end of the rope
in his mouth while Bambi, snarling as she skidded from side to side,
would pull the other with all her strength until the big dog finally
relented).
It didn't take long before Bambi won me over, too. She was none
of the things I disliked in small dogs. She was almost as independent
and self-contained as Freud, and never demanded attention or affection.
With one exception: If I'd been travelling more than a few days,
when I returned she'd rush out the door to shower me with kisses
until I gathered her in my arms, then later, just for that night,
she'd climb out of her basket at the foot of the bed and nestle
in the crook of my arm until morning.
At the same time, her love and happiness were always there for
our asking. It was nearly impossible to walk by Bambi, perched on
one of her throws along the spine of the couch, without reaching
down for a few quick caresses. Or to refuse her at bedtime, on her
pillow in the basket, when she'd roll onto her back and offer up
her belly.
Her gentle and sensitive nature even helped us with our marriage.
Daisy and I are both strong-willed, volatile people. Any time one
of our arguments would begin to erupt into something worse, Bambi
would quietly climb down from her perch and disappear, until one
of us would notice her missing, only to find her hiding under our
bed, trembling. Like the canary in the coal mine, it became our
warning sign, with the little dog's innocence and vulnerability
never failing to bring us back to our senses.
In short, she's been a great, great dog. To capture the essence
of a great man or woman, we catalogue their words and deeds. Capturing
the essence of a great dog is both simpler and more subtle. Whether
it's the daily lessons in all things unconditional - from happiness
to hunger - or the invitation to step outside the intractable complexities
of our times, dogs serve to remind us that there are other aspects
of life and living. Which is why, while relatively few of the towering
figures of history would make great dogs, nearly all great dogs
would make superior human beings.
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