Gustav Bennett (11/96- 08/10)

My childhood dog passed away last week.  His name was Gus, and he was the BEST dog a kid could ask for.  In fact, my brother and I did ask for him on my brother's 10th birthday, 14 years ago.

This was 1996, the year the Olympics came to Atlanta, the year I cut all my hair off into a shamelessly identical bob to that of Claire Danes (1st tv reference of this post), the same year I bought my first pair of Doc Martens, and the year that I'm sure my mother thought I would go blind from my frequent and severe eye-rolls.  I was sixteen and my brother was ten.  This would prove to be one of the worst years in our sibling hood, as he slid recording devices under my bed in the hopes that I would spill secrets that could get me in big trouble by mom and dad (among other things).  All the while I remained misunderstood and broody when there was an audience present.

What he didn't know was that his sister was only cool and interesting by association (by high school standards at least) and not at all living the juicy teenager life that he'd hoped to bust me living.  No boy stories, no school skipping (well, once... but I was too scared to leave the school premises, so I sat in a friend's car throughout the entire hour of Anatomy class snickering at the awesomeness of the concept of skipping school, only to be caught on surveillance and given a week of in-school suspension.  Oh yeah, and I served with my dad, who happened to also be my art teacher.  Kew-el...).  I was a veritable Elly May Clampett (2nd tv reference) posing as an Angela Chase.

The glue that held my brother and me together that year was the yellow labrador retriever we agreed upon in the mall pet-store window.  He made eye contact with us through the glass, and without a second thought, Joey and I knew he was ours.

Our first 2 dogs, Bluebird and B.C., were English Setters.  They were beautiful sweet outdoor dogs.  In keeping with the Clampett comparison, up until then we'd only known dogs to be guards of homes by day and porch companions by evening.  There was no mixing dog and human company indoors.  Only fancy people had dogs without fleas after all.

So in 1996, when Gus had been chosen, named, and adopted, Joseph and I had already moved on to our second agreement: he HAD to be an indoor dog.  Or at least one of those hybrid types.  My mother agreed under the condition that she would have nothing to do with the house training of this animal.  If he was not house trained by some certain date, he would be booted to the Clampett-kennel.

The accuracy of my memories vs. the memories my parents have of this time are questionable.  (I need to ask Joey what he remembers...)  I recall something to the effect of two kids constantly armed with spray cleaners and rolls of paper towels, constantly cleaning up piles of puppy poo.  In fact, I vividly remember one instance when I was chasing after Gus and slipped in a puddle of his pee that made me fall so hard and so fast I was sure I broke my tail bone.  I remember laying in the warm wet, crying, while Joey stood over me laughing and pointing.

My parents remember things the same way all parents remember their kids' good deeds- filled with threats and whines.  But the point remains the same.  Gus took an all 'round sucky year (a bored teenage girl and a bored prepubescent boy living in a log cabin on 24 acres without cable), and made it great.  He gave us a purpose, he made us laugh, he kept our feet warm at the foot of our beds at night (a feeling we'd never experienced before).

...

Not long after we'd bought him, I began dating (if you can call it that) the school turd.  He was tall, blonde, he played soccer, and was cute by Georgia suburban measure.  He was also full of trouble.  My mother affectionately and appropriately called him Eddie Haskel (3rd and final tv reference).

I threw my first (maybe only?) party in that house that year, after my parents conceded to pretend to be out of town while really only watching Poirot (gotcha!  4th tv reference!) at my grandparents' house next door.  Once I convinced my mom that my friends didn't want cupcakes baked into ice cream cones as snacks (or any snacks that couldn't be drunk for that matter), I had victoriously made my rite of passage into the scary world of teenage girl, endorsed by Zima.

Blonde troubled soccer player boy told me that he bought me a gift, and that he needed to get it out of the glove compartment of his Ford Bronco.  I sat on the porch swing, waiting for what I thought would be earrings or a box of chocolates.  No, instead Eddie Haskel brought over a small bag of CRANK, the classy drug that hookers make in trailer kitchens.  (This was the same guy who bought me an ETIQUETTE BOOK as a Christmas present, just so you know.)

I was shocked.  And then scared.  And then pissed.  I suppose he was picking up on my vibe, and in turn became somewhat defensive and pissed himself.  After telling him that I would never... you know... I mean, what?... like, don't you have to have at least smoked pot before you go sniffing meth powders?... unbeknownst to me, he decided it would be funny to give Gus a little bit.

I'm in-tears-livid when I realize what has happened.

Everyone laughed as they watched him run in circles and fall off the porch.  Had I known at the time that his heart wasn't going to explode that night, I'd probably have found it funny too.  But I was so sad.  I wanted everyone to leave so that I could make sure he wouldn't die and so that I could whisper an apology to him. (These are also the same winners that used to tie up alley cats to the tailgates of their pick-up trucks, just so you know.)

My night dove and my heart was broken; that was the first time I really understood what Man's Best Friend meant.

...

Fast forward ten years.  I'm married, and I have two young children.  We don't yet have a dog living in our own home, so we still claim Gus as ours.  My parents have moved out of the log cabin and into suburbia.  Joseph comes home to visit a couple times a year from college in New York, most excited to get the best greeting from Gus.  Gus spends most of his days under my dad's feet in his wood shop, or annoying my mom while she sews and cooks.  All of my parents' neighbors know Gus by name, greeting him as though he's another person.  He rarely needed a leash, as he never left my dad's side on walks.  And he was known to forget that bees ought not be eaten.

...

Fiona was most torn up when I told her the news.  She began crying and said, "But he wasn't sick!"  I explained that dogs can often be sick even if they don't seem it; that dogs are far more stoic than humans.

Through tears she asked, "Will he at least get his privates back in heaven?"  And folks, let this be our parting words:  Gus is probably loving up some bi**hes as I type this, with all his Kibbles and Bits.  But we sure miss you here, buddy.

*** I'll post a picture here shortly.