Tip’s Last Bunny

Every dog owner feels their dog is or was the best ever, which indeed is how it should always be. They are not “made special” by their human counterparts, their “owners”, but come that way from a special corner of Canine Heaven, that place I pray God allows me to go when I leave this crazy planet. Tippy and I have a lot of unfinished business, and I’d like to know whether she felt me kissing her goodbye; it’s been bothering me for far too long a time. I’d almost bet my old Fox Sterlingworth that she’ll be the one to answer the door, for she was always there first when I came home here on Earth… Tippy is special, like all dogs, blue-collar or not…

I’ve always leaned toward the blue-collar side of life. Partly because my income demanded it, but more so because there’s nothing fancy about me or my demeanor. You surely know the type? When everyone at a splendid black-tie affair wears tails and stiff, white collars, I show up, happier than a Brittany with a snootfulI of grouse feathers to sniff, wearing a worn corduroy jacket with worn, leather elbow patches and fairly new jeans with, at least a razor-sharp crease. I suppose most would label me the “Vagrant-looking Non-conformist?”

Being the simple man God made me, I even prefer those dogs that come in a plain, brown wrapper, and I do love dogs. And that is what this story is about; a dog…

Being an outdoor writer, there was considerable peer pressure put upon me with regard to owning a dog of the hunting type. Most of my gunning writer acquaintances each, at one time or another, either owned a legendary gun dog or hunted over them frequently…

Of course, I wanted to make at least a tenuous attempt at keeping up with the gunning writers who hunted over fabled gun dogs and even with my ardent taste for the inelegant and distaste for status quo objects, living or otherwise, I was driven by peer pressure to go out and search for one who would own me-without being ashamed…

Ultimately, I forked out a forty dollar bill and no, obviously I didn’t splurge on an elite Brittany spaniel in lemon and buff! Nor did I give one of the marvelous Chesapeake Bay retrievers an opportunity to own me; keep in mind here that my taste is pedestrian and I’m a blue-collar kind of guy… and truly, the dog was as much a birthday present to my then, ten-year old son, Justin, as it was a very weak attempt at gaining status among my faction of writers. So, I bought a beagle. And even though as a pup she was vividly reminiscent of a stream-lined piglet, she came chockfull of love, loyalty, and that heavenly canine manner of understanding, and certainly fit my lifestyle to the proverbial “tee.”

Legendary writer Gene Hill once owned a fine Lab, an ebony sweetheart named “Tippy.” She passed on quite some time ago and I felt she no longer needed the use of her name except in Gene’s prayers, so I asked him whether he’d mind should I name our new blue-collared beagle “Tippy.” Gene, gracious gentleman he is, wrote me back saying, “Joseph: My best to Tippy-Two. It’s a grand old name and carries a tradition of canine irresponsibility-wait and see! I once named a Lab of mine, Ed Zern, to flatter him (Zern) but it was a terrible retriever and I sold it and the owner changed the name… Let the dog chew on your shoe-She’d give you hers if you wanted to chew on it. Best, Gene”

And, so it went, our new beagle became Tippy-Two, Tippy for short, and if you’re laughing here, imagine the sentiments of Gene when he learned of my wanting to name a blue-collar beagle after his world-class, and famous Lab. But, good old Hilly spared me the insult of what he “may” have been thinking. Of course, the phrase “class-act” didn’t come into the English language until Gene Hill became known to the American people-he’s a gentleman, top shelf and then some.

Tippy, the 40-dollar beagle, besides being a bundle of fathomless love, had a scenting ability that surpassed “astounding.” She nurtured this propensity to thoroughly please us that was so wondrous, so unyielding, so determined it had to hurt her physically. But she always seemed as though she enjoyed her efforts, in such a way that she made pleasure out of what had to be tough work for a little dog of eighteen pounds?

She always tried to love each member of the family equally and would forever run from one to the other kissing and licking our faces as though she kept count; three for Dad, three for Mom, three for Justin and three for Erika. And always her count came out just right.

Tippy could’ve kicked butt in any field trial, but I don’t believe in that kind of stress being put on a dog intended for a pet. We were content to have her nearby, snoring at the foot of our beds each night. And I was more than content with her undiluted devotion and the occasional rabbit off her circling chases. Hilly would have loved her, world class in her own loving way. For a simple rub behind her velvety ears, a small display of love, she’d give it back a thousand-fold.

Sometimes we’d have to leave her alone in the house for an hour or a few, and when we’d return, one would think we were gone for months! She cried so loudly, that once an obnoxious neighbor, who obviously knew nothing of how much hounds adore humans, phoned the Human Society on us, thinking we were abusing her. Perhaps we were, for we hugged her very long and hard after arriving home…

Once on an outing in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania, we stopped to rest and walk. Tippy tore enthusiastically toward a trout stream without one of us at her side. No doubt thirsty from the confinement of the family wagon. About that time I saw her reach the creek, I heard her cry out loudly and I ran to her side to see what happened. Immediately, she favored her right, front paw and was noticeably limping. I scooped her into my arms and carried her to the wagon where I checked her out thoroughly. I scrutinized every inch of her body, legs and even tail as she cried in pain. Over and over and over and nothing! Not a mark, nor a hair out of place anywhere. And, to this very day, we know not what happened that day at the creek’s edge. All we really, and sadly, knew is from that day forward her health failed progressively-and far too fast…

I knew somehow, because of a terrible gut feeling, I was going to lose a symbol of love, a legendary hunting companion, and yes, a member of the family I loved as well as any. I somehow knew my children would soon be losing their guardian, their second mother, and a little dog that may well kill a stranger for messing with “her” children… in the area of protection of my children, our Tippy was then and only then, an animal…

The vet said she had cancer, though I never believed him. He gave her but six months; “best scenario…” Six more months to share with us. To love us to no limit and the reverse of that, us loving her to no end. Six more month perhaps, to snore at the foot of our beds, to cry when we came home and show dreadful hurt in her wonderful, hazel eyes at our leaving-even though she knew it would be but a short time. ‘My dear God,” I said, dying a little each day myself, “She has a year’s supply of doggie treats we bought her before the news.” I guess, though, He needed her? Perhaps to prod the derriere of a fleeing, hell-bent for cover cottontail? “So,” I thought, “God’s a blue-collar kind of ‘guy’ too?” I had to wonder as a means by which to divert my thoughts from what was so painfully obvious. But we had one hell of a time living with Tip dying and it was easy to see the hurt in our eyes, especially the children’s.

I recall many nights of prayer. “Please God, if you would, just show me the way to make the remainder of Tippy’s life totally wonderful, completely full. I want her to realize every joy she’s ever dreamed of, please…”

Months passed and Tip grew visibly and terribly worse. I pleaded with my wife to let me put down, so she could at least retain the marvelous pride of hers, but no. My children and her (and I) wanted so much, to hold on just a little while longer. There were countless times when I wanted to die in her place but I knew that kind of thinking was irrational, foolish and unsound. Sure, Tip could protect the children and did, but she couldn’t provide for them. Time after time I asked them to, “Let go. It’s best for Tippy.” All the while feigning my own tenacious reluctance…

One warm, May morning I had to leave my office at a large lumber company where I was the purchasing agent and ran an errand which would take me to town and past the house. As I passed the front of our house, I noticed Tip was lying on the porch soaking in the heat of the morning sun; she so loved doing that. She looked pitiful lying there on her side, bloated with cancer and devoid of her once cherished rambunctiousness. That which she had an unusual abundance of in those sweet, not-so-long-ago days. She was just over six years old now, and that lack of life and energy had to be terribly confusing to her?

I stopped the truck in the middle of the street and ran to her side. She was all but gone and with her half-closed eyes, seemed to be looking to the sun for help? I didn’t know. Perhaps in some magical language between dog and Universal Energy, she asked for a little more time, but a moment or two? Maybe Tippy felt she could absorb some of the sun’s abundant, solar energy into her own, now nearly lifeless, 18 pound mass? It was so obvious in those sienna, hazel eyes, she simply wanted more time. Time to love us, time to protect the children one more day, and certainly time to feel the love of our patting hands just once more? And I knew, all too well, the sun was denying her very last personal wish. Possibly, the only thing she ever wished for…

I ran into the house and grabbed my shotgun and two number six shot shells. My wife intercepted me on my way back through the living room, “What in the world are you going to do?”

“I’m taking Tippy for one last hunt, that’s what!”

Rabbits are legal game year-round in Eastern Oregon, but for Tippy I would break more than laws. I lifted her, cradling her limp body in my arms and headed to the truck, still in the middle of the street. She was holding on courageously, but by a fast-weakening golden thread weaved of silken love and simply because she wanted to stick around. To love us, take care of us and yes, cry for us when we were occasionally forced to leave her behind.

Perhaps Tip felt she was somehow betraying us but, “No Tippy, we know better than that…” She was top-shelf in the loyal category and showed us more love and devotion than any human reserves. A love so deep, strong and genuine, that she hung on for almost six months longer than the vet initially gave her. Although in a physical state I thought must be painful, she just refused to submit to her enemy cancer, and deeply concerned for her comfort, I asked the doc if cancer was painful. He said something like, “…only to those living with and loving the victim and watching them die little by little.” He was right about that. And even though Tippy outlived the 6-months or less prediction by the vet, and was for the most part, lethargic, she always had the energy to show her love and weakly wag her tail when we spoke with her. She was magical and tough and I couldn’t have asked for a more prestigious dog or friend, Heaven knows…

I drove Tip to the high desert just outside of town, to a place right on the famous Oregon Trail. There were rabbits there and she loved the scent of rabbits, sage and unbound freedom and space. Perhaps even more than the occasional steak we’d cook up for her in spite of my blue-collar wages. In life, rabbit scent and the taste of spaghetti were her favorite things. I always felt she carried some of my ancestral, Italian blood in her veins.

“Tippy,” I said as we drove to the edge of town, “You’re not quite up to chasing bunnies today, so I’ll take care of it for you.” We left the truck and I had to carry her cradled in my left arm until it became numb from lack of circulation. She was so relaxed, and her little, well-defined head bobbed with every step as we hunted up a bunny. She licked several times, at the backside of my hand, as though she was apologizing for being such a burden. I summoned a long-ago song I liked: “You ain’t heavy Tippy, you’re my sweetheart…”

The May desert sun had me sweating heavily but after about 30-minutes we flushed a bunny and I cut loose from the hip hurriedly, with my old Fox double. The rabbit rolled to a dusty stop and I retrieved it for my Tip.

As I lifted the rabbit to her dry nose, she looked into my eyes with hers almost open wide. As if to say, “I’m sorry, I just can’t help you anymore, Boss. Wish I could…”

I walked with her to a flat rock where we could sit and share what I knew would be Tip’s last bunny. I set the rabbit down, and then placed Tip right next to it so she could bury her wonderful nose deeply into the scent-filled fur. Then I left her to walk the 50-yards or so to the truck for the shovel. Knowing all the while she was leaving but wouldn’t without first saying “goodbye” to me. We were friends, save those painful times I had to be disciplinarian. But, even then, I think Tippy understood I loved her regardless.

As I walked back to her, the sage seemed to bring flooding to my eyes. But through the glistening, I could see that Tip had placed one paw upon her bunny. When I reached her, she was breathing, but laboriously. I just sat there. At a loss for appropriate words. And completely unsure of what I could do to ease her passing. In a few moments, Tippy left me for wherever it is God takes his greatest creations. Although I don’t know, I’d like to think she felt me kiss her head that one, last time. And I still hope that still, today, some five years later…

I moved the large rock and dug the deepest hole, where it rested. I went to the truck for her little, but elaborate casket; one I’d made months prior. I said my “So long,” and placed her into the deep grave where I somehow knew she wouldn’t be for long.

After covering it all and replacing the large, shale-like rock, I used a stone to inscribe three little words on the big rock covering Tip’s grave. They said, for I knew she’d approve, “We Love You.” Simple, but appropriate for a plain, brown wrapper, blue-collar dog.

They say in ignorance, that time heals all wounds. That’s the worst of one-line jokes. Time merely hides the wound-covers it with a scarring just enough that it doesn’t show all that much-at least when we speak of losing a dog, hunting breed or otherwise…

I’m still the blue-collar guy I mentioned previously, in fact, with Tippy gone, a little poorer than ever before. She was the only real wealth I’d ever known. And no, I’ll never allow another hunting dog to adopt me.

However, we have another member of the family, acquired since Tip’s departure. A sort of remarkable mutt, half shepherd with some Rottweiler and collie. Bear, we call him, and a dog more full of love lies beneath a rock on Virtue Flats in eastern Oregon for I honestly doubt there’s a dog on Earth that loves more than Bear? His full name is Bear D. Dawg…

Is Bear a replacement for Tippy? Of course not. You can’t replace lost love and devotion like she gave. You merely supplement as best you can with another dog and hope like hell it buffers some of your pain, however little.

Do we love Bear as much as we did, Tip? Certainly. But differently. And he loves us to where it sometimes appears to hurt him, crying when we come home just like Tippy did. Did I ever take Bear to the grave where Tippy sleeps forever? Yes, once. Did he sniff the gravesite and weep as legend says? No. But I honestly feel he wanted to when he saw my mood. But then, how could he know how I was hurting? Who knows? All I do know is that he appeared very sad as I spoke to Tippy that day. Dogs are funny like that, that is if you think of depth and celestial, extra-sensory instinct, as “funny.” Personally, I don’t but instead, cherish it as something very special in Life.

Of Life’s joys, few if any, equal the joy and love shared between man and dog. I thank God everyday of my life that my wife understands that, but then it was Tippy who taught her to understand that kind of love. And a grand job she did.

In that sense, Tippy will live on, forever. And, not too long from now, I’ll rustle her up another bunny which may be her first in a place where good things never die…


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