Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Berkeley

I have written from time to time about some of the dogs in my life, from "my" dog, Jiggs, to our current dachshund, Wiener. But somehow I seem to have neglected Berkeley's story.

Berkeley, though named for the British philosopher Bishop Berkeley, was not a philosopher, or at least he never discussed such things with me.  We did, however, pronounce his name even as the stalwart Brit pronounced his, and thus it was that people, even his vet, when writing his name usually wrote "Barkley."

Ellie carried her lunch, traditionalist, in a brown paper bag.  As Springtime approached and the southern breezes wafted comfort into our surroundings, she would take her little sack outside and sit on the bench near the natatorium to partake of her sustenance.

A dog found her there.  And she shared her lunch with him.  He returned the next day, and that evening Ellie told me she would like for me to meet her lunch companion if I could get free for a couple of minutes.  I saw what was coming.  The next day I met the animal, and that evening he went home with us.

Berkeley, as we soon named him, was one hundred pounds of beautiful golden retriever.  He did not appear to be the typical underfed stray.  He was very well trained, eager to please, and completely house-broken.  We went to some lengths to find the dog's home, even advertising in the newspaper.  We got one response from a lady who told us the creature was not hers, but she had been feeding it in her back yard for a while.  She, too, had tried to find its home.  She did not desire to keep him. Berkeley was now our dog.

Some of Berkeley's behaviors helped us develop a narrative as to why such a beast would be wandering, unclaimed.  We discovered soon enough that gunfire or even firecrackers sent him scurrying, terrified, for cover.  We pictured this.  Berkeley was a retriever, after all, a sporting breed. Someone had acquired the pup, trained and nurtured him.  Then came the day he would be taught to hunt.  And when the time came for gunfire, the hopeful hunter discovered the dog's fatal flaw.  Well, it could have been fatal, but our Nimrod had a bit of a soft spot in his little heart, so he transported the dog to unfamiliar territory, told him he was on his own and released him.  This, we imagine, is how Berkeley became a valued member of our household.

I found the picture of Berkeley, and on the same page of the album I found a picture of Pig and Duck.  Remember the story of the pig that taught the duck to swim?

10 comments:

Vee said...

He was a beautiful dog and lucky that you adopted him.

Jim Grey said...

A hundred pounds? That is a LOT of Golden Retriever.

vanilla said...

Vee, Berkeley was a fine pet and I miss having a big dog. But our little guy is a good dog, too.

Jim, Berkeley was an outsized Golden. Yet he was not the biggest one we ever had. Dundee was 110 and taller than Berkeley; not fat, just huge.

Secondary Roads said...

Sometimes, we find good friends in unlikely places.

Grace said...

It was kind of you to take in the dog...

vanilla said...

Chuck, that is a pearl of wisdom. We just have to open to the possibilities.

Grace, the kindness was reciprocated, for he was a fine companion.

Lin said...

What a nice story! I have a soft spot for "found" animals. I'm glad he found you. :)

vanilla said...

Lin, a couple of the best dogs I ever had were "found" animals.

Sharkbytes said...

Wonderful story, and sounds like a wonderful animal. One of the best dogs I ever knew that wasn't mind was Buddy, a dumped dog. People are weird.

vanilla said...

Sharkey, B was a great animal and the second dumped dog we adopted. Both were long-time companions.