Being Smokey

Smokey is the last man standing of our trio of Australian Cattle Dogs. He is pictured here flanked by the matriarch and alpha Shelby in the back, and littermate Bandit in the front.

This picture was taken about 10 minutes before absolute chaos. If you know anything about Cattle Dogs, you know they need exercise. A lot of it. A book my husband Byron had me read when we first started dating said, "If they don't have something to do, they will find something to do, and it might not be productive."

I had been entrusted with the pups for the first time while Byron was on a trip to Tennessee. I was committed to making it the best puppy camp ever. There were copious individual walks, group fetch sessions, and lots of treats.

We were completing a fetch session at the park when Smokey bolted. I called for him to come back and he kept running — not jaunting, Forrest Gump-style running. My panicked thoughts moved from worries for his safety to the recognition that, if I couldn't find him, I wouldn't be dating Byron anymore. He's a kind person, but losing one of his favorite beings in the world would be a bridge too far.

I took the other pups home and called Byron, and it went kind of how I expected. Find the dog. They're tagged and chipped. Call Lyndsey for help. Find. The. Dog. Lyndsey recommended taking one of the dogs with me to help track him down. As Shelby and I walked the perimeter calling his name — his favorite treats in my pocket — the phone rang. A kind man told me he had Smokey and gave me his address, about four blocks from our house. As we approached, we spotted Smokey hiding under a boat in the driveway. I broke down in tears. The man, standing watch over Smokey with his wife, said, "Hey, don't worry. The pack is back together."

So started my long adventure with Smokey.

Fast forward more than a decade: Smokey is now 13. Shelby and Bandit crossed the rainbow bridge when he was 12. He spent most of his life as part of a pack. He's now solo, and that's been a mixed bag. He loves all the attention. He still loves performing for treats, keeping watch over us, and sitting at the window to bark at passersby — letting them know he doesn't like the cut of their jib and to keep walking. But he's given up on some things. He doesn't really love going for walks anymore. I have to cajole him out the door with treats, a far cry from him standing at the door jumping up and down until you opened it. He won't fetch either. Byron had moved the dogs from fetching balls to catching frisbees, and it used to be Smokey's favorite.

We moved from a house on 11 acres to one with less than a quarter acre. We're near a lovely dog park with two large enclosed areas — one for big dogs, one for small — and we've taken Smokey several times. He goes to the corner and ignores the other dogs. When we throw the frisbee, he just looks at us like, "That's not happening." So we walk through the forested Normandale Park, past the baseball diamond and the kids' playground — he's always been terrified of small children, though we've never been sure why — and continue through the neighborhood. He's been through a lot in the last two years. We all have. We've lost family, a job, and a home.

As we've explored the new neighborhood we've been in for nearly a year, he's been a good sport about brand new adventures. He's welcome at our local sports bar, where people recognize him now and call him by name. He's "meeting" other dogs there. He doesn't seem particularly thrilled — his tail is not wagging — but he doesn't seem to hate it either. When he gets to ride in the VW bus, he owns the whole back seat and, once he's done barking at passersby, settles into a comfortable spot.

On our walks through the park and neighborhood, he's been stopping to smell the grass. He's shaking less and enjoying the treats he gets before and after. This week, as we passed the dog park, he stopped to watch. The dogs were fetching, playing with each other, and being plied with treats for being very good boys and girls.

I learned in a recent training that there are three levels of community building: presence — showing up and occupying a shared space; engagement — relating to others; and participation — taking on a role in the life of a community. We'll keep bringing Smokey to the dog park. He'll decide what he wants to do when we get there. But we're doing the hard part: showing up.