Moose

I was about 11 years old.  I wanted a dog.  My nine-year-old brother, he wanted a dog.  We begged and pleaded, made all the usual promises about taking care of him, cleaning up after him, etc.  All the shallow promises kids make when wanting something.

I wanted a dog.  I got a Moose.

A couple of blogs back, I wrote about The Group, which was about my folks' close friends when I was growing up.  One of those couples, Don and Ann, had purchased a poodle for their daughter Paige.  It was a female they named "Waggles."

A year or so after they acquired Waggles, she became pregnant.  The dog talk got stronger, more desperate.  Finally, mom and dad agreed to get us a dog.  They had talked to Don and Ann and put in a reservation for one of the litter, more specifically, a male dog.  Not long after Waggles gave birth to an equal number of male and female puppies.  Don picked one out for us and gave it a name.  Moose.  It seems, Moose was the biggest one of the litter, and Don, having played football, thought Moose was an appropriate name for this newborn pup.

I forget how old he was when we picked him up, probably six weeks or so.  I do remember it was a rainy, Saturday morning when we picked him up.

I am not going to bore you with the mundane about Moose.  In most ways, he was your typical miniature poodle.  Black, with some grey, about 12 pounds or so.  Not afraid to show his teeth and growl if cornered, or if someone was trying to get him out from under the bed.  I remember once when he was still a pup, Moose was under the bed and dad was trying to get him out.  Moose would have nothing of it.  Dad kept trying to entice him, Moose kept growling and eventually he bit dad's hand.  That was a mistake.  Dad grabbed him, pulled out from under the bed and disciplined him.  Needless to say, Moose never bit my dad again.

No, nothing mundane, we will only touch on the many things that made up his personality. He was a smart dog with a wicked sense of humor.

At times he wanted to be outside, but for whatever reason we couldn't stay out there with him.  So, we had about a 20-foot chain attached to a post near the house.  It was enough to let him run a little bit, he could rest or nap.  One summer evening, I went out the back door to get Moose and he wasn't there...and neither was the chain.  Evidently, we had chained him up, but the chain wasn't attached.  Panic set in and I ran inside to tell the folks.  They went to the back door as well, yep, the kid was telling the truth, Moose was gone.  We hopped in both cars, Barry and I were too young to drive and drove around the neighborhood, windows down, calling his name.  We didn't see him, he didn't answer.

We eventually went home heartbroken.  I probably cried myself to sleep.  My dog was gone.  But early the next morning, about 5 or so, dad was shaving, getting ready for work, and he thought he heard Moose.  He went to the front door and opened it.  There was Moose, with a 20-foot-long chain behind him, looking like a sailor who had been on a three-day liberty in the big city.  He looked awful, smelled worse, but that didn't matter, he was home, all was forgiven.

Moose loved human food, and at times did not exhibit much patience when the rest of us were eating.  During lunch of dinner, he would usually sit quietly. just off the periphery of our old oak round table.  If anything fell, he was there to scoop it up.  More than once I saw him catch something in his mouth before it hit the ground.  This one particular Saturday afternoon, dad had grilled some burgers.  I think we had a lot of the youth group from church over.  As we ate, Moose had assumed his position just off the table waiting for someone to drop something.  

Evidently his patience was wearing a little thin, that or everyone was too neat because no scraps were falling.  So he took matters into his own hands, er, paws, errr, mouth.  Without warning and with the speed of an F-15, he leapt like Michael Jordan from his sitting position, maneuvered in mid-air to get his head between the arms and torso of my cousin Rene, grabbed her hamburger in one bite, then run with said hamburger in his mouth to his eating place.  It was remarkable.  We were all amazed, that is except Rene.

Normally he ate dry dog food.  But we liked to reward him.  If there were scrambled eggs left on your plate, go scrape them into Moose's dish.  If there was gravy left, it went to Moose.  He loved leftovers.

Honestly though, his two favorite human foods were Fritos and Life cereal.  Anytime someone went to the pantry and pulled out a bag of Fritos or a box of Life, when you turned around there would be a sitting Moose.  His tail going 1000 miles-per-hour and smiling.  Yes, he smiled.  A lot.   I mean you could be in a soundproof room, and if you opened a bag of Fritos or a box of Life, when you opened the door, there he would be, sitting and smiling.

He hated pecans or any other nut.  My mother loved to bake cookies.  For that matter she still does.  She would make these wonderful chocolate chip cookies with pecans.  When she pulled them out of the oven, Barry and I would be waiting, as would Moose.  Sitting, tail-wagging.  You get the picture.  Barry and I would each get two cookies; Moose would get one.  As soon as he got his, he would race to the small rug in front of the front door and inhale his cookie.  Then the most amazing thing would happen.  Four or five seconds after inhaling his cookie, he would carefully spit out the pecans.  How does he do that?  I still don't know, but he did it every stinking time.  That was Moose

Moose was not like his big brother (me) in that he loved snow.  When it snowed, he loved going outside and frolicking in it.  He might jump in a pile of snow and disappear, then jump out of the snow eight feet away. like he was a dolphin coming out of the ocean.

When he was eating Purina Dog chow, and not eating Fritos, Life cereal, gravy or chocolate chip cookies, he was not bashful to let you know he was hungry.  He would somehow grab his dinner bowl in his mouth, bring it over to you were ever you were seated, and drop it at your feet.  He would sit there with that silly grin, as if to say, "Feed me."

My brother reminded me one time our folks got a new bed.  On the first day or two after they got it, Moose went running through the living room, and once he hit the doorway of our parents bedroom he would then leap, usually landing in the middle of their bed.  But this one particular day, he came running through the living room, and again, as was his custom, began his leap as soon as he entered the bedroom.  Except this time, instead of landing on my folks in their bed, he went splat! against the side of the bed.  Apparently Moose had missed the memo about the height being raised.

Speaking of running, he loved chasing squirrels and rabbits.  He never caught one, but he chased them with all the speed he could muster.  Not sure what he would have done if he caught one.   Well, we think he did catch one once.  I was sitting on the couch watching tv, and Moose was laying on his side beside me, asleep.  After a few minutes I heard Moose whimpering, his front paws were moving as if he were digging for something.  Barry was nearby and he called mom.  She came in and we watched him for another couple minutes.  We deduced he was chasing rabbits in his dreams.  That is as good an explanation as any.

Moose hated guys in uniform and my friend David, who lived up the street.  Moose loved most everybody but hated David.  Never could figure out why.  But men in uniform, Fire fighters, police officers, meter readers, the UPS man, he had no use for them at all.

I was his favorite, but dad was a close second.  In the family room, we had cafe curtains.  Every afternoon about four, Moose would stand on the back of the couch and watch for dad to get home, which was usually about 4.30 or so.  When he saw dad's gold '65 Mustang turn the corner and start to turn into the driveway, he started barking and his little tail was at wagging at warp speed.  He was always happy to see dad.

I could go on and on about Moose and his exploits, how everyone loved him, Sam recalled how happy and fun he always was, Lisa said her mother liked Moose so much it convinced her it was ok to let Lisa have a dog.  She wound up taking home one of Moose's brothers, as did Bruce, perhaps my longest-tenured friend outside of my brother.

I have one final story to leave you with on this Memorial Day afternoon.  

One Wednesday night, the four of us, mom, dad, me and Barry, had arrived home from church.  I don't remember who unlocked the door, but Mom was the first one in the house.  Moose, as usual, was there waiting for us with tail wagging.  Mom took one step, maybe two and screamed "Moose Sullivan," (yeah, we adopted him).  It seems on the rug, the same one where he had spit out his pecans, Moose had left us a surprise.  A soft, steamy, stinky surprise.  As soon as Mom screamed his name, Moose turned on a dime and ran to the back door, grabbed a sheet of newspaper with his teeth and ran back to where the "surprise" was and covered it with the paper.  Once he had accomplished, he looked up at the four of us and smiled, with tail wagging.  "What surprise," he was saying to us, "I don't see anything."

That was Moose.  Loyal, loving, playful, smart, funny and at times infuriating.

It was 43 years ago when he died in 1982.  I was 25 years old.   He had kidney troubles that could not be fixed.  I was at work at the airport when he died and immediately drove home.  Dad had dug a grave while our neighbor Bill held a lantern.  We each said a few words, wiped away a tear or two, and buried Moose under a Walnut tree at the back of the property.  A tree my brother had planted when he was in the fifth grade.  

So even now, he guards the house on Poe from all of those rabbits and squirrels.

Thanks for spending some time.  Hope you think about your favorite pet this week.  Be nice to each other.