March 2005
Monday, January 23, 2006
On a bright, warm December afternoon in 1992, I entered a modest home in Del City, Oklahoma. My intent was to purchase a puppy. A Weimaraner puppy. Not yet made widely famous by the photographs of William Wegman, but a hard puppy to find nonetheless, especially in Oklahoma.
Among a litter of 13 little grey sacks of breathing flesh lined up on a flea-infested couch, I chose the one who was meant for me. All of the pups were sleeping, but the one I chose opened his eyes, looked me straight on, and licked my hand. From his little distended belly I could tell he needed worming, and he was eaten up with flea bites. But I cupped his belly and handed over a hundred dollars to the owner. He had no papers to give, and that was fine by me.
Straight to the doc for an exam, worming, and meds. I thought he was 8 weeks old but the vet told me 6. Almost too young to wean, but he was mine at that moment to do my best. He fit in the basket of the Petsmart shopping cart with room to spare, and his eyes were bluest azul that pierced his grey muzzle which was set off distinctively from the leathery tan of his nose.
Sekan. The name is my version of a Swiss hound dog’s name from a movie I had seen recently. Unique enough, I thought, to let him stand apart; regal enough, I thought, to keep him a step above; different enough, I thought, to keep other people guessing. My baby doggie was christened and thus began the life that would carry on until a sunny, windy, cold El Paso, TX day in January 2006.
There was a lot of life to be lived during the 13 years that Sekan held court, and I think we just about lived all of it together. Always by my side, never out of earshot, he was truly my shadow through times good, bad, and worse. A more traveled dog you will rarely find, save for a circus dog or train conductor’s companion. Sekan weathered Oklahoma, New York, Chicago, Atlanta (twice), New Mexico, and Texas. Travel buddies are seldom as easy to pack and load as he was, and he approached all car time with a smile, his ears pinned back, and nose to the wind.
The best things about Sekan were his eternally optimistic disposition and his ability to tolerate and adapt to change. Of course he had unconditional love for me; that is what dogs do. Yet his love transcended his dogginess and overcame others who spent time with him. Not a single person ever spoke badly about him, and no one who spent 5 minutes with him could forget him. Suddenly, his lean on your leg that came without warning. A gentle lick, a tender look, the eyebrows that expressed his feelings and thoughts without doubt. He would curl up next to you – or on you – and make you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered. His warmth flowed into the middle of your heart and stayed there.
Even in his senior years, when my marriage and a baby forced a lifestyle change for the King, he accepted it with grace and tolerance. And the changes, of necessity, were major. Sleep patterns and places were disrupted; attention from me was down; competition for favors had heightened; the back seat of the truck featured a baby instead of my pal. But regardless of the circumstance, there was Sekan with his head up and his stub wagging. Even until the end.
Sekan helped me more than anyone will ever know. He was connected to me and I to him in a way that I have yet to fully understand. Losing him is much more difficult than I had imagined. My wife is saddened by his loss, and my daughter asked for him within an hour of our return from the Humane Society. Looking now at his empty bed, his chew toys scattered at favorite haunts, and his full food bowl, I can never say that my attitude or my actions ever approached even- steven with Sekan’s. He is the winner, clearly and without hesitation. He stole the show wherever he was, and gave to me far beyond what I was capable of giving to him.
He kept trying to smile, wag, and cuddle until the final moment, but he was weak and cancer had the best of him finally. He never gave up, and he never called in sick.
He went quietly to rest on that cold Saturday afternoon. I held him in my arms as he left too suddenly. He was ready. I was not. I’m still not ready to let him go. In time I will. God gave me a gift that is not so easily returned, and I selfishly want to hang on to him for a while longer. His ashes rest in our home, ready to be loosed one day when birds are nesting and that smell of growing things in the air is just right. I will know that day when it comes – a Sekan day – a day like the thousands we spent together doing something, nothing, everything. A day when my spirit will finally be as strong as he showed me to be.
Among a litter of 13 little grey sacks of breathing flesh lined up on a flea-infested couch, I chose the one who was meant for me. All of the pups were sleeping, but the one I chose opened his eyes, looked me straight on, and licked my hand. From his little distended belly I could tell he needed worming, and he was eaten up with flea bites. But I cupped his belly and handed over a hundred dollars to the owner. He had no papers to give, and that was fine by me.
Straight to the doc for an exam, worming, and meds. I thought he was 8 weeks old but the vet told me 6. Almost too young to wean, but he was mine at that moment to do my best. He fit in the basket of the Petsmart shopping cart with room to spare, and his eyes were bluest azul that pierced his grey muzzle which was set off distinctively from the leathery tan of his nose.
Sekan. The name is my version of a Swiss hound dog’s name from a movie I had seen recently. Unique enough, I thought, to let him stand apart; regal enough, I thought, to keep him a step above; different enough, I thought, to keep other people guessing. My baby doggie was christened and thus began the life that would carry on until a sunny, windy, cold El Paso, TX day in January 2006.
There was a lot of life to be lived during the 13 years that Sekan held court, and I think we just about lived all of it together. Always by my side, never out of earshot, he was truly my shadow through times good, bad, and worse. A more traveled dog you will rarely find, save for a circus dog or train conductor’s companion. Sekan weathered Oklahoma, New York, Chicago, Atlanta (twice), New Mexico, and Texas. Travel buddies are seldom as easy to pack and load as he was, and he approached all car time with a smile, his ears pinned back, and nose to the wind.
The best things about Sekan were his eternally optimistic disposition and his ability to tolerate and adapt to change. Of course he had unconditional love for me; that is what dogs do. Yet his love transcended his dogginess and overcame others who spent time with him. Not a single person ever spoke badly about him, and no one who spent 5 minutes with him could forget him. Suddenly, his lean on your leg that came without warning. A gentle lick, a tender look, the eyebrows that expressed his feelings and thoughts without doubt. He would curl up next to you – or on you – and make you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered. His warmth flowed into the middle of your heart and stayed there.
Even in his senior years, when my marriage and a baby forced a lifestyle change for the King, he accepted it with grace and tolerance. And the changes, of necessity, were major. Sleep patterns and places were disrupted; attention from me was down; competition for favors had heightened; the back seat of the truck featured a baby instead of my pal. But regardless of the circumstance, there was Sekan with his head up and his stub wagging. Even until the end.
Sekan helped me more than anyone will ever know. He was connected to me and I to him in a way that I have yet to fully understand. Losing him is much more difficult than I had imagined. My wife is saddened by his loss, and my daughter asked for him within an hour of our return from the Humane Society. Looking now at his empty bed, his chew toys scattered at favorite haunts, and his full food bowl, I can never say that my attitude or my actions ever approached even- steven with Sekan’s. He is the winner, clearly and without hesitation. He stole the show wherever he was, and gave to me far beyond what I was capable of giving to him.
He kept trying to smile, wag, and cuddle until the final moment, but he was weak and cancer had the best of him finally. He never gave up, and he never called in sick.
He went quietly to rest on that cold Saturday afternoon. I held him in my arms as he left too suddenly. He was ready. I was not. I’m still not ready to let him go. In time I will. God gave me a gift that is not so easily returned, and I selfishly want to hang on to him for a while longer. His ashes rest in our home, ready to be loosed one day when birds are nesting and that smell of growing things in the air is just right. I will know that day when it comes – a Sekan day – a day like the thousands we spent together doing something, nothing, everything. A day when my spirit will finally be as strong as he showed me to be.
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