Wallie was a working dog whose primary disappointment in an otherwise charmed life is that she didn’t have enough, or really, any work to do. We acquired her nine years ago, after my daughter Gracie filled out an online family personality profile and Wallie’s breed popped us as the answer do our dog-owning dreams.
I’ve never seen the questionnaire and if I had I might have suggested it be taken with a grain of salt since Bracco Italiano, the breed the form suggested was meant for us, was almost unknown in the United States. An Italian bird dog, it was only last year that the breed was recognized by the American Kennel Club. It made waves at the most recent Westminster dog show because a Bracco owned by country music stars Tim McGraw and Faith Hill won best of breed.
Wallie died on Tuesday after her second bout with a rare lung condition.
Since she had no work to do the dog was required to create some from scratch and she did an excellent job of it. I’m not going to argue she was a genius but her limited vocabulary included the word “walk.” When she heard it she went into a controlled frenzy as I spritzed myself with insect repellant or donned my binoculars – two sure signs that we were on our way to the pond, either to go swimming or bird-watching.
Wallie wasn’t a swimmer herself but while I did she hunted frogs and snakes along the shoreline, executing a dance to flush them into the open reminiscent of the leaping lemurs of Madagascar. And on the way back from the pond she’d indulge her favorite pastime of all. She’d find a stick, generously present it to me, and then jerk it out of reach when I tried to grab it. If I eventually succeeded in nabbing it – the only way to get it back was to feign losing interest in the game and she’d insist I take it – I’d hold the object aloft while Wallie executed Olympic caliber jumps to retrieve the stick. Then she’d race back to the house with her prize prancing, trotting and hopping with insufferable pride.
We had a special relationship but she was really my wife’s dog, a surrogate for the grandchildren that only arrived in the final months of Wallie’s life. It’s sad that they’ll know her only through legend. Wallie would crawl onto the couch and place her paw in Debbie’s hand as they watched TV together at night. Or rather, Wallie seemed to be trying to tell my wife that Wallie’s company was infinitely more compelling than Rachel Maddow’s. When the dog failed to convince her, she’d curl up beside Debbie and fall fast asleep.
I used to think the stick game, a variation of a ritual when you arrived home and Wallie greeted you with one of her toys was unique to her until we visited a friend’s Bracco and he did the same thing. Public service was obviously part of their genetic code.
Wallie most fully realized her destiny when we took walks in the woods. She’d run back and forth following scents, covering miles for every one of mine. But if there was even a whiff of work to be done she was all over it. She’d escort my son-in-law Malcolm to his shop in our garage and keep him company while he sawed and sanded. She’d run back and forth ecstatically whenever I mowed the lawn. She was actually in the way but refused to listen when I told her to get lost.
I feel her loss most profoundly now that I’m forced to do our shared chores alone – lugging the compost to the bin, lighting the grill.
On the last full day of her life, hardly able to breath, she still mustered the ambition to escort me down to our pool when I checked the chemicals and skimmed the leaves. Typically, she’d return to the house in resignation when it was clear that I was preparing to take an afternoon nap on the couch in the pool house. But this time she joined me indoors. In retrospect, I believe that was because the structure is screened in and it was easier for her to breath with the free flow of air. But maybe she just wanted us to spend time together.
On Tuesday she found the energy to jump into the back seat of our car but wouldn’t get out. She was comfortable there, at least as comfortable as she could be. Our plan had been to drive back to the city for surgery at the Animal Medical Center Wednesday morning to unblock her airways. But she died peacefully in our car.
Nine years feels like an unfairly short amount of time, especially for someone who squeezed such happiness and purpose from life and into ours. We’ll bury her under the tall trees on the way to the pond where she always ran ahead of me, looking over her shoulder, making sure I was coming.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
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