Rudy, first among many

I am following the lead of Lori Hardin in introducing myself and my dogs to the community. We currently have four and have had five others pass on; I will not relate this length of a story about each; this is not War and Peace, but there is something about that first dog that never quite feels the same with subsequent dogs.

“But I can’t keep him, Susie. It wouldn’t be fair. He’d be alone all day while my husband and I teach. By the way, you can’t bring him into the school – you know the principal is not an animal lover.”

“I checked. The principal isn’t here and won’t be back today. You have to have him. Or one of the others. You need a dog.” (The profound and simple logic of a fourteen year old.) “Isn’t he adorable? His name is Chuck.”

“As in Charlie”Chuck” Brown of Peanuts fame? If I could add another plus to your A+, Susie Brown, I would. For cleverness in the naming of dogs!”

I didn’t need a dog; I wanted a dog and Susie knew – she was an old soul parading as a teenager.

“Ok, I’ll check with my husband and get back to you.”

“So are you coming today or tomorrow to look at the other twelve puppies?” She wasn’t about to drop it. She had a strong hope for me to have a furry friend and for it to be one of hers. Preferably Chuck, I figured.

With thirteen adorable puppies tumbling around on the Brown’s kitchen floor the next day I did indeed pick “Chuck.” I can’t say why. He’d need a name change, but as time eventually proved, Susie chose the right pup for me. They were all gorgeous, the progeny of the school house dog, Rusty, a tri-color farm collie who followed Susie to school each day and played with all the kids at recess, and Cinnamon, a reddish golden retriever allowed to also roam the village.

This was the early 70s – way before the buzz words of spaying and neutering, pet over-population, and “no-kill” shelters. This was the culture of free-roaming dogs, especially in the small coal mining village in central PA where I taught in a 1920s vintage red brick K-8 schoolhouse that overlooked the “boney” piles of slag wastes from the nearby coal mine. This was the time of kids bringing in big fat black snakes they found in the polluted ponds at the foot of these boney piles to scare the young new teacher and when they listened when you told them to return said creature to its home immediately or sooner. A different time. Susie was an anomaly in this environment; she had lofty dreams and plans for her future. She was special and “Chuck” became special. 

My husband consulted the best source for pet names: his vast collection of rock albums. We settled on Rudy the V from some obscure song on an even more obscure album. We dropped the pretentious V. Rudy became the dog who accompanied us on our first trips to the western U. S. He was with us as we fell in love with this valley. Each time we returned, we seemed to have added another dog to the “family.” Rudy had so many adventures I could write a short book about just him. He was the first in a line of nine canines to simultaneously wreak havoc and bring joy to our lives. He was that never again first love.

Oh, and Susie Brown – the She-Who-Knew I did need a dog? She was killed in a traffic accident on her way to work at the Washington, D.C. offices of National Geographic where she was working towards that lofty dream of becoming a photojournalist. She was only in her mid-twenties. So smart, so wise and so very, very young. I think of her and wonder how it might have been. I think of her and thank her for my Rudy.