A Dog Named Franklin
By Dana Portwood
He came to us in the way that most great
dogs do -- he wandered in off the street and made himself at
home. My mom used to say that we had a neon sign on the roof
of our home reading “suckers here” that only dogs
could see. Or maybe sometimes God knows what we need before
we know it ourselves and sends it on its way. Either way, Frank
showed up at our door a skinny, clumsy puppy with the biggest
feet I had ever seen, ears the size of serving platters and
black as fear. He was beautiful. Eventually, he grew into those
feet. But a physical description barely does justice to the
horse who thought he was dog that gamboled onto our patio one
summer evening.
Franklin came to bring us laughter,
to choose a master, to mourn a master and to touch our hearts.
His name was Franklin, an unassuming
name for an unassuming dog. Mom thought it was silly, but Dad
seemed to like the name, he chuckled as he patted Frank’s
head and scratched his ears. “Good old, Franklin.”
he’d say.
It wasn’t long before Franklin
also inherited a middle name. You see, we had had more dogs
than I care to think about growing up. Most found us, just like
Franklin. But Franklin made it very clear to whom he belonged.
He tolerated us kids; he liked my mom, but he belonged to my
dad. There they would sit on the waterbed, my dad, Gary Edward,
and his dog, Franklin Edward, in the quiet companionship of
good friends.
Perhaps the only love Franklin had that
was equal to his love for Dad was his love for rubber jingly
balls. More than likely, random chance prompted Dad to order
a selection of hard, hollow rubber balls with jingle bells inside
and bring them home one evening. It was to be a lifelong love.
Frank truly lived the entire rubber ball experience, and we
came to learn that there is more to a ball than throwing and
catching.
First, there is the opening of the package
which begins by pushing it around the room with your nose and
then gnawing gently at the corners, followed by diving at it
in a frenzy of teeth and paws until that bothersome plastic
covering is entirely removed and the cardboard backing is simply
millions of shreds that will be found around the house for weeks.
There is also the leisurely chewing of
the ball. Franklin could chew a ball happily for hours on end,
often ruining the cheerful jingle bell by mashing it between
his jaws. Finally and most obviously, there was the joy of the
chase and catch. When simple chewing wasn’t enough, Franklin
would come, bearing a ball and “toss it” to us.
NOTHING could tear Franklin’s attention from that ball.
He would stare fixedly at it until we picked it up to throw
it. The goal was to lob the ball as far as we could. We called
it “long toss,” and Franklin would run after it
as though his very life depended on it.
When my dad became ill and had to be
hospitalized, Franklin wandered the house back and forth, from
the back door to the bedroom, always with a ball in his mouth,
always looking for his master. Frank’s distress was obvious.
When my dad returned home, the days of long toss were over,
but Franklin still would simply lay contentedly by Dad’s
side, chewing his ball and loving being in his master’s
presence. When Dad was in the hospital, it was Franklin’s
picture that sat beside his bed. As he convalesced, and then
grew sicker again, it was Franklin who sat with him day after
day while, for the rest of us, life moved brutally onward.
We lost my dad, and I always wondered
what Franklin thought about that. For awhile, I am sure he was
overwhelmed by the sheer volume of activity in our home. Then
life slowed, and it was just us again. He searched for a time,
and then seemed resigned to the fact that Dad would not return,
but I wondered, does a dog give up hope? Does he ever really
stop searching, or is it just less obvious to the rest of the
world that he is still waiting for his master to come through
the door. He loved us, but we weren’t Dad.
One day, four years after Dad’s
death, Franklin stopped eating. For awhile he could be tempted
with tidbits and treats, but eventually he would even turn away
from those. Frustrated, my mom took him repeatedly to the vet.
Nothing was conclusive, but the vet surmised cancer. He didn’t
seem to be suffering, he was too stoic for that. It was cruel
to try to keep him with us as he slowly sickened and starved.
So, without telling any of us, my mom took him to the vet one
last time.
You were a friend among friends, Franklin.
I will be forever grateful that it was our yard that you wandered
into more than ten years ago. I hope that in heaven, balls never
lose their jingle and that Dad plays long toss as the twilight
deepens around you both.
