A Farewell To A Friend

I haven’t written anything for the blog in almost two weeks. During that time I have had two computer crashes and their subsequent recoveries, accompanied by the death of a cherished friend—my Dalmatian, Pepper. I have had a few other dogs in my life, all of them unique and memorable in their own special way, but I will truly miss and remember Pepper more than any other I’ve had so far.

Pepper was my second Dalmatian. I had my first when I got out of the Navy in 1974. His name was Caesar. Since I got Caesar as a new puppy, I was able to train him very well. He was trained in voice commands and hand commands. Every command he responded to by voice, he would also respond to by a silent hand signal. And he was a sharp dog. Sadly, I let the manager of an apartment complex pressure me into getting rid of Caesar under threat of eviction. When I gave Caesar to some friends who lived in the country, Caesar did not want to go anywhere without me.

I will never forget the way he barked and clawed at the rear window of their station wagon when they drove away. He barked until he was out of sight. A year later when I visited the friends Caesar ran to me and ignored his new family until I left. This memory haunted me for a long time.

So 25 years later I had taken up the hobby of hiking fourteeners (mountains with a summit above 14,000 ft.) and I began thinking that I might enjoy a dog to take on the hikes with me. It took no time at all to decide to get a Dalmatian. Since they are inherently hyper-active I figured it would be a good breed to have as a mountain trail dog. I had never forgotten Caesar, and how magnificent a dog he was. Still, I never got over the guilt at having let an apartment manager pressure me into getting rid of the best trained pet I ever had. I found the Dalmatian rescue league and looked at what they had to offer. I thought perhaps I could atone for my previous error in judgment.

There was an adult dog, named Paco who had been abused in some way by a man. The caretaker of house where Paco was staying said that he had been kept outside on a chain for 18 months. This dog shook all over like he was cold—even when he was smiling. I took him home with me. He wouldn’t answer to his name and he had not been trained in any way except that he was house broken. At first I couldn’t get him to go outside and once outside he would not come in. He was afraid of men, but was gentle with women and children. He jumped when ever the fence gate closed because of the sound the latch made as it clacked shut, and I couldn’t even swat a mosquito on my leg without causing him to bolt and run for 50 feet.

My wife, Sherry, and I tossed a few names around the house and he turned his head when I said Pepper. So we re-named him Pepper. I spent three weeks walking him daily on a three-mile long trail in my neighborhood before taking him up a mountain, and in the beginning his tail would stay tucked between his legs when he walked. I took him up Mt. Princeton first, and the next weekend we hiked Mt. Cameron, Mt. Lincoln and Mt. Bross in one hike. During the next four summers Pepper hiked 18 fourteeners with me. He turned out to be the best trail dog anyone could ask for and a fine companion at all times. I was never able to train him to do all the things I wanted, and although Pepper grew accustomed to being around all types of people and became quite gentle around men and women alike—he never completely lost his nervous quiver.

He never learned to heel very well on a leash, but he was outstanding in the open country and in the mountains. We went backpacking in the Mt. Zerkel wilderness area two years in a row and he confronted any and all who would come into our campsite, be they animal or man, until I told him it was OK. And Pepper was once wounded in battle while preventing a large viscous dog, who was charging at me, from getting anywhere close to me. Although Pepper’s leg was bleeding and he was whining when he came over to me, the other dog ran off.

While descending from the summit of one of the mountains we hiked together, Pepper got cliffed out, which is to say he came to a drop off of about five or six feet from a large boulder to ground that wasn’t level. He wouldn’t jump and he couldn’t figure out how to get down to where I was. He whined at me. I was a good third of a football field away by that time. I turned around and saw him shivering on top of a rock configuration while trying to find a way down. I could see the best way for him to come down from where I was so I raised both my trekking poles high in the air so he could see, then lowered my right arm out while fully extended. Pepper saw it and got the signal. He took off in the direction of my dropped arm and went around the rocks to my right and joined me shortly, smiling and quivering when he arrived.

For several days after his death I remembered many endearing things about Pepper. And during the nine years we had him he never quite overcame many of the quirks he acquired while he was in his first home. At first I thought that this quirky dog might be too much trouble. In spite of all of his complications and foibles, he was the best dog I ever had. I miss him very much.