Jennie and Bob

Small and crooked, the only thing Dalmation about Jennie was her spots. Blind in one eye and lame in one hip, she was the imperfect remnant of a litter of sleek Dalmations. Bob was a rakish tomcat with a beautiful white coat, blue eyes, and torn ears, proud battle scars from run-ins with neighborhood adversaries.

Jennie preceded me into the world in early 1972, saved from euthanasia by a chance meeting and brought home in Dad's coat pocket. She fast became the constant companion of my older brother, Gary, an independent boy with adventure and wanderlust in his soul. Bob came later, scrawny and mewing, his pink skin showing through his thin white kitten coat. Bob was mine. Boxy photographs from the early seventies depict a wide-eyed kitten dangling from the grasp of a determined toddler.

We grew together, the four of us, in that little house in Lewis. Gary went off to kindergarten, and I grew into a strong willed, spring-haired preschooler. Every afternoon I stood at the screen door and impatiently awaited the return of my mercurial brother. Bob became a breathtakingly beautiful tomcat with a penchant for the ladies and an ever-growing spawn of tiny white offspring. Jennie grew from that small and crooked pup to a small and crooked dog with a joyful wiggle to her misshapen hips and a toothy, snorting, grin.

Gary was one of the “Lewis boys”, a ragtag band of sandlot boys who climbed trees and tool sheds in search of adventure. Bob was the Lewis Lothario. He staggered home early in the morning, ears bleeding, coat dirty, hungry and triumphant after a night of kitty conquests. In one last feat of derring-do before retiring for the day, he used a nearby oak to deliver him to roof of the house, where he could curve his head and body around the eaves to peer, upside down, into my bedroom. Jennie was a logging dog, accompanying Dad to the woods and making herself useful spotting squirrel and chipmunk nests in downed trees. As for me, I found much to do within the confines of my sandbox, in which Bob occasionally joined me.

One hazy summer, Jennie was romanced by the standard poodle across the street. She summarily delivered a litter of "doodles", culturally confused little beings with a Poodle for a father and a disabled Dalmation for a mother. The doodles provided hours of fun, following me from adventure to adventure. Old Kodaks show a tiny girl with wild dandelion hair, grown-up sized purse dangling from her arm, marching resolutely forward in the grass with a row of doodles in pursuit.

Like all good things eventually do, the idyllic Lewis days came to an end. We moved to Frederic, I went to kindergarten, and a baby brother came along. Bob was fast to conquer his new neighborhood, but Jennie became a homebody, content with our company, keeping a wary eye on the much busier street in the much bigger town.

Before long, now accompanied by baby Hans, we moved again. To Luck, Big Butternut Lake, and the rest of my childhood. The upheaval of moving was dulled by the constant presence of good-natured Jennie and soft, brooding, Bob. Bob, newly stripped of his virility, was content to lounge in the dusty sunbeams, paws tucked under him bread loaf style. Every so often he'd indulge in a luxurious stretch, making tiny chef's hats of his snowy feet.

The winter of 1981 brought the inevitable and unwelcome experience of grief to my young life. My indestructible Bob got sick one day, curling into himself in a white ball of pain, eyes wide and frightened. A trip to the vet revealed bladder stones, a treatable affliction; I worried obsessively, in my 7 year old way, and awaited his return home. Alas, one dark day my parents appeared in the door of my 2nd grade classroom, somber eyes fixed on me. I returned their gaze with dread, knowing in my heart that they had news that would shatter my little world. Bob had died unexpectedly in the weathered hands of the old veterinarian. There'd be no charges, he said, because he shouldn't have been handling the cat; his bladder had burst from the pressure.

We buried Bob across the street in a place we came to call Bobland. I hid in my closet, clutching a tattered photograph of my beloved kitty, lipstick on his face, his nose delicately poking a whiskey bottle. The picture wrinkled and wore until it was criss-crossed with fuzzy white lines.

The years after Bob's death passed in a shadowy blur, bringing with them the advent of my own disability, my own imperfection, and the upheaval of my world. Jennie remained, steadfast and loyal, lying beside the fireplace in the winter, watching us swim in the summer. She shepherded our pet ducklings, keeping them safe in our yard, occasionally taking just the tiniest taste. She buried pancakes in the garden and pouted in her dog house, tail thumping against the wood, if she felt wrongly reprimanded. She had many adventures left, including one curious trip aboard a slab of ice on the shattering lake, from our shore to the other, where she was rescued.

The winter we were 14, Jennie’s turn came. Incontinent and completely blind, she had lost the pep in her wag and the spring in her step. Her days were filled with pain instead of adventure, and it was time for her to go. We said good bye to her in the garage, lying beside her on her tattered blanket, stroking her soft white head. Mom and Gary gently carried her off to her peaceful death.

Today a portrait hangs in the basement of my parents house. The portrait is of a proud little Dalmation, lying in her familiar curled pose, head raised in inquiry. One eye is brown, one eye is white. Once in awhile she catches my gaze, and I reach across the years to touch her soft head.