Smokey, the Old Canoe Paddler

Just got a text from this boy’s mama that he passed away this morning, peacefully, on their porch.

Smokey came into my life on a summer day seven years ago. He just showed up in our yard and started playing with my then-puppy Zuzu. I thought he was lost and called the number on his collar. A short while later, a woman pulled in the drive. She told me that Smokey’s original owner, her father-in-law, had recently passed and that Smokey, age eight or nine, seemed to be looking for him. The father used to take Smokey riding in his four-wheeler around the back roads and woods between our house and his, five miles away as the crow flies, so Smokey wasn’t lost. He was just wondering where his person went.

Smokey went home and I figured that was that. A few nights later, right before bedtime, Zu started barking. Outside our front door was Smokey, lying on the welcome mat. I let him in, called his owners, and they asked if he could spend the night since it was late; they’d pick him up in the morning.

It would be the first of several sleepovers.

Sometimes Smokey would arrive at 2 a.m. or later, usually with wet paws from having crossed the creek. After his usual grunting greeting, and after he and Zu had a chase around the yard, he’d settle down and go to sleep. I’d text his owners in the morning and they’d come pick him up.

It’s not that they didn’t try to keep him home, but Smokey was sneaky. Houdini-like. He was born under a “wand’rin’ star, or as Jim likes to say, he paddled his own canoe.

Everyone around here knew Smokey. He was like the neighborhood’s Mr. Rogers. He was soft and kind and had no idea how big he was. Thought he was a lap dog. Zu loved him, too, although she growled if he tried to jump into bed with us. She’s only willing to share me to a point.

When he was diagnosed, his owners called and asked if I wanted to come say goodbye. The vet had given him only a few days to live. When I got to their farm, Smoke was lying on a blanket on the porch. As I petted him, I talked to his owners about the last time he’d come to see me, just a few months earlier, and they’d called it his “farewell tour.”

That still makes me smile.

When I got home, I took off my shirt and shorts and left them on the bench so Zu could smell them. I went back to my office, and a few minutes later, she came in and lay down. My usually happy dog put her head between her paws and didn’t want a treat. Now, maybe she was jealous that I’d petted another dog, but I think she knew it was Smokey and that all wasn’t well with her friend.  

Smokey’s wand’rin’ days were over, but not his life. He responded to treatment and lived another eleven months. I’m glad for his family, especially Smokey’s original owner’s son, who got to spend a little more time with something that reminded him of his dad.

I know I’ll think of Smokey every time Zu barks at something outside the house, especially in the middle of the night, and I’ll send up thanks to the universe for having let me know such a delightful and loving creature.

Rest in peace, good boy.