Green Apples Deacon

Why would a girl...as simple as she is complex, medical transcriptionist, mother of two, wife... choose to write about her old dog on her very first blog? Perhaps because, out of all the creatures in her midst, human or furry or feathery, he remains in her periphery most every moment of the day and night. And perhaps it is because he has taught her the most out of anyone else these last 10 years...true Patience and an Understanding of those who are unable to change despite their best intentions. Oh, you say? Well, for those of you who have ever owned a German Shorthair Pointer, no explanation is needed; but to the rest, let me try to explain...

It wasn't a great beginning, to say the least, and it threatened not to end well either. I was in the first trimester of my first pregnancy. My husband wanted a hunting dog, a dog that would ride in his truck with him Everywhere, a constant hunting and general companion...and a GSP was the answer. He was so very excited. Imagine my trepidation, however, as I heard story after story of GSPs being "puppies" the first 3 years of their lives (and not ordinary puppies at that), a friend even having one that chewed up one of his WALLS. I disgruntingly agreed but on the terms that I would choose out of the litter and that it had to be a boy. On the way home, riding in my lap, uncertainly traveling away from his littermates and parents, said boy barfed up the green apples he'd apparently been munching on in the yard. Thus, Green Apples Deacon was born. Later, my father dubbed him "Deacon Louise," and he didn't seem to mind, although he may have reaped revenge many years later by stealing a recently purchased sub right out of my dad's hand. He's had many other names along the way too (but seeing as this is a family show, I'll refrain from mentioning them here). He is, more often than not, referred to simply as "The Boy."

It was a rough and rocky road...when I wasn't chasing him with the spanking stick for chewing my shoes, litter box contents, drying laundry, or soap out of the bathroom, we could be found napping together on the couch...me very pregnant, him lucky to be alive. One afternoon I awoke from my nap to see him through the window frolicking around a yard littered with white feathery objects. My first sleepy thought was he actually got into the neighbor's house and stole their pillows! But, it was just some old life jackets out of the shed he had torn to bits. To this day the first question I will ask you when you come to my door is "are your windows up?" It only took one sister-in-law's Subaru to be scratched up because of his scrounging ways...

As far as general temperament, however, he was and is the perfect dog. He never peed or poo'd in the house unless under duress ("I'm standing by the door! I'm standing by the door!"). Our two daughters and our two toddler nieces (who I day-cared for) could at any time sit and play in his food dish, crawl on him, pull his ears, and even (as my husband describes it) "stick her finger in his eyeball up to the first knuckle" without more than a green-eyed glance our way as to say "is this Really necessary?"

Nice to kids or not, I lived in a constant state of anger for, oh, the first five years or so of Deacon's life. Simply put, he needs constant surveillance. I spanked him constantly, I bellered, I chased, I threatened, I shocked his collar, and then there was the BB gun afternoon (oh, don't go calling the ASPCA- it wasn't strong enough for the BBs to actually reach him...geez). And then, I guess, one day it subconciously occurred to me that he was never going to change, so I needed to. When he steals the freshly baked cake or loaf of bread off the counter, I just sigh and set to making another. When he strews garbage across the lawn and walkway because we'd forgotten they were both outside, I simply pick it up. When he's killed my favorite chicken, I've sat barefoot in my barnyard crying angry and sorrowful tears, given him the silent treatment for a couple days, but then can't help give in to his droopy ears and his eagerness for a loving word from me. He knows he's being naughty...it's just his nature to scrounge..."but mom, I just can't help myself..."

I have uncontrollable natures of my own. That is the simple truth of it.

I can count on one hand the times he's ridden in my husband's truck...he's never spent more than an hour hunting (rabbits, I think?). He's been my constant companion, an 80-pound lump of dog love in my lap. We've run together, swam together, cried together. The wetness from his nose covers the passenger side window of my Chevy. He's my boy.

Just the other day, I wandered over to the sliding door, with a spoon and a jar of Smucker's Goober in hand (I'm a semi-recovering PB&J addict...one of those "natures") to take a break from a particularly long day of work. I wanted to watch the wind moving the trees (one of those said trees later came down on a power line, ending my workday for good)...when I quickly noticed Deacon sprawled out on the deck, sound asleep, perfectly still, soaking in the warmth of the sun. Laying on the deck in the sun is his favorite pasttime these days. I pondered his weathered, gray muzzle; his abdomen pocked with cysts and tags and other lumpy signs of an aged canine. His eyes then opened ever so slightly, and his nose started twitching and sniffing, the only moving part on his entire body...surely there must be a bag of rubbish, an ornery brave squirrel, or a red-headed meter man in the air. Or maybe not. He then rolled, for just a few seconds, balanced on his back, feet playfully pawing at the air, then promptly flopped onto his other side, contentedly still again, and no doubt saying "oh yes...this is gooood."

GSP's, I've read, have a lifespan of 12-14 years. Typing it now makes my chest heave and tears spring to my eyes. A couple months ago hubby reported of one living to the ripe old age of 17. We both joked and feigned disheartenment at the thought of another 7 years of chasing him away from the cat food dishes, of "Leave it!" and "Off!" being the most spoken words in our vocabulary, and letting him out in the middle of the night because of his "old man bladder." But in reality, we've actually talked about getting another GSP. Will we? Probably not. That would prove we have completely lost our marbles. But, if I could, I would keep this friend by my side forever and a day.