Dog Gone

I've changed my ways a little, I cannot now

Run with you in the evening along the shore,

Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream a 

    moment,

You see me there.   -- Robinson Jeffers 1941

Maggie and Bryna with their doggies

In the poem above, Mr. Jeffers takes the voice and perspective of his beloved English bulldog, Haig, who is buried next to his stone house in Carmel. 

One of our deceased dogs, Skyla, and three of our cats -- Pancho, Belle Star and Chiloquin (aka Cheeks) -- lie in rest in our backyard, a veritable pet cemetery.

Our beloved Frida, the German Shepherd, still walks by my side, although slowly while sniffing every scent along our way. Another of our canine companions, perhaps the most remarkable of all, is not buried in our lot. Still, she deserves a story because she was hardly a trusty companion, more like a storm of trouble. Perhaps it all started because of her name, which was Mudshark.

We found her at the local Animal Shelter where she stood out among the other dogs. You could say she had charisma. She was small of stature, with a mixed black-and-tan coat and ears that folded over like Disney's Tramp. You may have thought that her right eye, a bluish white marble, was a sign of good fortune, but I tell you, it was a witch's curse.

Our youngest daughter, Bryna, at the time about 8, pointed her out, and soon after we brought the adorable mutt home. 

Bryna named her Mudshark after a famous sled dog in the Yukon, based on a book she had read.

She was no ordinary dog, as we soon learned. She was untrainable. She was indomitable. She was the Houdini of dogs.

From her markings we figured she had some Queensland in her -- the pattern on her spine was feathered blue and black. Maybe a little Aussie in her, too. I suspect also a trace of dingo.

On New Years Eve of 1990 Mudshark made her debut. As usual there had been a big party at the town clock downtown. At least half the town's folk would gather and close ranks as midnight ticked near. Our family had stayed home to ring in the new year. Except for our newly rescued pet.

Somehow, Mudshark had slipped out. We hadn't noticed until about half-past midnight when a Santa Cruz police cruiser showed up in front of our house, a spotlight searching the property, spreading alarm! What was up?

"It's Mudshark!" said Vanessa, our 16-year-old daughter.

Sure enough. Her head popped up in the window of the cruiser. She had been found at the town clock celebration, picked up by a friendly officer and escorted home like Cinderella in a horse-drawn coach.

We all laughed at the spectacle. It was only the beginning.

Sitting in my dentist's chair some weeks later, I nearly choked when he said to me; "I saw Mudshark the other day trotting down West Cliff Drive."

"You know Mudshark?" I was stunned. And the novocaine had hardly kicked in. Her reputation was spreading.

We had a yard to keep her in, with a gate. How was she getting out?

I built a kennel to keep her in during those times when the kids were in school and Barbara and I were at work. Framed with two-by-fours and covered with a heavy-gauged wire mesh, the kennel door latched tightly closed. The floor was made of half-inch plywood. She had a bowl of water and all seemed fine.

"You'll be staying here today, Muddy," I made sure the latch was hooked and could not be pushed open.

When I returned midday to check on her, the gate was closed and the kennel was empty. There was no sign of damage. Mudshark had disappeared.

That afternoon, Barbara had attended an open house showing at the historic Epworth Victorian up for sale at $5 million. Amidst real estate agents and brokers viewing the spacious quarters of bayview rooms and beautiful wainscoting and luscious fabrics and ornate chandeliers, a smallish scrappy-looking dog scrambled up and down the hardwood stairs.

Barbara pretended not to notice, embarrassed by her unruly pet, and shocked by her surprise appearance.

After careful inspection, I realized that Mudshark had called upon her forceful determination and pushed the kennel door open just enough to slip out and have it snap closed. Attempting a number of fixes to keep the kennel shut tight, I discovered that Mudshark was able to tear apart wire and chew through wood like a beaver.

She wore a name tag, a name that few forgot.

We would receive calls almost daily from the security guard at the Municipal Wharf: "Come and get Mudshark, please." As well as residents from throughout the area -- from Natural Bridges to Beach Hill.

"Mudshark's here."

She seemed to follow the action -- a birthday party, wedding, barmitzva.

Occasionally she would leave for a day or two, show up with her head swollen and cockeyed as if she'd been in a street brawl, sometimes stinking of rotting sea life. Oh, Muddy... The enemy inside her was making her pay.

Determined to contain her, I was finally able to make the kennel escape-proof. That's when she started barking, which created a horrible disturbance for our neighbor who called the police. I once found Mudshark clinging like a monkey to the wire ceiling of the kennel and barking.

This was not good. I took her to the beach to run, but she would simply bark incessantly at anyone throwing a ball. She'd rather bark than fetch, which annoyed many a dog owner. 

There were times when I wanted to strangle her.

As stories of our intrepid dog spread, we met a couple of women who lived in a remote area of Humboldt County who offered to take Mudshark. She would be cared for and have lots of open space to roam.

We said our goodbyes to Mud. Over the next couple of months we received regular postcards informing us of idyllic days spent in the forests and along the creeks with Mudshark. We loved hearing of her splendid new life in Humboldt. After a while, the postcards stopped coming.

Time passed and our lives calmed down without the regular commotion of Mudshark. Then one day Bryna burst into the house.

"I just saw Mudshark!"

It was true. Doggone, if Mud wasn't back in town! She had hitched a ride with some young folks heading down the coast. They had found her hanging around a general store up north, always near the action. She was traveling in a camper bus.

"I've really become attached to her," said the young woman in a tie-dyed shirt. "We named her Redway because that's where we found her."

We weren't about to spoil their trip. Mudshark seemed happy. I swear her oddball eye winked at me.

We don't need a grave stone in our yard to remember the Mud.