This is the story of my life with a big black dog named Blanca. It begins on a snowy summer day in Colorado. It ends the way all dog stories end. In between is nothing out of the ordinary: just an assortment of mediocre snapshots, all I have to illustrate the experience we shared. Our story has no tales of heroism, no amazing adventures, no real drama. But like all dog stories, this arc of ordinary events is of life-changing importance to one person. Many people know parts of the story; only one person knows all of the story. So I decided to write down at least a portion of it, the part that can be expressed in mere words.
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By the way, I've turned off comments for this gallery, because this is my place to write about my dog. I am interested in comments, though. If you would like to make comments, please leave them in the Guestbook area. Thanks.
July 4, 1993
Our story starts in Stevens Gulch, near Georgetown, Colorado. I had arranged to meet my friends Dave & Dawn up there for the long weekend- with the puppies. The puppies at that point were little black fuzzballs, just over a month old. Their mother, Ebony, was Dawn's dog. There had been a third pup, a male, who died within a few weeks of birth, of a condition that made it impossible for him to swallow properly.
The two female puppies were just about indistinguishable, and like all puppies they spent their time eating, sleeping, and wrestling. I had seen them earlier, actually- when they were only a few days old. But this was the first time that I had seen them as lively little dogs- and the first time they had seen me. Not that they cared much- I was useless for eating, sleeping, or wrestling purposes.
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The photograph was taken that July 4; we were out camping in a blizzard. So the puppies didn't spend much time outside. But it was the first time Blanca and I saw each other. At least I think she saw me; mostly, the two of them were interested in playing together.
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Little did either of us realize how much we would depend on each other in the coming years.
August, 1993
Dave and Dawn wanted to keep one of the puppies, and offered one to me. They knew that having a dog would be good for me. I spent a long time agonizing over the decision, looking ahead 13 years as I always do.
Blanca came home with me in the most embarrassing way- in a cat carrier. It was a rough 15 miles from Jacona to Los Alamos- the poor little girl turned out to be prone to car-sickness. She started out afraid of the car- a bad thing, since we had many miles ahead of us. We had a few bad trips, and a few that were made bearable by a bit of Ace, until finally she was able to ride without incident on all but the twistiest mountain roads. (It may sound crazy, but as part of the cure I'd sit in the car with her, in the driveway, listening to the radio, petting her, and giving her treats. I guess it worked, 'cause she lost her fear of the car.)(I only did that under cover of darkness, by the way.)
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For the rest of her life, people would comment on how good she was in the car, how she'd just curl up in back and be quiet the whole time. Well, that wasn't good behavior- it was nausea.
August, 1993
The stairs were new and scary. Lots of things were scary. I wouldn't rank Blanca as one of the braver dogs I've known. She'd turn into a wild-eyed stone dog when necessary. And even when unnecessary, like when we were at the vet. Sometimes I'd have to get a technician to help drag her out of the car (chase, actually; the tech would roust her out towards me). Her fear of the clinic developed over a number of years. At first she enjoyed visiting the vets, especially since a couple of them had been our next-door neighbors when she first came to live with me. But after a few visits to take care of ear infections, she decided that they were running a chamber of horrors.
August, 1993
The stairs were eventually mastered; within minutes, really. That was fortunate, because we always lived in 2-story houses. She'd fly down the stairs all at once, maybe running or maybe just falling-in-control.
She mastered many of her fears (or just ignored them long enough to get back to me), but some stayed with her all of her life- like thunderstorms. She'd always get agitated during bad weather, and stay in whatever room I was in. Sometimes if a storm started at night, I'd wake to the thump, thump, thump of Blanca finding her way up the stairs in the dark, followed by the loss of some vital real-estate on my mattress. Later in life, when her knees were bad, I'd sometimes have to carry her upstairs to be with me (so we'd both get some sleep), or safely back down. (And this is an 80-lb dog, mind you.)
August, 1993
Anything significant about her love of rawhide? No, not really; it's just a cute picture.
August, 1993
All of the new experiences finally wore little Blanca out. We still had a lot of learning to do, like how to use the dog door, and a lot of learning about each other. We rapidly became attached to each other, obviously. Our new situation was positive for both of us, me especially. Blanca grew up to be very much a one-person dog. She had friends, of course, but didn't much care for crowds, and would tend to hang close to me, particularly if other dogs were around. I often wondered if that was nature or nurture, and how she might have grown up differently if she'd stayed with Dave, Dawn, Garrett, Ian, Ebony, Jett, Langmuir & Pecos (adults, kids, dogs, & cats, in order).
This first day was the start of a good life.
August, 1993
For the first couple of months, our usual playgrounds were Urban Park and Mountain School, just a couple of blocks from our house- full of nice soft cool grass, and big enough for a pup to run around, chase things, and go crazy until she was good & exhausted; and big enough that she couldn't get out into traffic. By the time she could outrun me, we started spending more time walking in the woods, usually up the Mitchell trail.
This was a pose I'd get used to over the years: Blanca curled up a few feet away, watching me. Especially when she was a puppy, if I'd sit next to her, she'd get up, walk a few feet away, and curl up again where she could see me. It was like she had to know that I was there, but didn't want to be too close. She'd always keep an eye on me, though, at home or out on the trail. Sometimes, when she was enjoying herself outside, sleeping in the sun or in the shade, she'd trot inside, find me, say Hi, and head back outside to resume her regularly scheduled nap.
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I suppose most dogs are like that; they like to keep tabs on their person. But Blanca was like that much more than most. Many people we'd meet would comment on how closely she watched me, tell me how much she stared at me. It really was that noticeable. It doesn't come across in words or pictures.
August, 1993
I promise not to show every puppy picture that I've got. But just like any family, there are lots of baby pictures, some adolescent pictures, and just a few grown-up pictures.
This was Blanca's official baby picture, the one I sent to family & friends to show how cute my dog was.
September, 1993
A tennis ball was a favorite early toy, even when it was almost as big as Blanca's head. She's already looking less like a puppy than a miniature dog. This is fromone of our many trips to Colorado springs, to see our firends Dawn, Perry, Drue, Mitchell, Bron, Brett, and Yttle. It was fun to look back through these and see how cute Blanca was as a pup, but I was shocked to see how scruffy I looked- why didn't you people tell me to get a haircut?
But forget tennis balls- for a couple of months, I was The Best Toy In The World. I couldn't sit down without being attacked with those little needle teeth. Right here, it looks like I'm attacking Blanca, but trust me- she started it! And I guarantee she's got her teeth sunk into my arm.
Aaawwwww....
But who could get mad at that face?
Take a look at that right ear (her right, not yours). It's just starting to stand up; in earlier pictures, if her ears look like they're sticking up, it's just 'cause she's running. You'll see that ear go up farther and farther in later pictures.
Sometimes Blanca looked like she was all legs & ears. As a pup she had kind of a skinny rat tail, but that changed over the months.
When I look back at these, it's hard to believe that it's all the same dog. She changes noticeably even on a single roll of film.
An Urban Park action shot. I think she's carrying a Coke cup (generally, plastic cups were a favorite with Blanca, 'cause she could sink her teeth into them and get a nice crinkle sound).
Some of these running pcitures look more like flying pictures- it's hard to tell whether her feet are actually on the ground. If you look closely, you can see a little white mark on her ear. It's a little patch of bare skin on the inside of her ear-flap, in an area that's otherwise furry. The importance of that little patch will be evident later on. You can also see it in her baby picture- there's a little notch right at the base of that ear.
Until I looked back on all of these pictures, I had forgotten how much running Blanca did when she was young. All dogs are like that, I know; they just have too many places to go. Most of their sidetrips are done just for the sheer excitement of going, and coming back.
Blanca the archaeologist. I originally decided on the puppy who would be Blanca rather than the puppy who would be Jett based in part on Blanca's general uninterest in digging, compared to Jett. Since I lived in town, I didn't want to have the worry of always wondering if my dog had burrowed under the fence while I was at work. And that's the way she turned out to be. Here, I think she's enlarging a hole made by some little critter, in the vain hope of finding it. Usually, she'd only dig if she was hot and tired and frustrated, and wanted to get at some cool earth to rest on.
But she did go on two digs with me. For her, they were just extended camping trips with less hiking and more company than usual. She was the darling of the dig. I often overheard people commenting to each other about what a wonderful dog she was, how sweet and well-behaved, she was, and so forth. And truly, she was.
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There was only one time that she made a commotion at a dig. She was tied up at the lunch area; I was up at the site itself. Some people walked by, told me my dog was barking. I kept digging. Another group came by, told me Blanca was barking a lot and seemed very agitated. That was unusual behavior for a dog that usually just found a shady spot to sleep; I went down to check on her. When I came into view, she almost lost it. I guessed immediately what was up, and snapped her off her leash. She tore across the ground, back behind the equipment trailer. And proceeded to have the most violent diarrhea I've ever seen. She must have been in agony, but was too demure to relieve herself in the common lunch area. They never understood just what a good dog she really was. Moral of the story: in a critical situation, never give your dog the cheap discount-store food that they love so much.
Fall, 1994
A romp through Canada Bonita nets a prize: a complete leg bone. Of what, I'm not sure- looks short for an elk, heavy for a deer, light for a cow. She can barely carry it, but she's proud to have it.
And sometimes the prizes were even bigger.
But usually the attractions on our walks were simpler: a scolding squirrel, a hole in the ground just the right size for a nose, a soft snow drift. And the simplest pleasure of all: a single twig or blade of grass, to be carefully sniffed along its entire length, each side individually.
Sticks of course were always A Fun Time. She got out of the habit as she got older (maybe she learned that the world held an inexhaustible supply of rawhide bones), but when she was young, any random piece of wood was in mortal danger of destruction. She had quite a trick for chewing the bigger ones (I'm talking about downed saplings and large branches, 6-8' long). She'd pick one up by the small end, lift it high, and swing her body under it. With the tree resting across her shoulders, she'd then reach over to chew the end. When her teeth got tired on one side (or she just needed a change, I guess), she'd pivot underneath the tree, switching it to extend over her other shoulder, and continue chewing away. It was quite a clever trick.
Not all sticks got the treatment that this one did- for some reason, she had to pick it up and throw it down on the ground. This is at Heron Lake, also the site of my first (and only) attempt to get Blanca to swim. (Also the first and only attempt to get her to ride in a canoe, which she resolutely refused to try.) I went out into the water, coaxing her out with sticks to chase and her undying need to keep me close by. Slowly, slowly, I got her out into deeper and deeper water. Finally I managed to get her out deep enough that she couldn't touch bottom, and she paddled around a bit, with a look of complete alarm. She found the bottom again, and refused to head out into the deeper water again. And that was that. The whole process took about 1/2 an hour, and Blanca's short swim gained her applause from a woman watching from the shore.
Reading the Sunday paper. I wonder how many scraps I had to pick up from this bit of play-time.
Blanca showed her real taste for literature a few months later. She had calmed down enough from her puppy-craziness that she had full run of the house while I was at work. I came home one day to find that she had chewed up every book she could reach. And the ones she could reach were all of the big, expensive coffee-table-type books. Actually, it wasn't every book: she only ate the hardcovers, and left the softcovers alone. That was about the only really rotten thing she did as a puppy.
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I couldn't stay mad at her for long, when she did do something bad. Example: once we were driving through the Black Range, returning from a trip to the Gila. The road was very curvy, and she'd thrown up a couple of times on the way out. She wasn't too impressed with having to do it all over again in the other direction. I stopped to take a couple of pictures. When I opened the door to the car, she bolted out, I guess figuring that walking back a couple of hundred miles was a better way to get home. The road was not only curvy, but narrow- at any moment a car could have come 'round one of the bends and wiped her out. We played keep-away for a while. I finally shooed her off the road, and collared her, when the game became boring. We marched back to the car, I shoved her in, and got in myself. She was sitting in the passenger seat, looking placidly out the front window. I was angry, and scared, and yelling and yelling at her about listening to me, not running away, behaving herself, etc., etc. Blanca finally turned her head toward me, nose about 6 inches from mine, and proceeded to give me one of those big, wide, open-all-the-way, count-all-the-teeth, have-some-dogbreath yawns that dogs so love to do. She then turned back towards the window, and went on staring down the road. All I could do was laugh at myself, start the car, and head for home.
This must be one of Blanca's first snowfalls, not counting that first 4th of July. She's standing still. but you can tell that she's just about to take off on a cavort, probably with that stick that's just ahead of her.
I have a couple of other pictures from this snowfall, that show Blanca with her first snowman. Yes, she built a snowman. By herself. I'm serious. Of course, it was only a one-ball snowman, as she still lacked the opposable thumbs needed to stack up a regular snowman. I don't have those pictures up, because the snowman was, afterall, white, and so doesn't show up well against the rest of the snow. And no one would believe me anyway.
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Often, while out on the trail, Blanca would flop down in any available patch of snow to cool off. We spent a lot of time out in the snow over the years, either hiking, snowshoeing, or skiing. She didn't care much for the snowshoeing, because that meant that she'd have to wade through snow deeper than her legs were tall. But I'd often choose skiing locations that had snowmobile trails, so she could trot along on a nice hard surface. If I happened to fall, Blanca would come bounding over through the deep snow, excited, and stick her nose right in my face, to make sure I was OK.
Blanca loved to eat snow to cool off. On our springtime walks she'd invariably head off-trail if she spotted one of the last little drifts, still hanging on against the heat and sun. She would often grab a mouthful on the run, leaving a little divot beside her tracks.
That habit made for one of Blanca's more embarrassing moments. We were visiting White Sands, and after a long car ride, the girl was ready to get out for some exercise. I opened the car door, and she took off running across the dunes- and reached down to scoop up a nice big mouthful of powder. Twice. It may not sound like much, but it was pretty entertaining to see her break stride and start sputtering out sand. Twice...
I don't think I can add much to this picture, except to say that it's one of my favorites.
Looking at those wild eyes and those teeth, I remember a trick we used to do. Blanca was very good about waiting for treats. I could hold food in front of her, but tell her "No!," and she would wait...and wait...you could tell that it took every bit of dog willpower to resist. Of course, I'd always give her the treat in the end, but even so, she wouldn't snap at it. But she never would participate in the standard trick where you put a treat right on the dog's nose, and tell it to wait, until giving it a signal to flip the treat into its mouth. So we developed our own version: I would kneel down, point my face towards the ceiling, and put a treat on my nose. I'd tell Blanca to sit and wait. Then I'd give her an "OK!" and she'd trot over, rear up on her hind legs, arch over me, and snatch the treat off of my nose. Always a crowd-pleaser. I caught a canine in the nostril on occasion, but no problem.
Fall, 2003 (?)
Like most dogs, Blanca was pretty demanding when it came to her daily walk. Unless I was out of town; then, sometimes, it just didn't matter so much. She was a shepherd through and through; I didn't have to leash her when we were out on the trails. She'd run ahead a bit, then run back to check on me; then run up the side of a hill, and run back to check on me. She'd never let us get too far apart. As she got older, it was me who had to stop on occasion, to let her catch up. She eventually decided that hills were just too much work, and our walks got easier and shorter.
Blanca was never one of those daring, devil-may-care dogs. As a pup she would occasionally refuse to climb up or down steep rocks, and I'd have to carry her over the rough spots. I know that at least once she froze while crossing this log bridge on the Eastfork Trail. I think she wound up on her belly, straddling the log. I'm not quite sure how I got her unstuck, since I couldn't do much to help without falling in myself. And at least once she fell off this bridge, or a similar one along the same trail. (That's better than her sister, who was devil-may-care and somewhat clumsy to boot, and once missed a jump and fell off a cliff after a short cartoon-like, claws-making-furrows-in-the-rock slide over the edge. Fortunately Jett was also a very tough dog, and walked away unscathed.)
Our daily walk through the canyons near my house passed over a 100-foot-deep gorge, via a wide, solid bridge. Although she'd crossed it many, many times, Blanca once decided that it was suddenly very scary, and refused to walk over it. She became rather agitated when I walked across and waited for her on the other side. Her need to stay with me finally overcame her fear, and she walked over with an embarrassing sort of waddle, feet wide apart. The next few times we crossed that bridge, she either waddled, or ran across fast. And then it was suddenly not scary anymore.
The ear here is at maximum uplift- it went all the way up, and finally all the way over the top of her head. It wasn't like this for very long. It soon went back the other way, to its final floppy-but-perky configuration. That was simultaneous with her first serious ear infection, but I'm not sure if there was a connection. Maybe she just got tired of holding it up.
This is also one of the few pictures I have that shows the little white spot on her chest. That is not, incidentally, why she got her name. She would have been Blanca with or without the white spot. But it was just about the only way to distinguish between Blanca and Jett when they were very young. I remember calling Dawn and telling her, "I'll take the white-spot puppy, and her name will be Blanca."
Every dog deserves a noble portrait, and this is Blanca's. This was provided by our friend Dawn (M, not L). She didn't quite catch all of that right ear, but that's understandable. I think Blanca's a little over a year old in this picture, taken during one our many trips to Colorado Springs. She looks like a young strong dog (which she was) and, I think, very much like a Shepherd, for once.
From the AKC's website:
"The first impression of a good German Shepherd Dog is that of a strong, agile, well muscled animal, alert and full of life. It is well balanced, with harmonious development of the forequarter and hindquarter. The dog is longer than tall, deep-bodied, and presents an outline of smooth curves rather than angles. It looks substantial and not spindly, giving the impression, both at rest and in motion, of muscular fitness and nimbleness without any look of clumsiness or soft living. The ideal dog is stamped with a look of quality and nobility--difficult to define, but unmistakable when present."
Well, we'll see about that "soft living" part...
Another noble dog shot. Half noble, anyway; that ear kind of ruins the effect. I don't what she's watching so intently. For once it wasn't me- on the other hand, I didn't take this picture, so maybe she was watching me after all.
Blanca's size and teeth could be intimidating, but her nature was completely gentle. She put on a big show of force when the mailman came by, but a show was all it was. On many occasions on our walks through town or through the woods we'd come upon kids, who often were not much taller than Blanca. She'd stand patiently by while one pulled on her ears, and another pulled on her tail.
A Family portrait: Ebony, Jett, and Blanca. Blanca's kind of hanging in the background, which was typical when Ebony was around. Ebony's presence made Blanca attempt every submissive behavior known to Dog. I think it had something to do with being bitten on the head at a tender age. Ebony repeated the performance on occasion, just to keep Blanca in her place. That incident was part of the reason that Blanca's ears were floppy: the cartilage in her left ear was damaged, actually broken into two pieces. You could see it in the furless strip on the inside of the ear, and the little notch at its base. And you could feel it when you rubbed her ears. So the right ear went up, and came back down; the left ear never had a chance.
I don't know how many times I had people refer to Blanca as a Lab, or ask what her mix was: "Lab and what?" But a look at Ebony tells the real story. Ebony was a purebred, all-black German Shepherd. Blanca got her color, long body, height, and extravagant tail from Ebony. The father was just a neighborhood dog, who may have had some Labbish parts, but was light-colored. He was also evidently one of the laziest dogs ever, the type that would lie in the road and let the cars drive around him. He clearly had enough energy to hop a fence, though, with the right incentive...
Ebony had her puppies when she was three, if I remember right. She died quite young, at only about six, of a congenital problem similar to what killed Blanca's littermate.
Never a dull moment when the two sisters were together. Blanca's the one with the blue collar. I've got a whole series of pictures of this particular wrestling match, but this is one of the few in which you can tell that there are two dogs present, not just one dog with extra legs.
During one trip Dave & I took with all three of the dogs, the two puppies (who were at least 60-70 lbs each by that time) decided to play on the floor at the foot of my bed. Not much sleep to be had that night- they kept my bed shaking all night long. Dave had it better- Ebony was on his bed, very still, watching the pups, ears back, and growling almost inaudibly. She knew it was time for bed. Fortunately she never decided to enforce her will that night...
15-MAR-2007
The object of desire here is a gallon water jug, flattened by chewing. At the time it was one of Blanca's favorite toys, I think because of the crunchy noise it made.
At first glance, the two dogs looked the same. But they were distinctly different, in more ways than just the white spot. Blanca was a couple of inches taller, and longer overall- longer in the nose, body, and tail. Jett was wider though, and overall a more square-bodied dog that Blanca, so she wound up being the heavier of the two. Jett got ears that (almost) stood up, while Blanca got a fatter, more impressive tail.
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They were musc different in personality, too: Jett was much more exuberant, always coming up to greet people and ask (demand) to have a tennis ball thrown for her- or, just as often, a rock. Blanca was more reserved, allowing people to pet her, but seldom asking. She saved her greetings for good friends.
Almost every year, Blanca and I drove to Minnesota at Christmas. Those were long trips- about 1400 miles each way, which outbound had to be done in just a couple of days (I think our record was 30 hours). Blanca was the lucky one; she could sleep most of the time. We'd usually make some stops on the way back, although never enough for Blanca.
As typical in an unfamiliar place with unusual people around (that is, family), Blanca's staying right close to me. Later, when she was more used to the situation, she'd settle down and just watch me. Blanca won my Mother's heart the first time I brought her home for Christmas. She offered Blanca a scrap of turkey, expecting to have to count her fingers afterward. Blanca wouldn't take it, but just sat down and waited. My Mother finally had to place the turkey in Blanca's open mouth. Amazing that any dog, let alone a half-grown one, could be that well-mannered around turkey...
August, 1994
Redcloud Peak- Blanca's first 14er! That's a mountain that tops out above 14,000 feet, for the uninformed. Redcloud is a few miles outside of Lake City, Colorado. Blanca dutifully hiked up quite a few peaks with me; by my count, she summited Redcloud, Sunshine, Tabeguache, Shavano, Oxford, Belford, Massive, Huron, San Luis, Lincoln, Bross, Democrat, Yale, Columbia, and Handies.
Not bad for a dog with bad knees whose natural habitat was a couch!
Just another mountain picture, one of the few showing both our faces decently. She's wearing the orange streamers because it was hunting season, and you never know who's out there.
Her nose looks kind of off-black in this shot. She had a form of lupus at the time (at least that was the best guess; we never had it fully tested). Her nose went from black and pebbly to gray and smooth; her lips lost all their pigment, changing from black to pink. Some prednisone took care of the symptoms, but made her eat like a horse, so she went from weighing a little over 90 lbs to 105, or something like that. That didn't seem like a good trade, since the lupus didn't seem to cause her any problem. So, she went off the prednisone, and the lupus went away after a few more years. Blanca trimmed (?) back down to her 90-lb weight. Later, after we found that she needed thyroid supplements, her weight dropped to between 80 and 85 lbs.
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Blanca did me a favor by being pretty reasonable about food. She wouldn't eat to the point of exhaustion like some dogs; I could leave her food bowl full, and she'd eat as she needed. She wound up a few pounds overweight, but not at all fat. She'd usually eat at two different times, the first being if I was cooking something tasty. She'd get excited by that, and suddenly remember that she had food of her own. But her usual dinner time was late at night, usually around 11 O'clock or midnight. I'd be in bed, and hear toenails click across the floor, followed by generous crunching noises, and then loud water-slurping. Then Blanca would head off to bed herself, either with me or on the couch.
06-MAR-2007
For those familiar with Colorado's mountains, Blanca was not named after Blanca Peak. That was one we saw many times on our travels, but never climbed.
September, 1995
To be honest, she wasn't always thrilled about hiking up mountains. She mostly did it for me. But she never mutinied. Usually she'd be in front on the way up, almost always reaching the summit first. She'd stay beside me or lag behind on the way down, immediately flopping down to rest whenever I'd stop. A few times she'd look down an especially long, steep pitch and whimper and tremble. But all was well when we'd get to the bottom, where her spot in the backseat of the truck was waiting.
Tired but happy on yet another mountain top. She's squinting because it's so bright, and has her ears pulled back a bit because she's tired. I'm guessing about the happy part. You'd think she could have found a more comfortable pile of rocks to rest on.
Obviously I've got lots and lots of dog-on-a-mountaintop pictures; sorry, but I'm not going to show them all. But most of the pictures I show here are outdoor settings, along trails, in campsites, before, during, or after hikes. That's both because we did a lot of that sort of thing, and because those were the times that I had a camera out. Except for when Blanca was a puppy, I didn't take too many pictures just around the house.
September, 1994
On the way up Mount Massive (I think); Ebony uncharacteristically in back, and Blanca characteristically right beside me. She's probably so close to me that she's actually right up against my leg, leaning against me. I can practically feel her there as I write. I wrote earlier that Blanca preferred to stay a short distance from me, so that she could watch me. That changed when there were other people around, or other dogs. Then she liked to be right up close, pressing against me. She was just the right height that I could brush my fingers along her back. I think that wanting to be near me was part protection, part possession.
I know that I'm failing to depict the bond between us; it just doesn't come across well in words. But people we met noticed it almost immediately. I was always getting comments about how devoted she seemed, how much she watched me, how she clearly didn't care much for any other people, and so on. Or as our friend Nancy put it after knowing us for a day: "I'm glad I'm not the other dog in your house!"
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If we were visiting people and I had to leave for some period, Blanca would just- stop. She would try to find a window looking in the direction I left, and just sit, staring down the road. If I was gone a long time, she would eventually go to whatever bed I was sleeping in, curl up in it, and wait for me. She wouldn't respond to the other people in the house, or show any interest in eating or drinking. This was especially difficult for my mother, who found that she was unable to spoil the dog in my absence. As she grew older, and we visited the same people repeatedly, Blanca became more comfortable with being left with other people. So she did finally allow herself to be spoiled.
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I sometimes thought at I should have named her Lord, so that I could tell people, "The Lord my dog is a jealous dog..."
Blanca didn't care much for swimming, but she enjoyed wading, even in these mountain streams that were barely above freezing (or maybe because they were barely above freezing). But the real reason for this picture is to discuss that tail. Notice that it's all the way down in the water. Her tail was long enough to just touch the ground, when it hung straight down. She got that from her mother; Ebony's tail was so long that she had to hold the end curled to the side to keep it from dragging. The picture also shows how thick her tail was. And that's not just fur; the base of her tail was about 2" across. It's fortunate that Blanca wasn't a huge tail-wagger; she could have really done some damage. My sister (a vet, so she's seen a lot of tails) once said it was really a remarkable caudal appendage. (no, she doesn't really talk that way.)
Like I said, Blanca seldom passed up a chance to go wading. Belly-deep water was about the limit, though. Sometimes she'd just plop down in shallow water to cool off.
This little cow desperately wanted to meet Blanca, but Blanca would have none of it- that cow was just too big. This trail is near San Luis Peak, where we saw a marvelous example of canine behavior. We were walking up the trail, an open meadow on our left and a forested hillside on our right. Suddenly the hillside exploded into coyote calls- yips, yaps, howls, laughs, screams. I couldn't see a single coyote, but plainly a whole pack was just beside us. Blanca, of course, perked up with a "Cool! Let's check it out!" expression on her face. She wasn't going anywhere, though, if I had anything to say about it. We stood and listened to the coyotes, my hand firmly on Blanca's collar. I kept looking around, trying to catch sight of even a single coyote. I glanced behind- and finally saw one. It was a lone coyote, crossing from the open meadow into the forest maybe a hundred feet behind us. As soon as that individual made it to the safety of the woods, all of the calls stopped, simultaneously. All the commotion was just a diversion, providing cover for the separated animal to rejoin the pack.
Blanca and I were fortunate not only to visit beautiful places like this, but also to live in a beautiful place. There were some problems along the way, but overall, it's hard to imagine that we could have had a better life anywhere else. We had a home in a nice quiet place, with shady trees and singing birds, and open forests to hike through, right across the street. Just like me, Blanca disliked crowds and noise and traffic, and living in a city would have been like a prison to her.
Just a nice vista in the Big Blue, made better by Blanca.
I'm always a bit put out by wild places that put restrictions on dogs. People have traveled across this continent with their dogs for century upon century. We passed through the millenia in the company of dogs. Well-behaved dogs shouldn't be excluded; they belong as much as we do.
Winter, 1995
And then there was The Great Skijoring Adventure. Dave and I did some work in Alaska during the winter of 1994, and came away with the idea of trying the small-scale brand of mushing called skijoring. We bought harnesses for the dogs, belts for ourselves, and the elastic tuglines that tie things together.
Winter, 1995
With two strapping young dogs like this, how could we not wind up rocketing down the trail? When the dogs were willing, we did! That's Blanca in the red harness- she looks like she's really putting some effort into it. Jett looks like she's just along for the ride in this shot- surprising, since she was usually more of a go-go-go dog than Blanca. Maybe it's because they're wading through foot-deep snow...
These two together made a pretty wide team. The trail was narrow, and they barely fit. Fortunately they tended to walk right up next to each other whenever they were together, so there was no grumbling.
Blanca's in the lead again here, I suspect because she's trying to get back to me as fast as she can. She may figure that I'll know that she's just not meant for this kind of work.
Winter, 1995
But eventually things wound up like this. I guess real mushers actually train their dogs. Blanca's just being Blanca, here- she'll let Jett do the pulling, as long as she can be back by me. I think Dave cut off my head in the picture 'cause he was laughing too hard to aim the camera.
Winter, 1995
The end of a fun day: everyone's in the snow, laughing.
1994
This picture is somewhere in the Pecos Wilderness, I think, but it could be almost anywhere, any day. Blanca and & I hiked literally thousands of miles together over the years. Almost every day we were out on the trails near our house, and weekends and vacations brought us all over New Mexico and Colorado, plus a few other places. Sometimes I was on foot, sometimes on skis, snowshoes, or a mountain bike, but with Blanca always trotting alongside or checking out things in front (often behind, actually, and sometimes too close, as she caught a hiking boot in the chin on occasion).
On one of our evening hikes in the Jemez Mountains- it must have been late fall of '93- Blanca saw her first deer. She gave chase, although I don't think she actually thought through what she would do if the deer didn't want to play that game. I doubt that the deer were seriously concerned, but they bounced off through the woods, anyways. And I was suddenly alone- and a bit distraught, since this was the first time Blanca had willingly been out of eyeshot. I decided it was best just to wait, and five or ten minutes later, back came Blanca, panting and happy. I think that was the only time that Blanca really tried to chase an animal- usually she'd just run for a couple of hundred feet, at most, until she was sure that she wouldn't be able to catch the critter. And maybe, she didn't really want to...
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There was one time that I'm pretty sure she didn't want to catch the critter. We were working on an archaeological dig in northern Colorado, near the Cache La Poudre. It was evening, and we were walking the half mile or so back to our tent. Blanca's ears went up as she took an interest in something in the woods. She trotted off into the trees. I kept walking along the forest road, knowing that she'd catch up as soon as her curiosity was satisfied. A few seconds later, I heard loud crashing noises, and Blanca came rocketing out of the brush, running at top speed right past me, without a glance. She didn't stop until she was back at our campsite. Y'see, we'd heard reports of a bear in the area... We ate dinner in the truck that evening.
Winter, 1995
Not all paths are straight. The best part of trying skijoring, was that it made me teach Blanca right and left. And if you want to impress your friends, just show them that your dog knows right from left. Of course we used the correct terms, "Gee" and "Haw." Just one word, and Blanca would put her ears up (well, as much as she could put her ears up), snap her head in the proper direction, and then make a turn. If she was trotting along ahead of me, I could tell her which fork of the trail to take. Of course, I only had to do that on the way out- she always knew how to find her way home.
Just a random campsite picture. No matter how much work the hike in was, Blanca enjoyed herself lounging around our camp. She'd watch the birds and squirrels, keep a vigilant eye out for anything larger so she could protect me, and snooze. I usually had to pull her inside the tent at night; she would rather have stayed outside, taking in the sounds and smells all night long.
Another tired dog at the campsite. This is probably just before she curled up for a nap. At least here she had a nice bed of pine needles to sleep on. That awkward pose is kind of typical. When she was young, Blanca had an unusal way of standing up: first, imagine her in the Sphinx position. She would get up without moving her paws, by just pivoting directly forwards and upwards, sort of like a toy with hinges at the shoulders and hips. Lying down was just the reverse: no turning around or wasted motion, just a folding down to the ground. Later, after her knee surgeries, she would lie down more like she is in this picture, and get up by struggling her front legs underneath to lift her weight up and forward. It was tough to see my old friend have tough time like that. I also had to watch her around new people. Often they would try to get her to "Sit!," which at that point her knees wouldn't easily allow. It was especially bad if they'd tease with a treat at the same time, at which point poor Blanca would try to manuever herself down with the minimum of pain. I don't think she intentionally sat back on her haunches more than a half-dozen times after the spring of 2001.
16-MAR-2007
Along the Dolly Varden Trail. This was Blanca's consolation prize after I climbed up Mt. Wetterhorn. Blanca was old enough by this time- and had had ligaments repaired in both knees- that I didn't want to subject her to the stress of steep climbs and long distances. So I'd go out climbing, while she stayed in the truck. I'd usually have to kind of ambush her- grab her, lift her into the truck, and get the gate closed fast, before she realized what was happening. Then I'd have to listen to a chorus of "Hey! Dog's still in here!" barks as I hiked away. I think she settled down to sleep pretty quickly. And that was usually the way I found her when I got back- curled up sleeping, the food and water I left her untouched.
Even if I couldn't take her on major outings, she was still a big hiking dog. Our nightly walks were a mile or three, and an afternoon outing like this much more.
That pose, standing out in front and looking back at me, was a very familiar one. As I wrote earlier, Blanca liked to position herself so she could keep me in sight. She also liked to be out front on the trail. So, while out walking, she'd have to turn around periodically, so that she could make sure that I was still there. When she was young and running everywhere, she'd turn and come back to me, give me a little brush with her muzzle, and head off again.
I'd seen her in this pose so many times that I wound up putting it into one of my goofy little expressionist paintings. I started painting it in 2003, or so; it took me a very long time to finish it up. The more I painted, the more it felt like it a picture of Blanca leaving me. I decided to give her a nice bright golden place to go to, if she was indeed leaving.
Evening at the Spruce Lodge. Blanca and I would go up to Chama for weekends of backcountry skiing and snowshoeing. She was certainly a dog who knew how to take up a bed. I'd often have to sort of slide in sideways, scooting her out of the way, until I finally had enough room to (almost) stretch out. She'd usually eventually decide to move a little bit out of the way, but would make up for it but rolling over so that her feet would be between us. Then, just after the dog snores started, I'd be treated to little kicks in the night, as she trotted through her dreams.
July, 1997
In 1997 I spent a month in Israel, working on a dig. I came home to a very scruffy, somewhat reddish dog...with a faint smell of skunk. She'd been a little too curious one night, and got sprayed. My dog sitter did the best he could to clean her up, using a recipe that involved hydrogen peroxide. It bleached her to a nice red-brown. She looks a little guilty in the picture, but I'm not sure why- I was back, she had a bone to chew, all was right with the world.
This picture is the best I have that shows the major bane of living with Blanca- all of that undercoat! She looks slick in most pictures, but underneath that smooth hair was a massive amount of frizzy fuzzy fluff. She'd blow her coat several times a year (it was almost continuously, really), and the fuzz would come out in big clumps, making fur drifts in the corners of the house. Sometimes as I'd walk behind her, I'd just reach down and pull big clumps of fuzz out of her. Or I'd sit down next to her and pull out clumps until I'd have a softball-sized accumulation. Or two. Or three. Really, she had a remarkable amount of fur, most of it loose... At the end of an office visit, our vet once said, "If you want to know the meaning of infinity, just ask the owner of a big black dog." And he was only talking about what was left on the exam room floor- he'd never seen my house!
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Between a few vacations and a lot of work trips, I wound up spending too much time away from Blanca. We were always fortunate to have good reliable dog sitters, but I know that she was depressed when I was away.
Blanca as Van Gogh. Those floppy ears made her prone to ear infections, and resulted in many, many visits to the vet. Mostly that was my fault, because I didn't keep up with the routine of cleaning and treating her ears. In my defense, it's tough to take care of a dog's ears when the sight of the ear-cleaning bottle makes her run outside. Once I just said the word "ear" out loud, and she ran away, with her eyes all big and scared. Rubbing her ears would just about paralyze her, except for the sound of those deep dog groans. We eventually found that part of the problem was diet, and had the infections under control her last couple of years. But as a young dog, the chronic infections and her ear flapping resulted in several surgeries.
I helped Blanca through continual ear infections, three ear surgeries, lupus, thyroid problems, two cruciate ligament repairs, and two malignant tumors. She helped me through failed relationships, the Cerro Grande Fire, losing my job, and my Father's death.
August 2, 2003
Uncharacteristically, Blanca's not right out at the edge of the cliff here. She'd usually try to stand at the very end of any overhang, and look over the edge. Scared the death out of me. Obviously dogs are sure-footed, but I'm not sure if they pay attention to how good or bad the ground is. I always worried that a squirrel or bunny or something would suddenly appear, and Blanca would lunge and go over the edge.
If Blanca seems to suddenly age at this point, it's because I bought a digital camera in 2003, and started taking a lot more pictures. For a while there, I didn't really take many pictures, except on major trips, which were times that Blanca generally couldn't join me. Other than when she was a puppy, I never took many pictures around the house.
September 1, 2003
Blanca was 10 by this time, and she spent a lot of time sleeping. She started to gray early, just like me. First her chin, then her eyebrows, around her ears...
She earned the right to snooze, I think. We'd already covered a lot of miles, in sun, rain, and snow; up hills, and back down. At 10, she had slowed down, but was still determined to keep me in sight. Not that I'd let her out of mine. We had many, many miles yet to go.
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The wildflowers were Dawn's idea (L, not M).
September 1, 2003
This is the same day, you notice; I'm not sure whether the snooze preceeded or followed our hike up to this meadow high above Lake City. I know I could check, but I prefer not to know the answer. She's tired, with her ears pulled back, but seems to be enjoying the sage and chamisa.
November 29, 2003
A happy old hound. We're in the middle of a hike over and across the mesas near Carlsbad. It's late November, but still pretty hot and sunny for a black dog with lots of fuzz. The reason for her perkiness here is right behind her- that tall grass is at the edge of a small but deep stream. She made a beeline for it, and hopped right in.
December 20, 2003
About this time, Blanca agreed to share me with another girl. Kris put up with a lot from us- all that hair, her cat getting sick on dogfood, dirty pawprints on the carpet, my bad jokes... I think she always wondered if Blanca liked her. Well, she did, and would look around for Kris when she wasn't there. Kris thought Blanca was the most regal dog she'd known, that is, like an aloof queen. That was just Blanca's reserved nature, coupled with her need to always be off to the side, watching me.
Now, there's no doubt that Tim the Cat didn't like Blanca. On their first meeting, he managed to plant a sharp claw right in that soft fuzzy area where the wet nose ends and the furry nose begins. He drew blood. Blanca was just being curious. But from then on, they were frightened of each other, and we made lots of little dances getting one past the other.
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Kris carried this photo of Blanca and me while we were together.
February 7, 2004
Just another picture. Not a particularly good picture, but I like it because it shows Blanca's size and shape so well. Big tail, long legs, deep chest, long neck, smallish head. And perky floppy ears.
July 4, 2004
A summer day in American Basin: the streams rushing, the snow melting, wildflowers everywhere. And Blanca having her snow-snack.
September 5, 2004
My favorite protrait of Blanca in her old age, I think. She looks happy.
October 10, 2004
With Kris around, I accumulated a lot more pictures of Blanca and myself. It was difficult to get one with both of us looking decent. So I picked one where she looks good. Usually she was trying to get away, and I was trying to hold her back, as here.
30-DEC-2004
Blanca wound up on quite a cornucopia of medicine: the monthly heartworm pill, of course, but also Rimadyl for arthritis, Thyroxin for her hypothyroidism, Benazepril to fend off kidney trouble, Glucosamine to keep those hard-working joints moving, and the occasional course of Cephalexin to fight the ear infections. I wound up with my hand down her throat every morning and every evening. She'd clamp her jaws shut, but quickly relent.
January 16, 2005
After all those years watching Blanca eat snow, I thought I'd better try some myself...
September 4, 2005
Still chewing. Blanca expected two things everyday: her walk and her bone. Sometimes when I was busy I'd try to buy her off with two bones and no walk, but usually she wouldn't fall for it. This shot shows her fuzziness too- she's not all nice & shiny like so many of the other pictures. You can see all the big thick clumps of fuzz on her side. Sometimes I thought I should have taken up knitting.
September 28, 2005
Just a nice portrait of the old girl, looking pretty gray. I think she's tired out from wading through a muddy stream, judging by her paws. That gray on her left hind leg isn't supposed to be showing- it's just out of place due to a surgery. That was the knee that suffered the first cruciate ligament blow-out. The other knee followed, about a year later. But that left leg also developed a tumor a ways to the outside of the knee. It was a bad type of cancer, but fortunately it was over connective tissue, which formed a barrier, keeping it from invading too deeply. Some aggressive surgery took care of things, but also meant the loss of a good-size piece of skin, hence the need to stretch the inside of her leg to wrap around to the outside. And she managed to make things worse- I left her in the back of my truck for while, as the anaesthetic wore off. I knew from experience that it would be less traumatic for her that way. I asked a coworker who lives down the street to come by and help me lift her out. He did- and arrived to find Blanca waiting at the back door. She had decided to jump out by herself, which meant going over the tailgate and down 3 or 4 feet. She was fine, except that she loosened and tore some of her sutures. It was already a tight stretch, and the incision eventually opened up. There wasn't much to do but let it close by itself over time, which turned out to be a number of weeks. That all happened in 2001 or 2002, maybe early '03.
Two weeks after this picture was taken, I found a second tumor, over her ribs. It would be visible in this picture, except for her thick fur. I found it when I picked her up to carry her down some stairs. By this time she didn't like going down stairs much; I think it hurt her knees, and put her at risk of taking a tumble. Our friends at the Animal Clinic of Los Alamos took care of that one too; it would be the last surgery she had to endure.
Jett died in January, 2006. She'd been having trouble keeping her balance for a while; her strength was getting to be less than her weight. It didn't really bother her, though- she was always happy and ready to try. I don't know if Dave and Dawn ever learned exactly what happened to her. She suddenly got sick, and had to be euthanized a short time later.
This picture dates from happier times: a backpacking trip into the Gila. This is at the end of the hike in, and Jett's so tired that even her eyelids are drooping.
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I think Jett was the only other dog that Blanca really liked. She was friends with a couple of dogs along the way, but her relationship with Jett was special. Blanca looked confused the first time we stopped by Jett's house and Jett didn't come out to greet her as she got out of the truck.
February 26, 2006
This is one of the last pictures of Blanca. She looks kind of frail, although part of that is because she was stiff from being in the truck, and there was a cold wind blowing. We were returning from a trip to Chama, a trip that we had made once or twice a winter almost every year.
A few weeks after this day, I went on an overnight trip with Dave, an unsuccessful attempt to do a winter climb. Our friend Sue, the dogsitter, left a note saying that Blanca didn't seem too interested in eating or walking.
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Almost a week later, I was shocked and scared to realize that Blanca hadn't touched her food since I returned. I quickly picked up some canned food and treats, hoping to perk up her appetite.
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That worked for a couple of days, then she stopped eating entirely.
I made an appointment at the clinic for the next day. Blanca had a very difficult night; she was agitated, kept getting up to walk around, and couldn't sleep. When I came home from work, to take her to the clinic, she had become very weak, in just a few hours. By the time we made it to the clinic, Blanca could barely stand. The trip to the vet resulted in x-rays, an ultrasound, and a transfusion. The tests showed that she had cancer again, this time internal, involving her liver and spleen. She had hemorrhaged as well, and was very anemic. I'm sure that was the cause of her restlessness the night before. The transfusion was intended to keep her alive long enough for me to decide what to do.
The cancer was operable, although there was a significant chance that she would die on the table, considering her weakened state. And the best guess was that the cancer would return within a few months. It took me a long time to accept what I already knew, deep down: it was time let my old friend and companion go.
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Blanca spent her last couple of days sleeping outside in the springtime sun. I couldn't do much for her, besides give her what little water that she was able to drink. Fortunately for both of us, she didn't have to endure very long. Dawn stopped by to say goodbye, and Dave brought Garrett and Ian over. We had visited the clinic on Tuesday or Wednesday, I've forgotten which; by Friday evening, it was clear that only suffering was left. I spent that last night on the floor beside her, with my arm around her. That's not what Blanca would have chosen; remember that she didn't like to be too close unless there was some rival in the area. But that night, it was only the two of us, as it had been so many times. I told her as many stories as I could remember of our life together, to remind her of the places we'd been, of the adventures we'd shared, of the dogs and people we'd known. And I prayed my thanks for having a big black dog named Blanca in my life.
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Saturday morning I called our vet, and asked him to make a housecall. He arranged to come by shortly after noon. Blanca had barely moved since I carried her inside the previous evening; she was curled up on her bed, facing the wall. Shortly before the vet was due to arrive, I went upstairs to wash my face, to prepare myself. I came back down the stairs, turned the corner, and saw Blanca. She was still on her bed, but had used her last bit of strength to turn around, so she could see me.
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Blanca died April 1st, 2006. In the year since that day, I've had to make do with memories, a few snapshots, and a box that I can never open. There was nothing profound or even terribly special in our story- afterall, it's just the story of a dog and her boy- but maybe someone somewhere will read it, and understand how fortunate we were so long ago to have a dog wander in out of the darkness to share a campfire with us.
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I miss you, Blanca. Good dog!
