Carter’s Story, In Three Parts

He was a mistake. Four weeks after bringing him home, I realized the error. My then-husband and I were in our mid-sixties and more frail than any two people should be at that age.  I really have no idea why we thought a new puppy would be a good idea, especially this mix of three herding breeds—Border Collie, Aussie, and Catahoula.

At the time, I was well on the way to becoming sicker than I’d ever been in my life. Doctors couldn’t give me any answers as to what was happening to me, so they mostly ignored my involuntary starving, exhaustion, and mental decline. “Your blood work looks fine,” they smiled. “Drink more milkshakes!”

My husband was suffering from a long list of chronic diseases, and spent most of his days and nights on a recliner in front of the TV. In addition to our health problems, were deepening financial issues and relationship problems, the combination of which moved like toxic smoke between us, making our home feel like a noxious mortuary for the not-quite-dead.

Into this mess, we brought this 13-week old red and white fuzz ball we named “Carter.” I swear, we were not in our right minds at the time, and would only be getting increasingly dim-witted as the months passed. Carter knew none of this, or did he? I’d never had a herding breed before, and didn’t know then that they are the Olympians of the dog world. Few—if any—breeds are more energetic, intelligent, and sensitive than our little wolf-eyed wonder Carter. He learned within a day or two to sit, lie down, and go potty outside. He lost no time exhibiting all of the qualities that make the herding breeds so amazing, and so challenging.

When he was not happily learning new commands from us, he spent his spare hours tearing about the house jet-propelled. He quickly learned our many varieties of “No:” No jump, no bite, no bark (mostly), no chew. But he would not—could not—learn “stop moving for just a few minutes, please!” He ran zoomies in the kitchen, zoomies in the halls, zoomies around the dining room table. Even zoomies in the bathroom (where he would dutifully bounce along behind us to make sure nothing was going to spring out of the toilet and kill us all).

After two weeks with our happy-faced whirling dervish, my husband said, “I don’t have the energy anymore to work with him,” and Carter became mine in most every sense of the word: Feeding, vet visits, training classes, and the biggest challenge of all—exercise. Mind you, this was when my own energy and mental reserves were bottoming out.

By the fourth week, I was beginning to question our choice of this puppy—honestly any puppy. We were enrolled in beginning manners classes by then with excellent trainers who regrettably had no specialized experience with Aussies. Carter easily aced all the classes with great gusto and with an enchanting grin that made him a favorite of everyone.

After one of our evening classes, I confided shame-faced to the trainer, “I don’t know if it is wise or kind to keep him.” Her eyebrows went up. I hurriedly added, “It’s not him! Not him at all. It’s us.” I went on, “Carter has so much more to offer than we have to give. Maybe he should be with a younger person who has the energy, passion to let Carter be all he can be.” I went quiet for a moment “Oh, gawd, Susan—‘be all that he can be?”

“Susan, you are doing fine with him! Just look at him. It’s clear he absolutely adores you.” I looked down at my well-mannered little guy who sat properly at full attention and beamed his affection up into my face, his golden eyes never leaving mine, his busy tail swishing the dust on the floor in his own version of sort-of-controlled excitement. He cocked his head, stuck his chin out, and mumbled “Wuf.”

I drove home, conflicted as ever, knowing that Carter would always be  a far better dog than I would ever be as his person. Perhaps if I could just at least tire him out, that might meet many of his needs.

But how could I tire him out? Jogging was no option. And I could never walk far enough or fast enough to even elicit a pant from him. Carter was a four-footed combustion engine, running on high octane. He didn’t walk, he bounced his way through life, grinning that good-dog grin and looking back at me to be certain I was there and that I was having fun–which I wasn’t. He was developing into the most amazing dog I would ever know, while I stumbled along behind him, lost in frustration at trying to give him a bigger life.  It dawned on me rather quickly that his red leash was a prison for us both. I could not go fast enough and he could not go slow enough. I decided I’d need to find a way to train him to be absolutely bomb-proof off-lead so that I could sneak him for runs into some of the small forests around my town. 

“Bomb-proof” meant a perfect, fast recall. It meant not chasing deer, birds or—dare I say the word?—squirrels. It meant pretty much ignoring other dogs or people along the paths. Of course, off lead walks were illegal everywhere but dog parks. And I simply didn’t care. I wanted to meander slowly along forest paths while he could run safe circles around me and do zoomies through the sword ferns and invasive English ivy beds. I didn’t care to deal with a lot of people and other dogs. Mine was more than enough. So, how could I teach him all those things he needed to know, let alone teach them quickly? 

Easy peasy—Carter was the Einstein of dogs. I never needed to teach him any of that. He already was all that.

On our first forest walk on a misty day, I detached Carter’s red leash and spoke deliberately to him, which was always so easy to do. His attention was always right there, eye to eye, face to face. Sometimes, I felt as though I could fall right into those yellow eyes, and he into mine. “Carter,” I began, “I want to give you this gift of free reign, but it comes with certain conditions.” I listed them all while he sat, red butt jiggling with excitement. I gave him the “okay” command with a wave of my hand, and he bolted off like Secretariat out of the gate. I leaned on my walking stick and traipsed slowly after him.

I believed I was giving him a gift, but actually, the gift was from him to me: He circled back to me every few minutes,  and I never needed to ask. A squirrel darted across the path, Carter took two great leaps toward it and stopped in mid-flight when I shouted, “No! Leave it.” Occasional folks came by with dogs on leash, while Carter sat dutifully beside me off-trail until they passed. He greeted people with a quick sniff and a wag, and then moved on. He raced through the greenery, around trees, through puddles and over fallen stumps, pink tongue lolling, red ears flapping. Heavenly days! Finally, he was panting!

Had I stepped into some other dimension? How could all of this have come together so quickly and effortlessly? Carter dazzled me on that first walk and all the walks that were to come. Heading back to the trail head one more miracle awaited us. It was drizzling by then, the birds had quieted, the path was empty now and beginning to turn to muddy. Carter walked alongside me, tired at last. We turned a sharp bend and suddenly found ourselves face to face with a large doe. Her ears swiveled toward us, her dark eyes widened. Carter sat down and cocked his head. His tail swished the leaves on the trail. We three shared the stillness together for a few precious moments. Then, she turned away and moved silently into the mist. I dropped to my knees and hugged my dog. “Oh Carter, you good, good boy. You beautiful boy,” I murmured while he plastered my face with wet kisses.

All my thoughts of rehoming him to a better life went into deep hibernation that day. We would remain a team, and I would push myself to the limits of my own capacity to give him as much of a life as I could offer.

To Be Continued…( I told you this would be a long read.)