June 10, 2013

• Fitz: A Love Story

  For some reason, I had it stuck in my head that it was the summer just before I was born (1967). My oldest brother says it was 1965. I found a photograph of Fitz that had the date set on it as August of 1963. I’m just going to tell the story; it doesn’t matter “when”. Love is love, and doesn’t care about such things. Why should I?

   

  Brother Number 3, The Professor, had a birthday coming up. He wanted a dog. He and Mom went to a kennel to pick one out.

   

  I loved to hear my mother tell this story:

   

  “All of the dogs were barking, whining, running back and forth in the kennel… you know, trying to get our attention. ‘Pick me! Pick me!’ All of them but one: The German Shepherd at the back looked like he couldn’t care less if we chose him. Well, German Shepherds were always my favourite, so I was curious.

   

  “The man there said that he didn’t think that the dog would be right for a family. He had been a police dog; they didn’t want to keep him because he was jumping eight-foot fences, and he was not obedient. He snapped at someone. They said he was a bad dog.”

   

  My mother convinced the man to let her take the dog out of his kennel for a few minutes, just to see “how he’d be”. The man put a leash on him and handed it to my mother. The dog came out and sat at my mom’s feet and looked up at her, tail wagging faster. She offered him her hand, keeping The Professor behind her for the time being. The dog sniffed it and then licked it.

   

  “… And he looked up into my eyes, and it was like we both knew we were supposed to be together. He was not a bad dog; he just didn’t want to be a police dog.”

   

  

   

  He was my mother’s best friend. She took Fitz everywhere. Mom never had to use a leash; he always walked at her right side. He never ran off, and he never jumped our fence (which was a lot shorter than the fences he had supposedly jumped when he was a cop).

   

  When my mother visited her parents at the house by the beach, Fitz would run past Grandma, straight to the back of the house, to Grandpa’s room. My mother’s dad was bedridden most of the time then, and it made him happy that this big dog was so glad to see him. Fitz would carefully climb up onto the bed next to Grandpa and snuggle, pretty much the whole visit. Afterward, Mom and Fitz would go down to the beach to play fetch. Usually, they’d stop at Rawley’s on the way home for hot dogs and French fries.

   

  Fitz was a big part of the family. He enjoyed all of the birthday parties, and loved a cookout. He was also a guard dog – always watching out for my brothers, and when I came along, Fitz wouldn’t leave me alone, and would only let certain people near me.

   

  

   

  

   

  “Certain people” did not include my father. No one knows why Fitz disliked Dad (My father loved animals, but they didn’t always return his feelings.). The only time that dog approached my father in a friendly manner was when Dad was grilling in the back yard.

   

  

   

  I was very young when it happened, but I remember the day Fitz had to be put down (He had severe arthritis in his back and was in a lot of pain.). It was the first time I remember seeing my mother cry. I was too young to understand; I just knew that her heart hurt, and it made me hurt, too.

   

  The next day, my father brought a puppy home; I guess he thought it would cheer Mom up. My mother, furious (How could he think that my Fitz could ever be replaced? she used to say.), ordered Dad to take the little dog back. She wouldn’t be able to open her heart to another dog for a very long time.

   

  A couple of years before my mother became ill, she put together photo albums for each of her kids’ birthdays. I went over to visit her (I was living with Ken by then) when she was putting together an album of Fitz’s pictures. The Fitz book was the biggest!

   

  

   

  I laughed. “You have more pictures of that dog than all of us kids put together!”

   

  “Well,” Mom said, “He liked to pose for the camera!” (It’s true; my brothers and I hate cameras. Fitz loved having his picture taken.)

   

  We flipped through the album together. She retold the story of how they met. She became teary-eyed. I touched the back of her hand.

   

  “We don’t have to look through these now, if it makes you sad,” I said.

   

  “No,” she sniffed. “I’m okay. I just miss him. He was such a good dog.”

   

  In August of 2008, my mother was in the hospital. I had been bringing her books and reading to her, but Mom was having trouble concentrating on the words. One day, I found the Fitz photo album and brought it to her. Maybe pictures would be better than words.

   

  It was so good to see her smile. That last week, her Dementia let her have her memories back. As soon as she saw the book in my hands, she reached out for it. “Fitz!”

   

  I pulled up a chair and positioned her tray table so she could see the pictures without a problem (By then, Mom weighed less than ninety pounds and was very weak.). We flipped through the book slowly, her fingertips touching just about every photograph. Once again, she told me about the man at the kennel all those years ago, the man who cautioned her against adopting “the bad dog.”

   

  “He was a good dog,” she said. “Best dog I ever knew.”

   

  She looked like she was going to cry, but then a smile came to my mother’s face.

   

  “I’m going to see him soon.”

   

  She gave my hand a little squeeze. “I’ve missed him so much! It’s going to feel so good to play with him again.”

   

  I thought I would cry, but she saved me: “Geez, I hope he and your father have made up, or there’s going to be a problem!”

   

  We laughed.

   

  “Your poor father,” she said.

   

  I looked up at her, not understanding.

   

  She shrugged. “Well, I’d have to pick Fitz…”

   

  We laughed some more.

   

  Sometimes, when I am sad and missing Mom, I picture her with her beloved Fitz, playing together at the beach, eating Rawley’s dogs-n-fries and maybe some watermelon for dessert. I imagine her with Grandpa, taking long walks, Fitz between them.

   

  Then I think of Mom with Fitz and my father, and I burst out laughing.

   

  For Dad’s sake, I hope he and Fitz have settled their differences…

   

   

   

   

   

  • 6:48 pm
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