Trusty was a Basset, or so they told us. She didn’t look like one because she was a short-eared Basset. She didn’t sound like one because she didn’t get the memo that she was one. She never bayed or howled, or did anything else cute that Bassets are supposed to do. But she did lots of things dogs weren’t supposed to do, like live after eating an entire bag of chocolate chips.
We got Trusty to be a companion for Sally, the harlequin Great Dane we named after my sister, when we were at work and school in Little Rock. It didn’t take long -- maybe 40 minutes -- for Jim and me to begin to wonder if we hadn’t suffered a serious lapse in judgment. Interestingly enough, that was the same amount of time it took to drive home, during which time Trusty barked non-stop.
Sally never sought vengeance, but blame was written in every line of her stoic posture when Trusty got started on her marathon bark sessions. On those days, Sally would sit on the patio outside the sliding glass door, where we could not miss seeing her as we watched TV, her face impassive but ears flat back as she stared at us and Trusty barked at her from two feet away, “Arf, ARF! Arf, ARF! Arf, ARF!”
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Sally meets Trusty
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On Trusty's “off “days, the two worked out an amicable schedule. They terrorized postal workers and meter readers from behind the safety of our fence, begged the next-door-neighbors (who were deaf or obliging, depending on the day) for slices of sandwich bread, and they wrestled. Sally would be snoozing on the patio and the next thing we’d see would be Trusty dragging her stout belly temptingly over Sally’s face, lastly drawing a plump thigh through Sally’s open mouth. “You know you want a bite …” Trusty’s smug look said. Sally could only be heckled for so long, and then the two were off, rolling and snarling and tearing up the postage-stamp size yard, which was really just tree roots and pine needles, and couldn’t look any worse than to begin with.
We never could grow a garden. What pine needles didn’t kill, Trusty dug up. She tore up grass or pulled hay from her bed and nosed it over her food bowl to prevent Sally, who could neither see nor smell very well, from finding her stash. Even though she did this in full view of Sally, Sally never could find the bowl.
When they were indoors they were relegated to the TV room because otherwise Trusty treated the pantry as a 24-hour buffet, and Sally, who had only slightly better manners, invited herself to the table, where she could reach anything she wanted, even while seated on the floor. It wasn’t that she actually tried to eat off the table, but the drool that fell onto the table and puddled by the silverware was a little off-putting.
Usually, all it took was a chair laid sideways in the doorway to keep Sally out, but Trusty didn’t play that game. She’d push the chair aside and trot into the pantry where she would select some dog biscuits, then turn around mouth crammed full, and grin at Sally, who cried like a girl and implored us with her eyes, “Are you going to let her get away with that?!”
After they destroyed their dog beds and a couch, the dogs were only allowed to sleep on whatever I had not thrown into the washing machine at the end of the day. This meant Sally would curl herself up tightly onto a washcloth while Trusty would blissfully spread out over a mound of bath towels, boxer shorts and socks.
Sally died before we moved to Wichita for Jim’s residency, and Trusty spent the next five years on the wrong side of the door. If she was inside, she sat at the screen door barking, until you came and opened it. Then she’d take two steps out, turn around to face you, clear her throat as she assumed the position, gaze soulfully at something over your right shoulder, and even before the door slid shut, begin to bark again.
Our long-suffering new neighbors informed us after our first weekend trip away from home that Trusty barked six hours straight. Personally, I believe she was still barking after that; she just lost her voice.
By the time we moved out of town, Trusty was ten years old, and should have been slowing down. But the change of scene gave her a new lease on life, and it was here that she discovered her true calling: Poultry Assassin.
We moved our first batch of chickens out to the chicken coop once they were too big to slip through the chain-link fence, but too dumb to outwit a fat, near-sighted, elderly basset. Apparently, Trusty herself was a little startled to discover her mercenary bent since she didn’t bother to conceal the first few kills. There was never blood, broken necks, or even many feathers out of place, so I guess the chickens died of heart attacks. Later, after Trusty figured out she wasn’t supposed to kill them, she took to burying the victims. By “burying” I mean she nosed some mulch over their heads, but not their bottoms, in the planter beds, right outside the living room window. They were Buff Orpingtons and Wyandottes, so they didn’t exactly blend in with Scottish Broom, Lambs Ear, and mulch.
I’d glance out as I was walking by in the house, spy the stiff corpse, it's legs sticking at odd angles in the air, and articulate something along the lines of, “ARRRRGGGHHH! I’m going to KILL THAT DOG!” Then I'd bellow her name as I went out the back door, which was her signal to slink off and hide at the barn for the rest of the day.
That wasn't the only trouble she caused. I've done my share of doctoring wild baby rabbits she mauled (none lived), and Jim had to rebury the dead goats so many times he quit putting the shovel away. Trusty never suffered a moment's remorse, no matter how much I berated her and threatened to knock her into kingdom come. And there's some foreshadowing, if I've ever read it.
Only once did she attempt to take on a larger prey, and I credit her failing vision for that. It was a golden fall morning when she scented her half-hidden adversary in the wild wheat that grows on the back 30 acres. Her head went up, and she trembled, trying to make out what it was from the front porch. She decided to investigate, and started out at a brisk clip, squinting, uncharacteristically containing her Ferocious Bark. From the kitchen I watched as she approached the trespasser, maybe 25 feet away now. And then its head came up. It was a young white tail buck, and its size gave me pause, even from where I was. Trusty didn’t falter. She just made a wide arc, never slowing her pace, and trotted nonchalantly back to the front porch, whistling “Dixie” where she settled her rump, glanced out toward the barn, and snapped at flies for the rest of the morning.
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Trusty and Jack
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Around this time, Trusty developed a fat cyst, as old dogs sometimes do, on the back of her neck. I can honestly say it hardly marred the beauty of her features. Then she accidentally tore it open when she was scratching. Jim took her to a vet to see if they could remove it, and in the exam, it was discovered she had heartworms. The vet informed Jim she would not survive winter or the surgery with them. Medicine was prescribed, but the regimen lasted only three days. Jim discontinued the meds since Trusty had never been so miserable as when we fed her those horse pills. Since she wouldn't last the winter, we didn't see any reason to put her through any more misery. Her fate seemed sealed. But as Jim noted, she thrived on neglect. She survived the winter.
So the following summer, Jim did what any self-respecting do-it-yourselfer-and-doctor-on-the-side would do: surgery on the front porch. After numbing Trusty's neck with lidocaine, he produced his box-cutter blade and commenced, while his patient snuggled down, clearly relishing the one-on-one attention. Just then a local real estate agent pulled up. She was convinced Jim should purchase the property that was for sale up front of our place. Jim told her she could talk, but since the anesthetic had been administered, surgery was in session. The real estate agent blanched, but continued as Jim cut open and cleaned out the oozing wound. It required removing about a 3-inch wide football-shaped section of flesh, and Jim pulled the ends of skin together and stitched them up right and tight. He patted Trusty, who hopped up and turned around wagging her tail, which is when he saw that her face had been pulled up and way back in what we still swear is the best, if not the only, face lift a Basset Hound ever had. It took off at least ten years. We didn’t hear from the real estate agent again.
Trusty died that winter, but left a lasting legacy: a guarantee that we could never get a dog from a humane society anywhere. When Jim and the boys tried to adopt another dog through the animal shelter, we had to fill out a questionnaire. The applicants’ answers determined whether or not they were fit to adopt. Our session went something like this:
Animal Shelter Employee (ASE): “I see here your property’s not fenced.”
Jim: “Nope. We live in the country.”
ASE: “We really do recommend you have a fenced enclosure.”
Jim: “I have 70 ACRES.”
ASE: (Slight pause, decided to work with us) “I see you had another dog that’s passed away. How did she die?”
Jim: “She got hit by a car.”
ASE: (Aghast, and smug) “You see why we really want for you to have a fence.”
Jim: “She was hit by my wife. On our property.”
ASE: (Horrified silence.)
Seven-year-old Jack, who was waiting expectantly by Jim’s side: “Did we get the dog, Dad?”
Jim: “Nope.”
It’s true. I hit Trusty. I drove out to feed the donkeys after returning from town one night. I didn’t know how dark it was until I put the truck into reverse to back up to the house, and realized it was too dark to see anything. So I shifted into drive again and pulled forward. Trusty must have run out to meet us, and was unable to get out of the way when I changed direction abruptly in the car. She died instantly, but my guilt lasted for a little longer. I called Jim at work and he couldn’t figure out why I was distraught. “You didn’t even like her.” He said. That was true, too.
The kids handled it well. Betsy was too young to say anything. Jack wanted to know if I was sure, and could they see her. Woody, as practical a kid as we’ve ever reared, asked, “Did she go ‘bump’?”
It’s odd how things grow on you over time, even when there’s no reason for them to. Norma, my boss in the public relations office at college, told me, “I had a cat once that I couldn’t stand. But I missed it when it was gone.” She was counseling me after a rough breakup from my then-boyfriend, but her words rang true, whether in reference to people or animals. There are those (me, for example) who would say Trusty was irritating, ornery, and a darned nuisance. Others (Jim) would point out she was a typical dog. Both views would be correct. But I wouldn't have wished her on anyone else; she and I probably deserved each other. I will say this for her: she made it easy for our other dogs to seem like angels in comparison. And even though it completely misses the real point Norma was trying to make, she was right. You miss them (a little), when they're gone.
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