Aaron was in between housing arrangements, spending a few nights with his brother and family in Seascape, CA.  It was a Saturday morning in May. The digital clock read 3:41am. With the entire household obviously fast asleep, he reached for the MacBook Pro and began whittling away the hours. 

The last time I can remember browsing Craigslist was when I was looking to buy a used upright piano. 2002 I think it was. I have friends who comb the site almost daily which I’ve never quite understood. Now in fairness to Craig, I don’t have a bad thing to say about his product other than it’s never been my thing. At any rate, there I was for the second time in as many decades, rummaging.

How a picture of a cattle dog needing a new home made its way to my 12 inch screen still baffles me. Why it made its way to the screen I’ve come to more easily interpret as one of those elementary twists of fate. Without even the slightest conscious hankering of putting myself on another dog journey, somehow I got lured into this moment. This 3:45am moment. The picture will forever be etched in my brain. The ad read:

2 year old Red Queensland Heeler. Great dog for a family or being a companion for a female preferably. Quinn is smart, sweet, affectionate and active. I’m asking a $100 rehoming fee just to know she goes to the best home possible.. Give me a call and we can chat further. I would prefer she go where she would be the only dog. She is a gem.

After reading through the ad a handful of times, my attention had been officially captured. The essence was so palpable that I couldn’t let it go. I have always had this secret admiration for the Queensland Heeler, Blue and Red. Something about The Cattle Dog has always seemed to scratch my fancy. That fixing aside, I also remember thinking that the ad itself read a bit wonky.  

I don’t know exactly what it was about the ad that felt so lopsided. For one, the line about wanting to charge money to ensure her dog went to the best home seemed like an oddball request. I mean if I ever had to give up a pet, which I wouldn’t, but let’s say I did, I too would want my pet to go to the best possible home, who wouldn’t? And if it could be safeguarded that my pet was going to the best home possible, which of course it couldn’t, but let’s say it could, then I would be graciously willing to actually pay money for the transfer of ownership. I certainly wouldn’t be asking for money.

Is rehoming even a word? 

When my brother walked downstairs, and after hitting the play button on the coffee machine, I told him that I spotted a dog on Craigslist that I wanted him to check out as well.   Like me, he thought the ad was curiously written, wondering why the seller would think her dog would make a better companion for a female. Neither of us could put our finger behind that bit of uncanny bias.

Nevertheless, I decided to reply to the ad to say that I was open to the idea. I didn’t reveal all that much.  I told her that I was going through one of life’s rough spells, and that bringing a dog back into my life felt like a suitable remedy. I tacked on that I was experienced in the dog game, ensuring that I could provide a wonderful home for their Red Heeler.

Seeing that I didn’t have a home, allow me to explain my rationale behind the trivial fabrication. As far as I was concerned, regarding avant-garde dog ownership tactics, home is where the heart is, not necessarily where the leather couch and microwave oven are. I knew with 100% certainty that I’d be able to ‘house’ this dog as adeptly as any 3 bed/2 bath ever could.

We went back and forth for a bit electronically by way of the Craigslist email platform. It progressed into a cell phone conversation. We spoke for a few short minutes before deciding to meet up later that morning.

They were coming from Bonny Doon and I was coming from Seascape so we agreed to meet up at New Leaf Community Market on the westside of Santa Cruz at 11am. I arrived at 10am because I had nothing better to do with my time. Looking back at that day, I can honestly say I was in rather bizarre shape.  

It had been seven whole years since there had been a dog in my fold. During that dog-free period, I afforded, among other things, the luxury and the ability to exchange the cold and rainy Central California winters for the warmer tropical climate of Southern Mexico.  More specifically, Puerto Escondido. Puerto (pronounced Porto) for short.

Seven straight winters I pulled off this stunt, typically mid October through most of February. Eight months or so slaving away in the rat race, four months or so recharging the battery. It worked for me. As much as I would always look forward to getting back to Porto each and every winter, I also looked forward to the return, and the bounty of work that thankfully ensued.

Again, this new way of life was made possible once I no longer had the responsibility of caring for a pet, which in my case had been two dogs. From 1995-2008 I very rarely wandered away from my pack. Even a weekend getaway felt like too long of time to be away from my animals. What can I say? I was consistently reminded why this new lifestyle of mine was an inconceivable blueprint to achieve with any kind of dog in tow.

Without getting into the nitty gritty just yet, something real unpleasant happened in PE between me and a close friend that hurt me pretty badly. Severely enough that I was convinced I would never return. In and around the very same time period, something pretty darned shitty happened in the US between me and another close friend that also cut pretty deep. So much so, that apparently I was unwittingly coaxed into feeling that I needed a dog to help see me through it.

At 10:45am, two young women with two dogs in the back of their Toyota RAV4 pulled up right next to my big white van. I couldn’t believe it was really happening. As meaningful as the moment felt, on the surface it oozed spontaneity.

Both women got out of the Rav4 and we said our hellos, shook hands, blah blah. One of the ladies lifted the tailgate, and while holding the other dog back, Quinn jumped down. I got low on both knees and offered up my hand. Yep, that was how it all began.

Immediately I noticed the golf ball sized knot around her left knee area. One of the young woman said that Quinn had injured her growth plate when she was a puppy, but that it didn’t seem to bother her. She said it was scar tissue that had grown around a plastic band that never held in place as a result of a mismanaged surgery. She sensed my concern and assured me that it had been checked numerous times and the general consensus was that it didn’t aggravate or hinder her, and that an additional surgery to remove it wasn’t necessary.

I then noticed that the inside part of her rear right leg wasn’t growing hair. There was an explanation for that as well. Apparently Quinn had been caught in a barbed wire fence about 18 months prior, and although it was awfully traumatic for her, that too was seemingly a non-factor.

The half inch long scar under her left eye likely came with an explanation too but I didn’t bring it up because I didn’t want to know the answer. The same held true for not wanting to know why Quinn was being given up for adoption in the first place. Fact is, my mind was racing. It became impossible to keep myself in the moment. Looking back, it was all very surreal.

One of the girls said they were going to go inside New Leaf for a Kombucha and that maybe I should see if I could bond with Quinn while they were away. I could sense that Quinn didn’t like them leaving. She dealt with the separation by standing very still, keeping both eyes glued in the same direction that the girls had gone.

When they officially disappeared, that’s when I scooted closer to this canine, trying to distract her fix, casually attempting to make some eye contact with her. I kept my hand on her underbelly, and nonchalantly moved my head closer to her head. I went to pet behind her ears, and she wasn’t having it. She nipped me on the wrist which totally caught me off guard. I knew right then and there that she was my kind of dog.

I sat there alone with Quinn for 10 minutes, making her feel as comfortable as the circumstances would allow. She didn’t whine. She didn’t bark. She stood like a statue. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled, but she handled it like an understanding dog should. As the girls were exiting New Leaf, I removed the leash and let her loose. She beelined directly to them, which to me was another very positive confirmation. 

When we all regathered, some nervous and hollow chit chat ensued. One of them muttered that Quinn’s heir-apparent had to promise not to change her name because it fit her character and behavior to perfection. I had never even known that Quinn could be considered a girl’s name, but to preserve the moment I went along with what I considered to be another outlandish undertone.  

I asked them how she(they) wanted to go about this potential exchange. The more talkative girl said she was trusting that maybe I would agree to a one week trial with Quinn to feel it out and test the waters.

“When would you like to start this trial?”(gulp) I asked.

“What about right now,” she said.

It was early May in 2015, and I now had a dog on my hands. A real-life dog. Holy Cow! The seven year itch was being scratched.  She sat in the passenger seat of my 2002 Ford E-250. A passenger seat that in short time would essentially come to represent almost everything to her. 

I drove straight back to my brother’s home in Seascape. When I pulled up to the house, the whole family was outside in the driveway. Everybody’s eyes lit up. From out of the blue, I had just come back with a new dog.

“Hey everyone, say hello to Quinn!“

My cracking point happened as Summer 2015 began to wind down.  Subsisting out of my 2002 Ford E-250 was definitely not all that it was actually never cracked up to be.  Dog loved it, make no mistake about that.  The price was certainly right, that was for sure.  Outside of that, not so splendid.  

No point diving too deep into why I lost my appetite to prevail as a normal human being, and you know the one I’m referring to.  The one who prefers a real roof over their head, a toilet, maybe a shower, some electricity, that sort of thing.  If I was forced to give my best reason why it was that I made a choice to go this route, I’d have to say that it just felt like an existence that I was capable of pulling off, and, something I should feel thankful for being able to pull off.  Hardly a reason, I’m aware.

It was rough, I’m not going to lie.  I’m not sure when exactly this caving in process began to take over, it just did.  It likely had something to do with winter looming.  It likely had more to do with me feeling shitty about myself for being in my late 40’s living in a van with a dog.  Yeah, I was over it.

That being said, those were uncommonly defined times for dog and me.  We logged like 100 nights & days together in the work van before I finally threw in the towel.  We worked out of this van.  We gave all our bids from this van.  We slept in this van.  We ate our food and drank our water out of this van. Wherever I went, she went.  Whatever I did, she did.  It was all for one and one for all.  

I bumped into a dear old friend at Staff of Life.  Yes, another one of the many natural food stores in Santa Cruz.  It was Labor Day Sunday around lunch time.  She had her dog Zeus tied up outside the market.  I spotted 12 y/o Zeus as I was walking in.  I had known him since he was just a puppy.  He is, and has always been one of my favorites.  He’s a dog’s dog.  A cat’s dog too.  

Lore and I go way, way back.  We met at Chico State where we both attended college.  Of all the friends I had during the college days, Lore was the only one that had a dog.  That would have been Ashley, a well-mannered Chesapeake Bay Retriever.  In addition to our friendship in college, Lore also became my ex-wife’s maid of honor at our wedding some 25 years prior.  The years were flying by.

It had been some time since we had last seen one another.  A quick chat inside a health food store wasn’t going to cut it as we had some real catching up to do.  Since her house was only two blocks away, next thing I knew and as things would have them, I was relaxing in her lovely backyard.  Yup, sipping a cold Sierra Nevada, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.  It all felt nice.  And like I figured, Lore was easily keen on Quinn.

While in the backyard, I noticed there was an older model, rundown looking RV that appeared to be doing nothing more than taking up space.  I don’t recall the model and series.  I do know it was a Ford.  E-350 rings a bell.  Probably late 80’s model.  There are probably several listed on Craigslist, hehe.  It was the small kind of RV that has a slightly larger than normal sized front cab area with overhead sleeping space.  

For reasons only obvious to me at the time, this little RV seemed to trigger my interest.  You know where I am going with this.  One comment led to another question, and before too long I was inside the thing.  

It felt fabulously spacious compared to the E-250.  I remember feeling and thinking that this could be a real nice place to call home for the time being.  Winter time in Santa Cruz was just around the corner and it had been a long time since I have had to endure the nagging Central California cold.  Fully aware that the work van setup wasn’t going to cut the winter cake, I spoke up.

“Have you ever thought about maybe renting this thing out?” I asked.

“No, not really.  Why are you interested?” she asked.

“Quite possibly yes, I answered.  Maybe we can work out an arrangement.  Why don’t you think of a fair rent number, and I will do the same.  Tomorrow we can compare numbers.”

The next morning, I texted her and asked if I could come over for a cup of coffee and another discussion.  It was a beautiful morning in Santa Cruz. I stopped by Shopper’s Corner on my way over and picked up a couple of marrow bones to occupy both Quinn and Zeus.  Lore and I spent a couple hours together talking about the arrangement.  We easily agreed on a price and I immediately started making the space mine.  Rather ours. 

It was a definitely a step up for both Quinn and myself.  To her it must have felt like the most luxurious dog house ever.  I was quick to recognize the opulence as well.  In this town alone, the line of people would extend a mile long for the opportunity to call this RV home.  For this reason alone, I was grateful.

Right out the gate, RV life began proving to be abundantly conducive for the both of us. I engineered power through a heavy duty extension chord which primarily meant that we could have light when it got dark, and heat when it got cold. I parlayed those essentials up against some additional luxuries, most notably a mini-fridge, a coffee maker, and a toaster. In addition, Lore presented both Quinn and I with the “Mi Casa es su Casa” formula. I genuinely felt like we had hit the jackpot.

Having this RV in my arsenal provided that metaphorical doggie-door, that opening to leave Quinn behind when the moment called for it. At first I wasn’t sure how she was going to handle this new kind of separation, yet in the end it didn’t phase her a smidge.

Like most canine intellects, Quinn usually sensed when potential separation was brewing. It was more than just sounds and movements that tipped her off, assigning her to ready mode. It was almost like she could read my mind, doing all she could to eliminate a perceived vanishing act on my part. And most of the time she got it right. However, some of the time she didn’t.

When she was right, she was right. Yet when she was wrong, it was always my 12-word ‘off command’ which evolved during our 90-day work van experiment. It worked with such omnipotence that even to this day, when detachment looms, I use those same exact lines, spoken the same exact way. It started like this: “No dog, you ain’t goin.”

That line right there can actually stand alone, as will forever be evident by the dejected complexion that overtakes her. Head lowers, ears shrink, tail droops, the full nine. Therefore, and it’s nothing more than good old fashioned reassurance, I’ve always followed that line up with, “I’m coming back, I won’t be long.”

I would pull up somewhere and park the van, and without fail, before I could even turn off the van, she was patiently waiting by the slider. And she’d be right nine times out of ten. But in those rare off cases, it again began with, “No Dog, you ain’t goin”.

And without fail, time and time again, before I could even finish the initial part of this make believe command, she’d have already jumped back up into the passengers seat. And she’d be so elegantly about-faced that it just felt right to button it all up with, “I’m coming back, I won’t be long.”

I can’t say for sure, because, well because it’s impossible to know every single thing there is to know about man’s best friend. And it’s not like she can ever talk to me about how she is feeling. But obviously, or maybe not so obviously, a huge portion of the communication between human and animal is unqualified interpretation. Spend enough time with anything, and take my word for it, anything becomes possible. My best guess is that she has made perfect sense of my word(s), knowing for certain that I always come back and that I’m never too long.

But these were different times. She now had this Recreational Vehicle to freely access in and out, plus a safe and sunny backyard at her disposal. Elliot the Cat was never too far away. King Zeus was usually around. There was even a three-pack of hens to soften up the pecking order. Although Quinn was, is, and will surely forever be a bit of a Lone Wolf, she does have a spot for well behaved, genteel company. And that’s what her new set of friends were.

I could really tell that Quinn was becoming exceedingly comfortable with her new living environ. Instinctively, staying behind was always her second choice, yet I began taking notice how eager and excited she always seemed to be to get back to the RV after a long day out in the so called real world. That enthusiasm most likely had a lot to do with her new spot that got referred to as The Carousel. Ahh, The Carousel.

By Thanksgiving I finally had some down time to do a little investigative interior refiguring. I began by tidying up the the cab portion of the RV where the driver & passenger seats are, the front console, the steering wheel, etc.. An ample amount of overall space that essentially was being wasted.

While tidying, I unwittingly gouged a few knuckles on a thick piece of metal under the passenger side seat. That piece of metal turned out to be a lever. That lever enabled the passenger seat to swivel counterclockwise and face inward. Whoa! I figured if the passenger seat swiveled in, so would the driver’s seat. I was right. Now both seats were facing towards each other, and I had blood on both hands to prove it.

First thing I did was fill the gap between the two seats until it became flush with both the seats. I then modified an old piece of 8-inch bed foam and placed it over the entire domain.  Next, and by utilizing both seat backs, the steering wheel, and the console as backing, I created a circular, padded border around the entire precinct. The final step of course was loading up this corral with all her favorite blankets, sleeping bags, pillows, etc. 

All said and done, my medium sized Red Heeler had like twenty, newly created square feet of pure dog bed extravagance.  Easily big enough for a full sized Saint Bernard. It was its own guest bedroom!

To get into The Carousel, all she had to do was make the measly two foot jump up through the carved out entryway, and bingo, her own private Idaho. Her new spot put her at a height where she could oversee everything that was happening inside the RV. And thanks to both the driver and passenger windows, plus the gigantic front windshield, her new spot also put her in position to see everything that was happening outside the RV as well.

She absolutely coveted her new spot, and I loved that she loved it. Not only did it remove her out from underneath my feet all the time, preventing me from always having to watch my step, but it also gave her the appearance of being the captain of her own ship. The pilot of her own plane.

Since the word Throne had already been used up to describe the passenger’s seat of the work van, it was Carousel that stuck. The Carousel would go on to serve her for the next 36 months of her life.

A wishlist of key ingredients triumphantly came together making 2016 and 2017 banner years for us.  For all intents and purposes, Quinn was in her true prime which beautifully coincided with me being in mine. Now obviously I was well beyond my plausible heyday, but I was earning the most elaborate and lucrative jobs of my quasi career which I knew counted for something. Plus I was making it look easy. 

And speaking to prime. Despite being classified as a 2 year old in the May 2015 Craigslist ad, I ultimately found out that Quinn was born in July of 2011.  Thus when I took over her reigns, she wasn’t a 2 year old after all, rather a couple months shy of becoming a 4 year old.  So as I embarked on my 15th and 16th year of doing what I do to earn a living, I did so with a dialed-in cattle dog that was executing her sidekick role to perfection.

Of the key ingredients, it was definitely our work that had to be considered the most key. According to my precious black book, Quinn and I six-legged 71, count em, 71 different work projects between January 2016 and October 2017.  Some jobs were small, others medium-sized, and a handful were quite large.  A small job meant anywhere from two hours to two days on a job site.  The medium sized, bread & butter jobs lasted about a week.  And every year without fail, there seemed to be at least one project that lasted a month maybe more.  

Entering the 2016 work season was when I first popularized Quinn on my business website. As it turned out, a picture of her seemed to set the right kind of tone in addition to speaking volumes about me and my company. By mid 2016 there were probably 25 photos of her on the website. One photo in particular, fast asleep at the foot of a 32 foot extension ladder as though she were spotting someone, that one drew a lot of attention. I played to the narrative that Quinn was an indispensable cog in this custom wheel of ours.

With the abundance of work during this time, boy was I glad to have the RV.  It too was key. The glue that held all our moving parts together.  Overall, I would say that the best dimension about the RV era, and there were many, but the best measure was its juxtaposition to our everyday. 

Our coveted spot was off the Morrissey Street exit. From a convenience standpoint, I had four taquerias, a bagel cafe, a health food store, a yoga studio, a legendary donut shop, a thrift store, a brew pub, a Whole Foods, and so much more. And speaking of convenience, when the streets in our parish were just how we needed them to be, Quinn and I had a perfectly flat asphalt playground that we made our own.

If it were in the morning, it was 5am.  If it were the evening, more like 10pm.  On more than 100 occasions it was both morning and evening. On less than 25 occasions it was neither. I’m talking about man and dog taking over streets. Calm, calculated and cautious. I used a simple town bike, and for the most part, she stayed tight on my left, in-line with the rear bicycle wheel. 

The midtown Santa Cruz block is a far cry from a New York City block.  More like half a City block.  Varying our course was easy as pie. Most of the time we’d just figure eight our way around without any rhyme or reason. More often than not, we’d zig-zag our way to Rod & Ros gas station and mini mart because they always kept a fancy supply of flavored dog snacks for Quinn, and red licorice for me. 

1.7 miles away was my club. Had to have the club, and not because of its gym. In fact, I never even stepped one foot into the beautiful gym portion of this club. And club isn’t even the accurate definition. Spa and fitness center was more like it. A spa and fitness center that was part of a luxury hotel. Quinn and I could be found at The Chaminade Hotel & Spa twice per day, seven days per week. We usually arrived at 6am and stayed for about 90 minutes. We’d return around 6pm for more of the same.

They offered complimentary coffee, and it was good coffee. They kept the bathroom and shower area immaculately clean which I liked. Remember, the general facilities were as important to me as anything else at the club because the zero/zero had neither. There was a nice swimming pool that I used on occasion, a private outdoor hot tub that sure came in handy, and the standard sauna and steam to boot.

Without the club, I would have had to rethink RV life and the method by which I was existing. With the club, we were seriously on top of the world. Of the 180 minutes worth of time that we seemed to spend everyday within the confines of The Chaminade Hotel and Spa, 120 of those minutes were used pampering myself, while the other 60 were spent with Quinn. You see The Chaminade also had a well kept grassy area where she and I logged a ton of together time doing our thing. A small group of members dubbed it Quinn’s Lawn.

These were also the yoga years.  Lots and lots of yogurt.  The asana onslaught actually began in late 2015.  It didn’t take long for this humbling practice to begin unveiling its positive, soothing affect on me.  Because the studio was just around the corner from the RV, and because there were numerous classes throughout the day, it was convenient enough to find my way to the mat.  Flow was most important.  And finding flow was never a pushover because I was typically very worn out with the physicality of my work.  It was helpful that I could pick a time that fit into that workday, drop Quinn off at the RV, and ride my bicycle to the studio.  Being the boss comes with an assortment of perks.

Yoga became so gratifying that I invested a chunk of time and money into a 200 hour Yoga Teacher Training course that began in October 2016.  A small group of 15 of us met every other weekend for twelve weekends.  Even with the RV in the nice backyard, I was never happy about leaving Quinn for ten hours at a time, especially back to back days. So from the second weekend gathering moving forward, and with permission of course, Dog came with. Namaste.  

Sean and Lisa are friends of mine that live in Sierra Vista, Arizona.  I don’t get a chance to see them too often these days, so when their text said that they were going to be in Santa Cruz at the end of the summer, I looked forward to it with great anticipation.  And no, not just because I was finally going to be given a chance to show off Dingo.  But yes, they had heard tidbits about Quinn, and of course had seen a picture or three.  I knew they were both going to fall hard for Wonder Woman.  Lisa more than Sean.  Sean too though.

Sean was probably the very first person I met when I landed in Santa Cruz back in January, 1998.  He was twenty years my senior, and still is.  I would definitely consider him a mentor, despite our political differences.  We worked together as salespeople, shlepping cable TV advertising to local businesses.  He had all the good accounts.  

At the time, I was 30.  I was arriving to Santa Cruz with a broken down Honda Civic and two Australian Shepherds that I kept in the divorce.  Sean and his wife Lisa watched my animals on those rare occasions when I needed to leave town.  Murray and Madison were my Australian Shepherds.  Very fine animals by anyone’s standards.  At the time, Sean and Lisa had Joe and Shasta, domesticated working dogs in their own right.  Anyway, it was an ideal match, and they became the “go to” surrogates.

Fast forward almost 20 years. 

I put a modified tether around a rope before taking Quinn through the beautiful hotel lobby, then through the bar and restaurant itself, and then outside to the patio where dogs are more than welcome to be dogs.  In fact, there is even a dog menu.  

Lately I had been catching a little heat from upper management with respect to putting our stamp on this dog friendly hotel property with a wee bit too much defiance.  I totally understood.  I had become a dog snob.  Again.  But the good kind of dog snob.  The dog snob that has the dog to back it up.  It went like this: 

“Hey Aaron we all know that Quinn isn’t going to cause any lawsuits, but a rule is a rule.  It just takes one of the guests to see your dog off leash, and then they decide to also have their dog off leash.  Their dog happens to be a vicious Corgi or Chihuahua and bites someone on premises, and next thing you know, we have a lawsuit on our hands.” 

I get it.  And the GM who broke the news to me gets it also.  He made sure I knew that he knew that I had myself quite the Red Heeler, but that a rule was a rule.  We shook hands and that was that.

Quinn and I parked ourselves under an umbrella on the outdoor patio.  Sean and Lisa were soon to arrive with Reggie the Deerhound.  We were then joined by our mutual friend Russ who came with his rescue lap dog.  200 feet above sea level, overlooking the entire Monterey Bay, it was happy hour at Linwoods and life was grand.

When it became time for goodbyes, that’s when Lisa looked me dead in the eye and very quietly said, “If you ever need her looked after, please don’t hesitate to ask us.  She is such a sweetheart and we’d love to have her.”

I think my reply was something dumb like “Aw thanks Lisa, but you’ll have to get in line.“  Snobbery 101.  I really wish I had that line back actually.  Perhaps it was the beer spewing, I don’t know.  It’s just something that came out.  It was a dry(gone awry) way of saying that everybody loves Quinn, and I will always have plenty of takers.  Plus in the back of my mind of course I am also thinking about the 1000 mile distance between where they live and where I live.

From Day 1, I have known that Quinn has all the premiere canine qualities that maybe even a non dog lover would find too scrumptious to pass up if ever given the opportunity to watch her in my absence.  That is surely where the “Get In Line” comment stemmed from.  So Lisa…if your listening…rather reading this…I didn’t mean anything by it, it was clearly my ego speaking. 

My canine snobbery didn’t phase her at all because I remember after what I thought was our Final Goodbye, and just before what turned out to be the final, Final Goodbye, she whispered it again, “Hey, I’m serious.  If you ever need a place to leave Quinn, call us.”

Foreshadowing at its very finest. 

At some point during the dog days of our 2017 summer, Quinn and I started in on a new pastime, call it an act. Not sure how it emerged, likely on a job site somewhere, maybe on the lawn at The Chaminade, again I don’t know.  In a million dog years, I never would have thought that this would be our sort of thing, yet by golly it was.  It involved a small squeaky football, and some teamwork.  And with it, came heaps of glory and satisfaction. 

I went with a small football because I’ve always thrown a baseball with my left hand and a football with my right.  So baseball-sized footballs have always presented me with that noteworthy proposition. I went with the squeaky model because it wasn’t the annoying kind of squeak and it just had a scrumptious feel to it.    

We always did our shopping at Pet Pals on Soquel Ave.  It’s a giant, independently owned warehouse style pet store. I never made a point to know if I was breaking the rules by bringing a dog in un-leashed, we just did it like we owned the joint. There was likely some sign some where saying some thing about dogs being welcome but needing to be leashed, but that’s just a guess.

Nobody who worked there was ever going to say anything to me about Quinn not being on a leash.  They all knew us, and loved seeing Quinn. We were in there once a week minimum, and cattle dogs just seem to get that special pass.  I stopped trying to put my finger on why they are issued this pass, they just are.  I actually know why, yet the reasons are unsubstantiated.

Pet stores can be strange places.  Not as strange as dog parks, but strange nonetheless. Pet stores are slightly more tolerable because the majority of humans inside a pet store aren’t with their dog like they would be in a dog park. And when the human doesn’t have their dog with them, they are much less likely to strike up that superficial, one-sided conversation regarding how great or how smart their dog is. I mean imagine if every time you went food shopping, several different people came up to you and commented on what in your shopping cart, and why it’s not good for unless perhaps you were to prepare it the way they do.

For reasons both unsubstantiated and not, Quinn seemed to steal most of that unwanted attention, despite me doing my darnedest to deflect it.  I always wore a hoodie and dark sunglasses when I entered Pet Pals. No eye contact, no flashy movements. Thankfully Quinn also paid little to no attention to anything either. She just followed my lead.   Admittedly, the no-frills, incognito behavior could actually work against us too. I guess to some, our anti-social posturing was too contagious to let go, I don’t know.  

Every once in a while a more interesting canine would be inside stealing all the favor.  Purrrfect. Like a St Bernard or a monster Newfie, something out of the ordinary.  And then of course there is always the puppy or the kitten that will always and forever be attention magnets too. But outside of that, the spotlight always turned to the Red Heeler without the collar or the leash. 

If I was in a good mood, I’d sometimes give in and play along with the attention that came our way.  Bad mood, forget it.  And here’s why:  In one form or another, the more time I spent chit chatting with another dog owner that I did not know, the greater the chances were that they would find a way to comment on the lump on Quinn’s back left leg.  “None of your dumb business” was the tempting reply. “Aw, thanks for your fake concern” also seemed to hover near the tip of my tongue. Dog shaming is alive and well in pet stores and it really gets under my skin. Fact is, it would have been a heck of a lot easier to just leave Quinn in the van but she loved going inside Pet Pals more than really anything else in the whole wide world, so I had no choice.

Football.  I remember initially buying one of these aforementioned cheap footballs, liked the composition so much that we went back a few days later and bought two more.  So I had three of these toy widgets.  All neon-colored.  One was yellow.  One blue.  One orange.  All the same brand.  All slightly ribbed.  Very soft, and forgiving.  I guess they would have been thin rubber.  Maybe they were a certain kind of plastic.  A tennis ball it was not.

Oh yes, the tennis ball.  For a good 18 months there, it was always the tennis ball.  Like it is for most dogs everywhere.  For us it was mainly because she(we) knew exactly where to find them free of charge. And finding them was actually a game too.  I would even go so far as telling her to go and fetch us a new Penn 4, and if she came out with an older Wilson 6 I would send her back in.  Back into the Azaleas.  Azaleas that lined two of the four tennis courts at The Chaminade Hotel & Spa.  

Apparently, balls would get hit over the fence and into a thick patch of Azalea bushes that nobody dared to enter.  We would pass this row of Azaleas twice every morning on our 2k jog.  Unprompted and many times without me even seeing her disappear, Quinn would make her way into that Azalea scrum and without fail she would come out with a tennis ball in her mouth.  I would then look at her as though I were amazed and of course tell her what a good girl she was.  I’d put the ball in my pocket and we would carry on.  At one point I must have had 20—30 tennis balls in my van.  I could have had hundreds, but I only held onto the fresh ones.  

Quinn had become very good with the tennis ball.  Not great, very good.  Great is reserved for the labs and retrievers out there, those bigger mouthed dogs that can practically hide three tennis balls at once in their soft mouths.  Quinn had a much smaller, stiffer, fox shaped nose and mouth area.  Regardless, she was treated to plenty of ball time, but fetching a ball was never part of our true everyday.  

And for this reason…among a few others…I never would have guessed that we’d become the team that would have uncovered this new act of ours.  Yet, for a couple three four good months there, it was on like Donkey Kong.  Here is exactly how it played out: 

For one, the game always began long before it even began.  I would pique her interest with a theatric or two.  Before I would even show her the toy I would give it a couple squeaks to make it seem like we were now about to enter the greatest dog dimension possible.  When I would finally show her the thing, I always gave it one final squeak before putting it in her mouth.  With the level of created excitement, coupled with its relatively small size, I definitely had to watch my fingers.  

Boy how she loved this game.  And that is why she would take the ball and go to where she thought the game was going to be played.  Making it squeak the whole time.  One of the elements that I loved most about this game of ours was that it could be played in a confined area.  We didn’t need a lot.  Shade and grass were best, but not necessary.  100 square feet was more than enough.

Quinn would stand a few yards away, laser focused on the football.  I would role it off my upward facing open palm in a perfect spiral, maybe 5-6 feet in the air, and within her near proximity.  Not right to her, rather near her.  She would jump for it in such a way that way more often than not she’d land on all four legs at the same time.  Much like how a cat would land.  Much like some of them trick frisbee dogs might land.  That was the goal anyway.  This wasn’t designed as a high impact game.  Rather a choreographed game of finesse and style that we could perform at different times throughout the day.  Usually we’d play for about 3-5 minutes.  It wouldn’t take long for her heart rate to be up and her tongue to be out. 

A late season call came my way from a nice lady who’s deck I had refinished three years prior. She was hoping that I could love it up again before winter. It was a project that I really enjoyed last time for all my favorite reasons. It was a really well built deck that cleaned up very well providing excellent before and afters for the portfolio. I remembered her for regularly offering up food and drink which is always nice.(wink). She also lived very close by the RV, along the frontage road towards the bottom portion of Highway 17 near the fishhook.  And yes, she was a total dog person.

Last time I was there, I utilized a patch of public grass next door to her house to eat lunch, return calls, take breaks, that sort of thing.  There was a wooden picnic table under a monstrous oak tree. When the call came in, my mind went to the lunch spot, and I immediately connected it with being an ideal arena for Quinn and I to perform our act. I gladly took the work and we had a very enjoyable week doing it.

November 10th was payday. The check was already in hand. Everything had already been loaded back into the van. Our 2017 work season had a fork stuck in it, thank heavens. Before driving away I decided to treat Quinn to one more round of fun and game.

And that’s when it happened.

I flipped the football over her left shoulder like I had now probably done 1000x, and she did her 180 degree rodeo flip like she had done 1000x prior. All of a sudden, out of the thinnest of air, without any warning, both of Quinn’s eyes began glowing. 

It was not normal.  In fact it was the furthest thing from normal.  There seemed to be a shift or a tilt that had taken place in both lenses.I remember lightly pressing on her eyelids trying to make it go away. Nothing seemed to help. She appeared disoriented.

I was totally freaking out and didn’t know what to do or where to turn. That’s about all I can remember. Everything else about that late Friday afternoon in early November became a total blur.

I had been looking forward to this vet visit the same way one might look forward to a doctor’s visit knowing there stood a real chance that something was perilously abnormal.  This wasn’t an emergency though it sure did feel like one.  How I managed to wait out the 64 hours ahead of the appointment is anybody’s guess. 

Nothing had changed with Quinn’s condition over the weekend.  A weekend that had me absolutely paralyzed with fear and sadness.  I spent a good portion of this awful weekend on the internet trying to put my own spin on what was going on with my animal.   To me, something very sudden and very serious happened to Quinn’s eyes, yet it wasn’t as though they had been scratched by a cat or poked by a stick.  

It didn’t appear as though she were in pain although it’s always hard to tell with dogs.  She really didn’t even seem any more uncomfortable, but again I couldn’t be sure.  One thing was for sure, and this was the part that had me so baffled, her vision was now clearly compromised.  Man it was hard to digest.  I mean prior to Friday afternoon, I hadn’t noticed one thing wrong with her eyes, or her eyesight for that matter.  This was not going to end well and I knew it.

I parked my van in the parking lot.  I probably arrived an hour early or so.  I was so nervous to hear what I thought I was going to hear that arriving early and feeling sorry for myself seemed like my only option.  It was 2pm on a cold and drizzly Central California afternoon.

When it became time, I got out of the van, walked around the back, opened the side door, and like she had done 5,000x prior, out jumped Quinn.  I made a collar and leash out of a piece of rope, and we made our way to the Veterinary Hospital.  This was our first time using this particular veterinarian.    

18 months ago, Quinn and I piggybacked a mobile vet visit that was taking place at a client’s home in Felton CA where we happened to be working at the time.  At that particular time, Quinn was still relatively new to me and hadn’t yet been checked out by a veterinarian under my tutelage.  The clients were happy to set it up for me, and the mobile vet was happy to oblige.  

As far as I was concerned, Quinn was in perfect health.  In fact, I barely even paid attention as the checkup was underway   I suppose I was wanting a current opinion regarding the knot on her right back leg, but outside of that I was really just doing what a responsible dog owner should do.  She received a few vaccine shots, and that was that.

The mobile vet thought the bump was fine, recommending that I keep a close eye on it to make sure it remained the same size.  He thought Quinn was a little heavy, which to me, based on our level of exercise and activity, was neither here nor there.  All in all he thought Quinn was a great little dog and nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention.  

This however was an entirely different kind of vet visit altogether, and I was numbed by it.  I filled out the paperwork and the nice lady at the front asked if I would get Quinn to stand on the scale.  44.7 pounds and fit as a fiddle.  I sat there miserable for about 10 minutes until it was our turn to go into the small room.  We then sat in the small room for another 5 minutes before the doctor finally entered the room. 

When she opened the door, Quinn naturally turned to look in that direction.  I didn’t have to say one single word before the vet commented on what appeared to her to be my dog’s inability to see.  I mean just right out the gate she made a very real observation with the utmost conviction, and she was spot on.  I forget what she said, or how she even said it.

She began telling me what she thought might be going on with Quinn’s eyes, but that there wasn’t anything further that their office was able to offer, and that the next step would be to see a specialist.  Very quickly this became way too much to handle. I started feeling faint.  I told the doctor that I was running extremely low on fuel, extremely high on emotion, and that if she could please go get me a glass of water, that it would be greatly appreciated.  She left the room. 

I was a complete wreck.  Really truly.  My entire life was actually flashing in front of me as if I were beginning to die.  That was how much of an impact this particular moment in time was having on me.  Without the slightest fever, I was sweating bullets on a cold and rainy day.

She came back with a tall glass of water.  She saw that I was on the floor with Quinn sobbing my heart out.  She suggested I put my head between my legs and breathe deep. My desire to carry on had reached a near breaking point.  I was on the verge of total collapse.  It was November 11, 2017.   The last thing I remember hearing the vet say was, “I’m really sorry.”

I sat in my van crying like a baby.   I didn’t know if I would be able to take it.  This felt like the harshest possible dog scenario imaginable, and it was just shoved into my world in the blink of an eye.  It just felt like too much.  From the van I called Lore, but it went to voicemail and I hung up.  I called my buddy Biscuit, but that too went to a machine.

I drove back to the RV and scrolled through my contacts looking for somebody to talk to.  Somebody that would understand.  Somebody that might really know what it really meant. 

“Hi Aaron, Jim died Sunday!”

“Oh Barb, I’m so sorry to hear that, are you OK?”

“Yeah I’m fine.  Aaron, it’s so nice hearing from you.  I think about you and Quinn all the time, what’s up?”

“Hey Barbara, it’s about Quinn.  I took her to the vet today and the vet said that Quinn will probably be blind in a very short period of time, and it all came on very quickly, and I’m freaking the fuck out.”

Barbara Lawrence is a client of mine, and I suppose you can say one of my truest fans.  About seven years ago now, long before Quinn came into my life, I spent a good portion of one whole summer working at her residence.  Fifteen weeks to be exact.  Since that time, I have been back just about every year for the annual maintenance.  Consequently, Barbara, along with the other adjoining owners of their six townhouse complex have gotten to know Quinn very well.

“Aaron, I’m going to hang up from you right now and call my good friend Ann Grazek, she’s..”

“Holy Crap Barbara that’s the same name that the vet lady wrote down on a piece of paper and told me to go see from this point forward,” I said.

“She’s the finest Pet Opthamologist in all the land, and she happens to have an office in this area.  I am going to call her office right now.  They may be gone for the day but I will leave a message with the answering service if that’s the case.  They will call me back first thing in the morning.  I don’t know whether or not she is in her Aptos or Monterey office tomorrow, but either way, she is likely to make some time to squeeze you guys in.  I even have a credit balance with them that you are welcome to use.  I’ve spent a small fortune with Ann over the years treating Emma.”

“Oh man Barbara that would be amazing.  I am not doing too well right now.  I had absolutely no idea this was going on.  It’s all so sudden and it all seems so final as well.”

“Aaron I will call you early tomorrow and let you know what time your appointment will be.  I can’t promise anything, but have some faith.”

We hung up.  I fell apart.

I placed a call to Joan.  Joan is another client of mine.  Quinn and I have logged many work hours over at Joan and Gary’s in the Prospect Heights area of Santa Cruz.  They are both retired.  For many years, Joan has volunteered her time at our local SPCA, so she knows a thing or two about the canine

From the very first day I showed up and knocked on their door, she knew right away that we were her kind of team.  On that particular day, as luck had it, I was able to park the van with the passenger side facing her front door with the window rolled down 3/4 the  way.  It’s one of my oldest maneuvers.  The prospective client opens the door and basically gets introduced to both of us at practically the same time.

Quinn perches her front two pads on the armrest, stick her entire head and scruff out the window, and quietly cast a spell on the interaction between her Master and her Master’s prospective client.  Double Mojo.  It works every time.   Like you’re either on the team, or you’re not.  Joan picked up on our tactics right away, and from that point forward, I sometimes wondered if she employed me just to get her Quinn fix.

So I called Joan and cut right to the chase and told her that Quinn was losing her eye sight very rapidly and that it was all news to me, and that I was scared, and gutted, and terribly sad about it.  She asked me if it was suggested that I see a specialist, and I told her that I was going to see a doctor named Ann Gratzek tomorrow at 5pm.

“Oh Aaron, that’s music to my ears, and should be to yours too.  She is the best of the best.  She will have all your answers, and the fact that she was put in your corner is a very lucky break.  Aaron, Quinnie has the temperament to handle the blindness whenever it comes, and I wouldn’t be saying that about any dog.  I am sure she is going to really surprise you on this one.  I couldn’t think of any other human being more equipped to handle the situation, which makes Quinn a very lucky canine.  Please give me a call tomorrow after you have more information from Dr. Gratzek, and give Quinn a big squeeze for me.”

“Oh and Aaron…one more thing…As Gary’s grandfather used to say…I’m afraid that everything is going to be just fine.”

The cell phone rang at 1:25pm and sure enough it was Barb Lawrence.  In her hurried voice she told me that Dr. Grazek’s office just called a second time, asking if I would be able to bring Quinn in at 2pm instead of 5pm.  Like stink on shit, I jumped on that opportunity.  It seemed liked every hour counted, even though it didn’t.

I drove to a back street in Aptos that I didn’t know existed.  It was a street that seemed part residential and part commercial.  I saw the sign that read Opthalmology for Animals and knew I was in the right place.  I parked the van, walked around to the side door, opened it, and Quinn jumped down like she had done 5,007x before.

The small office had a very peaceful ambience.  I noticed a white parrot in a cage in the corner being very quiet.  As I was walking in, there was a quiet, one eyed dog being led out by a quiet owner himself.  Quinn and I followed suit, neither of us making a peep. I arrived ten minutes early, and as we were still walking towards the front desk, the young lady behind the desk quietly said, “This must be Quinn.”

I filled out a little bit of paperwork and then was led to a small room where a very capable and confident vet tech began doing all sorts of eye tests that I was warned might be a bit uncomfortable for Dog.  Well whether it was uncomfortable or not, Animal accepted the prodding and poking without so much a shudder.  I was then told that Dr. Grazek would be in shortly.

The door opened shortly thereafter but it wasn’t Dr. Grazek, rather Barbara Lawrence.  Holy Crap!  The same Barbara Lawrence who got Quinn and I this critical appointment with a doctor who’s schedule I was told is booked many months in advance.  The same Barbara Lawrence who’s husband had passed away but four days prior, and had now driven roughly 10 miles in the first big rainstorm of the winter just to be there with me and Quinn.  She had her blind dog Emma in her arms.

“Aaron if you don’t want me to be here that’s fine too, I was just needing to get out of the house for a few hours and figured you were going to need someone to help process the information you are going to receive at this appointment, and I’ve been down this road with this office for the past ten years or so, and I’m just trying to be helpful because I love you and Quinn so much,” she said.

When Doctor walked in, I knew right away this was no quote unquote ordinary vet.  I’m not sure she even is a vet.  She’s more of an eye doctor that only serves animals. She had this unmatched animal aura to her that instantly put me at ease.  She and Barbara hugged.  She extended her arm to me and introduced herself as Ann.

She already had mini treats in her hand.  I forget which kind.  The treats were already being sussed out by Quinn.  Before long, she was allowing Quinn to nibble on small treats out of her palm without ever taking her eyes off me and without ever putting any kind of halt to the small talk she was still making with Barbara.  Boggling.

After the introductions, Ann opened one of her metal drawers and pulled out this helmet shaped device with what appeared to be multiple extensions with various forms of light, laser, and magnification.  Actually, first she put on these extra magnified collapse-able eyeglasses, then she put on the helmet gizmo.  She grabbed a staple gun shaped widget that was connected to a cable that was connected to a computer readout monitor.

She looked and looked and looked. She sprayed and sprayed and sprayed.  The process was short, maybe three minutes.  Quinn handled the onslaught as stoically as one would think is possible.  The onlooking tech even commented what a very good girl she was being.

Doctor Ann Grazek put down her widget, took off the contraption, removed her magnified eyeglasses, and said this:

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I was gutted.  Remaining calm wasn’t the problem, remaining upright was.  My past was flashing all around me, and at the same time I was so frightened by the journey ahead.  I fought hard to get present.  I focused on just my breath.  Asking questions didn’t seem to be in the air, so I refrained.  It’s hard to remember exactly what was running through my mind at that time.

Barbara said her goodbyes as I sat in the front lobby area waiting for the expensive eye drops to be prepared.  I still hadn’t had one thing to eat all day.  I noticed there was a small granite dish on the front desk in the shape of two hands making an offering. Inside that dish, so far as I was able to tell, appeared to be Bite Size Baby Ruth’s.

With the 60 calorie sugar boost, I was essentially able to pay my bill, grab the expensive eye drops, and say thank you and goodbye.  It was still pouring rain when we walked out of the office.  I opened up the side door and she made the motions of wanting to jump up, but it didn’t seem to be in her picture.  Because her eyes had been under such attack, she had to gauge the jump like never before.  I was getting more wobbly by the second.  Just as I was about ready to help her up is when she jumped up on her own.

Although the numbers pertaining to the pressure in Quinn’s eyes had been reduced by half, and although, despite the gloom and doom prognosis, I knew that I had received the most high level care and expertise in this particular field, I needed another second to completely crack again.

I wasn’t going to let Quinn witness this particular breakdown, so I sat on the rear bumper and let it loose.  This was a new kind of breakdown.  A breakdown that had nothing to do with a loss.  A breakdown that had nothing to do with a breakup.  A heavy-duty breakdown nonetheless.