About
four years ago Miss Daisy wandered or was abandoned into our life. It was a
typical Sunday. I was at the hospital making patient rounds when a call from my
wife.
“I
found two dogs in the circle,” she reported. “I’m texting you their picture.”
“OK,”
I answered, “I’m still making rounds, but should be done home in an about an
hour.”
“I
think someone dropped them off in the neighborhood,” she concluded. “One is a
Basset Hound.”
The
picture arrived. There was a rather frazzled looking tan and white lady, fairly
tall and thin. And there was her companion, a mostly black, fine looking Basset
Hound. The phone rang again.
“I
put the dogs in the driveway and gave them some food,” Laura reported. “Of course,
no collars or tags.”
“Maybe
they’re microchipped?” I wondered, full well knowing that the odds finding their
true owners was around a thousand to one.
Needless
to say, the owners remained a mystery and Freckles, a Weimariner mix, and
Daisy, the Basset Hound were adopted into our family, joining our other four
dogs.
Daisy,
or Daisy Mae, as I call her, paying homage to Lil’ Abner, had glaucoma and was
already blind in her left eye. Freckles had very early heartworms which were
successfully eradicated with antibiotics.
Daisy
Mae started on a regimen of eye drops, the blue bottle twice a day, the beige
one three times and the pink and green ones once at night.
But,
this article isn’t about the life story of Daisy Mae and Freckles. No, it’s
about walking poor Daisy. I wonder if poor is the proper term? Daisy Mae has
since gone on to lose the vision in the right eye which required surgical
enucleation, that is, it was removed.
Now
she is Daisy Mae, the blind Basset hound.
“Poor
Daisy,” one might say.
But
is she poor?
If
you are familiar with the Basset Hound,
(see
“Man’s Best Friend, The Noble Basset Hound http://heardintheor.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html)
then
you know that this breed of dog lives its life on its own terms. They are not
mean or unruly, just independent and stubborn. Their keen sense of smell is
second only to the Bloodhound among dogs, following their nose to the finest
discarded garbage in the neighborhood. They instinctively find the most
comfortable spot in the house to sleep, happily usurping your favorite
overstuffed chair.
Should
you feel the urge to relax in this chair they will give you a look of shock
that you would even consider taking their spot. That is if you are able
to wake them.
Now
consider Miss Daisy Mae. All she has is her amazing nose.
The
chore, or is it joy, of walking her often falls on me.
Call
her name and she rises from her bed, sensing that it is either time for treats
or a walk. She trots through the kitchen, deftly avoiding cabinets, garbage
cans, chairs and other dogs, barking in her deep, loud Basset voice until she
is hooked to the leash and heads to the door. Sometimes in her excitement she
bumps into a couch or table leg, but she manages, always leading me
to the door. Somehow her nose can smell the step off the front stoop as she
jumps down and is on her way.
First
order of business is emptying her bladder. With nose millimeters from the
ground and ears flapping she finds the perfect spot, squats and nature’s call
is answered. Now she is free to follow her nose. Literally.
And
what a nose. Sniffing subtle aromas may be almost as good as, or even better,
than sights. Daisy Mae walks along, gingerly sniffing, always along the edge of
the sidewalk close to the grass. Her nose can “see” where the sidewalk ends as
she only veers off to pursue a new and, I assume, wonderful, interesting,
enticing scent. Once an odor is discovered she will stop and sniff and snuffle until
she’s had her fill of whatever she has unearthed. Then, she will raise her
head, give a snort, cleansing her nostrils of the scent and go on her way.
Methodical,
slow and steady, and relentless she goes her way, oblivious to me, her leash
and any other impediments. And, if her chosen path varies from mine we are left
with a classic battle of wills. Me, pulling the leash, against Daisy’s 65 low
slung, dense pounds.
“There’s
an interesting scent this way,” her face says. “I’m not budging until I
investigate.
Most
of the time she wins.
Then
there are those moments of joy, for Daisy, at least. She will come across a
trail that excites her. A howl escapes from her throat, followed by three loud
barks and another howl. She forgets her blindness, she forgets me, she forgets
everything but this unseen, odiferous trail. Off she goes at a fast trot, nose
to the ground, determined and resolute as she tracks down a particularly
pungent, perhaps dangerous and nefarious quarry. The chase lasts for thirty or
even sixty seconds until she stops and raises her head pretending to look into
the distance before she turns back to me and we begin the trek home.
But,
in that moment she could “see.”
