This article first appeared in the October 2002 issue of the Bernerblatt:

Remembering "Our Zoey"

Zoey let us know she’d had just about enough, although her tail still wagged. On the morning of September 20, we helped her find that deep sleep that had eluded her for so long. A little later that afternoon she woke up in a dark green meadow of grass—that perfect length where it just about needs to be mowed—under an immense shade tree by the perfect pond. She rolled over onto her back, twisting back and forth in that lovely fresh grass and discovered that annoying little bump in the middle of her back wasn’t there…She stretched her head out to get the top of her nose in on this wonderful experience and discovered that big bump was gone, too! She can see! She flopped over on her side and thumped her tail once. She breathed in deeply, let it out in a huge sigh and then remembered that she hadn’t been able to do that for a long time. Standing up, she shook thoroughly and had a look around... What was it mom said? Go find Tycho? That dog was always wandering off somewhere she shouldn’t… And mom said she’d be along soon… Wow, the smells here are glorious!

And because it’s a perfect world there with perfect time, we WILL be along in time for supper and Zoey will come running to meet us, saying “look who I found! Tycho was being bad as usual, but I found her! What’s my grandmother making us for supper?”

Zoey reached the end of her obedience career having achieved the following impressive collection of “letters”:

U-CDX Galileo’s Blue Moon Zoey, UD, CGC, Can. CDX

That represents seven individual obedience titles across three kennel clubs and two countries, plus her Canine Good Citizen certificate. She was my first obedience dog. But the high points of her career that stand out in my memory have nothing to do with class wins or title completions. Often they were days when our score was low or we didn’t even qualify.

There was the day I learned, “love your dog and be delighted with your teamwork even when the judge didn’t appear to like it nearly as much.” March 16, 1997. I had been working on Zoey’s tendency to find heeling boring and getting her to break into a gallop on the fast section. She had thought about this and decided that what I liked about the fast was the high-stepping, leaping part and had begun to apply this not only to the fast, but the normal pace, too. This one time she took that extra flash into the ring with us. Our score wasn’t anything special, but I didn’t care one whit because the experience of showing Zoey with such spirit and flash was completely worth it.

And there was the day in June of 1999 when I retired her. She was showing at our Regional Specialty at Ladies in Utility B, having finally earned a bumper Utility leg at the Shrewsbury trial on March 14. It had been a hard year since she had finished her UD on February 22, 1998 — many attempts at qualifying in Open B and/or Utility B were not successful. We eventually stopped and spent some time getting to be friends again. At Shrewsbury, we showed only in Utility and qualified! The score wasn’t anything special, but the thrill of accomplishment, of what that qualification represented, was all we needed. Two and a half months later at Ladies, Zoey worked in Utility in the hot sun like it was January. She trotted back from every exercise, galloped on the fast heeling, did her drop signal before the spectators fainted (a classic Zoey-ism), and was just happy to be in the ring. When we arrived at the last exercise, directed jumping, however, she said, “I can’t, Mom. It’ll hurt.” And I believed her—her elbows had had all they could take. She got all the “tootsie” we had brought and I was still high as a kite about our teamwork that day.

From that moment on, Zoey began to really develop the “presence” that we’re now so sorely missing. When I stopped making demands of her, and just let her be herself, then she really began to flourish as a personality. Our obedience work certainly developed our communication skills and Zoey taught me so much, but in retirement, she blossomed.

In February, 2000, John’s mother fell at our house and broke her leg in four places, including a spectacular spiral fracture. Zoey’s new career began. She herded Mary as she crawled to the telephone and in the weeks of recuperation that followed, it was Zoey’s job, she decided, to make sure Mary rested, even if that required a full-body press to keep her down. Mary was clearly defenseless, so all guests were given a loud warning from atop Mary’s bed, even if they were known friends.

In May, 2000, we drove to Wisconsin for the National Specialty. Mary had just achieved walking on crutches with a removable cast and was as excited as the rest of us about attending our second National. The crutches were still new so it was only in Wisconsin that we discovered just how much of a “service dog” Zoey considered herself. As we walked the miles between various venues, Zoey would insist that Mary hold her leash. John or I, completely able-bodied, might be alongside, but Zoey would only be walked by Mary. Other specialty attendees would walk by and offer their assistance—“do you need me to take the dog for you?”—and we had to laugh, but Zoey walked in perfect staggered baby steps to keep pace with Mary.

Even when Mary was able to walk freely again, Zoey would quietly place herself between Mary and anyone with whom she stopped to chat. Out in the world she was not aggressive about it, but she was always aware of her responsibilities. At home, we learned to manage her “Big R” tendencies after it became apparent that people delivering mail or packages were in some danger. And on longer walks at Ravenswood, Zoey’s position was at Mary’s heels to be sure she didn’t wander off and get lost.

The intense care had always gone both ways. When Zoey was a new puppy, she had mange mites that caused her to itch frantically. Mary was the one with infinite patience for a frustrated baby Berner, rubbing ice cubes on her belly to sooth the itch. And in these last five months, Mary’s life has centered around Zoey’s pill and meal schedule—time for noon meds, time to make more stew, time to call the vet for more advice, and “I have to get home in time to give Zoey her supper.” Mary maintained a very elaborate and thorough medical chart for her.

These months of Zoey’s life, as she battled nasal chondrosarcoma and we learned to treasure each day as it came, have highlighted to me how her life was a long stream of lessons. God clearly looked down and saw all the things we needed to learn and sent us Zoey to teach them to us. How she came to us and even her name seemed completely independent of our efforts—she was simply Zoey and that was all there was to it.

She was the “don’t hold me, don’t pet me, don’t confine me, just leave me alone” puppy. We had that classic mother/daughter relationship—she was too much like me for us to get along well sometimes. For years, she growled ferociously if we woke her up to go to bed—gee, I wonder where she got THAT from? It wouldn’t be ME who can be very grouchy if I fall asleep on the couch and someone tries to wake me up so I can go to bed properly.
But over time she held up a mirror to show me myself and suggest that I could be a much better person than what I saw there. With our son on the way, I can only offer thanks to God who gave us this precious teacher—“Gillis” will benefit in ways far beyond my comprehension from the years we had with Zoey.

We would be absorbed in some computer project and Zoey would appear at our elbows. “Do you want a hug?” And she would put her front half in our laps for a “big hug.” Lesson: It’s ALWAYS time for a hug.

There would be leftover apple muffins on the counter. Zoey learned to vocalize “apple muffins” for either a muffin or her designated three evening chew flips. Lessons: Share your bounty, ask politely and never skip dessert!

Once she learned to retrieve, it was a Zoey-ism that something must always be brought home from every walk. If we went to a store, I had to make sure there was a bag suitable for Zoey to carry, but she’d even carry a half-gallon of milk by the handle. If there was nothing, we would swap ends of the flexi—she’d hold the handle and walk ME home. Lesson: Every walk should have purpose and you should insist on helping, at least half way.

Meanwhile, it was John’s side of the bed she slept on and John with whom she played “creepy, creepy, little mouse” the most vigorously. John would start walking his fingers up her back from her tail towards her head saying, “Creeeeepy… creeeeeepy… little… mouse…” She would begin to growl quietly and the end of her tail would shiver in the tiniest wag imaginable. If she hadn’t wound up enough by this point, John would start over again at her tail with “Creeeeepy… creeeeeepy… little… mouse…” Now she was growling strongly for sure and her eyes might be getting a little scary. “RIGHT UP TO ZOEY’S HOUSE!!!” would be the punch line and her tail would wag wildly and she would twist herself in knots to get closer for better patting and maybe a good nip in retribution. Who wrote the rules for this game? Where did it come from? It just happened…

Every morning when John came downstairs, dressed for work and ready to leave, Zoey would stop whatever she was doing, whether it was her own breakfast or sharing Mary’s, for his daily inspection. John would carefully deflect her a little so he could escape the house with still-clean clothes, but he never left the house without this proper good-bye.

Sneeze-on-command was another Zoey-ism that someone reminded me of. With her nose in severe dysfunction, we had discouraged her attempts to sneeze as a way to trick-for-treat, but it was an awesome trick. It could look like a nod if she was subtle enough—people would think I was asking her yes/no questions to which she was responding with eager little nods of her head. She was very proud of herself for learning, “can you sneeze?” and would offer this often.

Someone else reminded me that she was the “little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead.” It really seems to take a collective of people to contain all the memories there are of this dog. Once reminded, I could think of dozens of times that Zoey performed scent discrimination by finding the right article, picking it up, and then standing out there in the middle of the ring, spinning the article with her tongue as it rested behind her lower canine teeth. “So, what’ll you give me if I bring it BACK? Huh?”

Two big changes in myself created by time with Zoey were self-confidence in the face of adversity and how to always stop and see things from someone else’s point of view.

Time after time we entered the obedience ring, with our peers looking on, and Zoey would have her own agenda. All that experience built up a bit of scar tissue on my nerves, and I learned that the best thing I could do was do MY part and let the dog do hers. Somehow, this has led me to a place where I can stand up, as necessary, and read or present in front of a group of friends. It’s still scary, but it’s no longer paralyzing.

And Zoey taught me a WHOLE lot about being fair, truthful, patient and understanding in your dealings with all creatures. We reached a point where “good dog” more likely meant “about time, bonehead” and it was no surprise that she didn’t believe me. The clicker helped to cut across this wound and put the trust back in our relationship. I began to spend more time thinking about how to communicate and motivate—how to explain specifically what behavior I was looking for and how to make it worth Zoey’s while to do it.

She was very happy when she understood what the game was. She enjoyed directed jumping YEARS into retirement, and would insist on her own five minutes in our training area after Ptolli had had her work-out: “I can be an obedience dog, too! I was the FIRST obedience Berner around here! Let me show you! Let’s see that dumbbell!”

This has been a small attempt to capture the essence of this amazing creature who molded us into better people. In the years to come we will have done well to be half as good as she suggested we might be. It’ll be a big job, but since Zoey believed in our capability, we can only try.