Pippin

They say that a good dog mimics their owner’s personality. This adage may be true in a lot of people’s minds; in any case, it is a tremendous compliment to a human, but not too much to a dog. I have contended that a human could never fill a dog’s shoes, and that is why we only have two feet, and they have four, and that is why dogs don’t wear shoes. I have never known any human act happy to see you and love you no matter how bad a fit you may be in. Dogs on the other hand, are different. The loyalty and love of a good dog is a constant. Canines are always a comforting and steadfast presence. I should be so lucky and fortunate to mimic my dog Pippin’s personality. Pippin, who also proudly wears the title: 'Pipster the Wonder Dog’, is quite unlike any dog (or human for that matter), that I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Pipster is the Evel Knievel of the dog world. The dog is a true daredevil and has been through every imaginable mishap or tragedy known to the human and canine world, and yet his joie de vivre is inexhaustible. He has been attacked by packs of feral dogs, which required reconstructive surgery (twice), survived a rattlesnake bite to the face, a jump off of a speeding ATV, and a terrible bout with pancreatitis. Pippin has also attacked numerous peacocks, a porcupine, charged bulls, and came out barely ahead of an encounter with a boar javelina. All of his ‘Puppy Adventures’ leave me and the veterinarian shaking our heads in wonderment and disbelief, and cause friends and family, wide and near, to quip and jest: 'Maybe Evel Knievel should be considered The Pipster of the Daredevil world?’ Of course, it’s all fun and games for Pippin, and before you can say: ‘Fudge Dipped Milk Bone’, he is off romping into the Southern New Mexico desert in the foothills of the Mimbres Mountains, chasing a herd of Pronghorn Antelope, or an Angus steer before I barely have a chance to save him from his next pitfall.

Pippin’s latest brush with death happened last spring, with his pal Ruger. Ruger was a Chihuahua mix, whom I loved dearly. Dogs, the creatures of habit they are, roused me out of bed, at what seemed unusually early that April dawn, to go outside and get some business done. I let the dogs out, who were inseparable, and I went back inside for a moment to put on a pot of coffee. This was our normal routine, albeit earlier, and besides, the pups never ventured very far. All of the sudden, I heard the unmistakable high-pitched yelp of a little dog, namely Ruger, in big trouble. I dropped the coffee pot, yelled for my significant other to grab the rifle, and we ran outside. I raced towards the horse paddocks, and so did my thoughts: My dogs are nowhere to be found. They were gone! What in the Hell just happened?!! After what seemed like an eternity, (but was actually only a few minutes), after hopelessly and fruitlessly whistling and yelling for my dogs, I had come to the sickening realization that it was the beginning of coyote denning season. A band of coyotes had lured the dogs out to the paddocks. With the significant other’s expert tracking skills, we were able to find a blood trail, and a few coyote tracks about a quarter mile from the horse paddocks. The further the trail had gotten from the house, the more confused we became: Where did the blood come from? How did it get so far from the house in such a short period of time? Where were the dogs? Coyotes can walk about 13 miles per hour. They can trot in a 20 miles per hour gait, and in a pursuit, coyotes run about 40 miles per hour. In other words, they are fast, so don’t buy into the Looney Tunes cartoons. A little over a half a mile away from the house, off of a small butte, surrounded by arroyos and a grassy plain, we find Pippin. He is headed back to the house, and he is limping and exhausted. I am overjoyed and relieved to see Pipster, but at the same time I am filled with an overwhelming sadness because I do not see my beloved Ruger with him, and I know what that means. I run to Pippin, and I see that his snowy white coat crested with a few patches and flecks of pitch black, is caked with blood and crusted with the dried saliva of the monsters I cannot find. Pippin fought with the coyotes, and he tried to save his best friend’s life. When he was not able do that, he tried to chase the monsters down. I am simply amazed. I wonder aloud: ‘Who has the heart to do that? How incredible, to do such a thing for your friend…’ Pipster looks at me, utterly defeated and dejected, almost ashamed, as if thinking: ‘I am really sorry Mom. I tried everything, and I just could not save Ruger.’ I carry Pippin back to the house wondering how on God’s green earth he ever found the energy and strength to run that far and fast, and to fight off a band of coyotes. I really do not know how old Pippin is, or where he came from… What I do know is: Pippin is a smooth fox terrier with the heart of a champion. He is about 14 years old. He just showed up at a barn in Fort Davis, Texas about 10 years ago, and the dog has simply never ceased to amaze me from the day I met him. There are those days that I must ask myself: ‘Did I rescue Pippin, or did Pippin rescue me?’

Ever since the coyote incident, Pippin will faithfully cajole me at 6:45 a.m., rain or shine, weekend or weekday, into what he likes to call a ‘Man-Patrol’. We stroll around the perimeters of the yard, and walk the wrap-around porch, just him and I. He is a mostly silent sentinel. We philosophize about things in this world, great and small… I tell him my deepest secrets, knowing he will not tell a soul. He will sometimes sniff the air smelling scents that only he can smell, and sometimes he will sing a sad, forlorn song. Perhaps, it is a requiem for his four-legged friend that he still remembers and misses. Occasionally, we will hear the yips of a band of coyotes in the far-off distance, to which, will make his hair stand on end. Closer to the house, we have run into jack rabbits, cotton tails, the occasional rattlesnake or two-hundred, a fox and maybe even a bobcat, but no more coyotes. I don’t fool myself. I know they are there, and will come back: And when they do, I will be ready.

It is 7:15 a.m. on a Saturday. Our ritual of Man-Patrol is done. Pippin’s treats have been hand-fed, and I am back in bed. Pippin is lying next to me, snoring away, peacefully. I drift into a sound sleep by that gentle lullaby provided by my best friend, who has the bravest of hearts. I sleep soundly knowing that everything is right in our world…For, not only do I have a good dog, and the best boy, but I also have a hero I want to emulate.