By Solana Kline
This morning, I wake up all dogpile-tangled-up with Betty and Mickey. The leaves are turning now with the late September, 4 a.m. chill, two-dog nights. This morning is somber, yet peaceful. We snuggle extra long, savoring every second.
Our packmate in Oregon, Mr. Frank-dog passed on to that great over-stuffed bench seat in the sky yesterday, just a couple weeks shy of his 15th birthday. He was Betty’s best friend, he was the reason me and the Betty Sausage (my doggie soulmate) found each other in the first place. And he was, of course, much much more than that.
The first time I saw Mr. Frank, he was tearing around the couch corner in full-beast mode, seventy pounds of stacked and lean Pitty/Dobie whipping past me with Ryan’s 6’5” giraffe-esque figure right on his tail—two dork peas-in-a-pod rough-housing on a Saturday afternoon. If ever two souls were meant to share this earth space-time together, it was them.
Frank puppy was only three months old when he met Ry in Shelton, Washington at Adopt-A-Pet (adoptapet-wa.org), a no-kill shelter. From then on it was all plays, fireplace nappies, snackies, sleeping-ins, beasting on bicycles and dirt-bikes and anything else they could get their hands/paws on to explore.
I met the duo two years later. I did my darndest to resist their charms, but Frank’s sleek seal pup fur, smashy snuggles, and epic sense of humor and play were just too much for me. With Ryan gone half of the year racing bikes, me and Mr. Frankers quickly became best buds. He came with me everywhere, and he loved that. He was a pack boy and had high anxiety if he was without the pack.
When I met them, Frank was renowned for putting his Pit jaws to good use on the furniture if he got left at home alone. But once he learned he was secure in his pack, he stopped eating furniture and moved onto more delicious tasks.
This boy had the delicate prowess of a tight-rope walker when extricating food from the counter-top. We could never sort out precisely how he managed to carry the fresh sourdough loaf and the ceramic butter dish off the counter and into our bed. We would come home and find a warm spot by our pillows where the frank-ball had enjoyed his delicious feast, flaky bread crumbs, and the empty butter dish. So, one night we set up a spy camera in the kitchen before we left.
We weren’t even out of the driveway when he leapt nimbly up onto the counter, nosed open the cabinet door, pulled down the loaf, and carried it away to the bed. Lofting up onto the counter again, he nudged the lid off of the butter dish, delicately scooped the bottom of the dish into his mouth, and off he went to the bed to enjoy the bread with the butter.
How in the world do you scold a pup for bad behavior when it is so damned hilarious and so damned ingenious?! Fresh bread and butter, just like Ryan, the beige breakfast of champions.
Mr. Frank was just like that—always running a gag, ready to play, ready to beast full-blast down a trail with his tongue lolling along a foot behind him. He was always game for all of the weird shenanigans I got us into. He learned to balance his dense bod in an extra-long milk crate on the back of my cruiser-bike. He loved to wriggle and slide on the snow on his back down hills, in true seal-pup fashion. He had no qualms walking up my Jetta windshield to get into the roof-top tent to go camping adventure with me. And with his love of water, man, this boy, he loved open-water swimming with me when I was training for triathlons (in his life-jacket of course!). This boy would even high five me after going #2 at the same time camping—the tandem duke I always called it, such a sense of humor!
But Mr. Frank’s all-time two favorite spices of life were a good bench-seat and a brand-new yam rope!
Ry always kept a rig with a bench seat because Mr. Frank loved to lay across those long bench seats, resting his head on your lap, lazily getting up for the sniffers should the occasion arise. And the yam ropes, Frankers had them big Pitty chompers and was always itching for a chew. When he picked the yam rope off the pet store display for the first time, he was in pure heaven! That thick hemp rope with slices of dried yam stacked on it. He would gnaw a yam wad, then spring up and grab the rope, whip it up into the air, chucking it as far as he could, the yam chunks rattling against each other, much to his delight. He would toss it and chew it and chuck it again! Finally, after demolishing all of the yam hunks, he would take a fart nap like a good boy!
But soon, Frank would meet Miss Betty-Dog. We were living on a Christmas tree farm and Betty was being fostered at the neighbor’s property. She was maybe one year old, fresh off the Sacramento streets, having a litter, and incarceration in the high-kill “animal control” system. Frank and Betty met out amongst the blackberry bushes, ferns, and Christmas trees between the properties, it was love at first sight!
They played nonstop, literally 24-7 they were wrestling and nose-to-tail around the properties, inseparable. The were joined at the hip, literally, Frank would lay on the bench seat and Betty would lay directly parallel on top of him! It was clear she was already part of the pack so I adopted that beautiful girl and am forever grateful for Mr. Frank for bringing her to me!
The years passed and our humanoid life changes brought the dog-pack into different directions across the West, Betts with me and Frankers with Ry. But we always made sure to send pictures and videos of the pups back and forth, and to visit for pack adventures anytime we could. And even up until his last day, Mr. Franks was out on a trail adventure with his best bud Ryan, gathering all the sniffers and pees, soaking up all the trots and old-man beasts, fully present, as doggoes are prone to be. He had his yam rope beast sessions up until the end, always playful, always taking in the sunshine nappies, always snuggling under the covers, always ready for an adventure!
And now this incredible boy is on the biggest adventure, following that yam rope he chucked way too high, up into the stars where the squishiest bench seats and endless cool-green-grass play sessions await. I love you always buddy, thank you for your shine here, the world was the best place with you in it. Enjoy your freedom from the meat sack now, Mr. Frank, you earned it!
As I lay here with Ms. Betty Sausage and Mr. Stinky Minkey, I take the long-way out of bed, revel in these sun-kissed dogpile snuggles, grateful for all of it, the farts and bad breath and Frito paws, and the epic unconditional love that is a dog-pack.
Until next time, happy tails and happy trails!
