Yogi at his 9th birthday party
When I think about what Yogi means to me, the first thing that pops into my head is a lyric from the musical “My Fair Lady,” as gender altered by female vocalists:
“I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely, I could always be that way again and yet, I’ve grown accustomed to his looks, accustomed to his voice, accustomed to his face.”
In that play, the “accustomed” feeling passes as Henry Higgins' love for Eliza Doolittle so, in that sense, it does reflect how I feel toward our family’s pet Labrador retriever.
It’s a strong bond, as the song’s full lyric (only slightly canine altered) can express:
“I've grown accustomed to his face,
He almost makes the day begin,
I've grown accustomed to the bark he lets out night and noon.
His smiles, his frowns,
His ups his downs
Are second nature to me know
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent and content before we met,
Surely I could always be that way again and yet
I've grown accustomed to his looks,
Accustomed to his voice,
Accustomed to his face.
I've grown accustomed to his face,
He almost makes the day begin.
I've gotten used to hear him whine good morning everyday.
His joys, his woes, his highs, his lows
Are second nature to me know
Like breathing out, breathing in
I'm very grateful he's a canine and so easy to forget
Rather like a habit one can always break and yet
I've grown accustomed to the trace of something in the air
Accustomed to his face.
Good ole Yogi. He is “such a good boy,” as I tell him several times daily. The 85-pound chocolate Lab has been a friendly and valuable companion to one and all in our household.
Now, as he heads toward 11 years old (mid-70s in dog years), I find myself tearing up at the realization that he is in the twilight of his years. Labradors, as a breed, rarely live past 13.
In fact, while researching this piece, I learned that Yogi’s father, Sargent Brown of Sauquoit, passed away last April at just that age. His owner at Decoy Kennels said this well-papered pure-bred pooch — he had an AKC Labrador lineage going back many generations — was a tough one to part with.
I did not learn the status of Yogi’s mom (or Dam, as canine mothers are called), Raisin Kane of Cassville. If still alive, she would have turned 15 last August. So, chances are she, too, has left us.
Raisin Kane was one of the incredible Freedom Guide Dogs. As its website states, the non-profit organization, based in Upstate New York, “breeds, raises, trains and places guide dogs with the blind and visually impaired through a distinctive program called Hometown TrainingTM. Freedom Guide Dogs' services are available to people in the eastern United States at no cost.”
Sargent Brown, being the kennel stud that he was, led a life that was the envy off all males. His owner could not even guess at the number of puppies who have called him sire. Yogi, on the other hand, has never mated, although he is not a virgin. He had relations many years ago with a neighbor’s roaming female dog within our electric-fenced back yard. I caught them in the act. Not a pretty sight.
As was the case for our first pet dog Bowser, a yellow Lab, we never had Yogi “fixed,” the euphemism for castration. We just could not go through with such a brutal act and felt, in our rural setting, our dogs were not likely to contribute to the problem of canine overpopulation.
However, unfortunately, Bowser is alleged to be the father of a neighboring dog’s litter. He did escape our property several times (that was before he had an electric fence) and, on more than one of those trips, did head in the direction of that female dog, so there’s that. But no paternity test was ever done (LOL).
Bowser passed at age 13. While he was in his final hours, my wife and I were able to get our youngest son from Clinton Elementary School and head to Clinton Veterinary Hospital to say our final goodbyes. I called my oldest son at his boarding school to tell him the news. We all cried. As all dog owners know, it was like losing a member of the family.
We then waited a few months before bringing a new dog into our lives. That allowed us to properly pay respect to the special place Bowser had in our lives — so he was not treated as just one of a revolving door of pet dogs in our household — and take advantage of the travel freedoms that come with non-pet homes.
When the time was right, we went back to Bowser’s old Sauquoit kennel, which had since changed hands, to seek another Labrador. We love the look and easy-going disposition of this incredible breed. (As I was crying on the phone with my oldest son, Mickey, over Bower’s death, all I could blurt out was “He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.” Neither he nor Yogi have ever been angry — never a growl — or upset. Bowser, in fact, was only heard to bark once, when startled from sleep by a UPS truck coming up our driveway. Yogi, though, is quite the barker.)
To set our new dog apart from our Bowser memories, we asked for a brown-haired one.
When “our” litter was born at Decoy Kennels, there wasn’t a chocolate Lab among all the little waggers. It was a minor setback. Another litter was due with Raisin Kane in Cassville, and when those April arrivals included some chocolate pups, a swap was made for the yellow labs in the Sauquoit litter.
You see, Freedom Guide Dogs prefers yellow Labs. They feel they are easier to train. Chocolate Labs are known to be, shall we say, a little more fun loving.
This difference — based on hair color — may sound weird to non-Lab owners but we can attest to its accuracy. Bowser was a sharp as a tack. Got everything after one lesson. Yogi? Let’s just say he’s “such a good boy.” Always up for a good time. Love him.
Now, Raisin Kane was a black Lab, and I’m not sure where they fall in the spectrum of serious vs. party animals. For the record, that ole studmuffin Sargent Brown was chocolate.
Our youngest son, Sam, was given the task of picking out our new puppy from among three (as I recall) male chocolate ones now spending time with their dad at Decoy. Sam had prepared a calendar that counted down the days to “Puppy Weekend, Yeah” in May 2004 (see photo below).
It was a tough choice for him (puppies are all wonderfully cute) but the puppy selected to be our Yogi was the one most drawn to playing with us humans (especially Sam) as opposed to frolicking with each other.
From the start, Yogi has had the rascal in his eyes. Loves to play.
Among his quirks is a speed run — as we chase in vain — after an incredible rapid-spin move, in place, as a taking-off point. Never seen anything like it, in any dog. He still tries it in his old age but a few months ago came up lame after landing awkwardly on his left hind leg. It took him a few days, a trip to the vets and some meds to recover.
His other strengths include: a powerful jaw grip in games of tug; an athletic flying leap to catch any thrown object; adaptability to changes in his schedule; fearlessness during thunderstorms, blizzards or other weather events; love of people.
On that last point, he is truly a “love the one your with” type. For those who don’t know, that’s the title of a famous Stephen Stills song, with the refrain: “When you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”
As much as we’d all like to feel that we are special people in Yogi’s life — he eagerly awaits us in the morning; he loves to curl up on my son’s lap or my wife’s lap at night, licking their faces all over; he jumps up and down with incredible, whining joy when I tell him it’s time for a walk — he’s just plain friendly to any and all who pay him attention.
That’s great for his beloved caretaker Lynn, who gives him invaluable owner-worthy attention whenever our travels take us away from home for extended periods. And that’s great for his doctor, for whom Yogi goes ballistic at every visit.
It’s not so great for all our visitors, however. Yogi is a jumper and a humper, despite all our efforts to break him of those two bad habits. (Truth told, we did not do a lot of strict training with Bowser or Yogi. I’m not big into disciplining and domination of dogs. I hate to yell and punish. I treat pet dogs as friends, which means, as animials, they remain a little wild.) The jumping has lessened in his old age but the humping remains a nasty nuisance, although it is limited to a select few whose scents bring out his horny side (or underside, as the case may be).
Yogi’s “love the one you’re with” attitude was in full display recently when he had his first solo night away from home. He had come down with a fever and lethargy. An examination by his vet, Dr. Renee Walsh, showed he had hepatitis. That meant antibiotics and procedures that required an overnighter at Clinton Veterinary Hospital.
As my wife and I braced for a tough goodbye at the Vet’s office, Yogi happily pranced off, tail wagging, with the doctor’s assistant. When I picked him up the next day, he showed no signs of recognition — no big welcome look, no rushing into my waiting arms, no frenzied jumping or tail movement He had a real good night, the doctor said.
It was a sobering development. Good for him. Actually, great for him. He can adapt to any circumstance. But his owners? Well, maybe we were taken down a peg.
Yogi’s quick recovery from this rare ailment was at least partially credited to his good physical shape. Now, that’s my little bonding thing (along with regular baths during warm months) with him.
We have been walking four times a week (when weather permits) from April through October since he was a few years old. We average about two miles per walk, or eight miles a week.
Our primary route is the farmer’s road behind our house. When out there in the early years, I took him off his leash. It warmed my heart to see him run free, sniffing and exploring and going at his own, jaunty pace. He looked so happy. Sometimes the sight brought a tear to my eye.
But that freedom came to a screeching halt one day. Yogi, as was his want, caught a scent that took his mind completely into full canine mode. Previously, I had always been able to snap him back to my world with a sharp call or a whistle. This time, he paid me no attention.
He kept going past our usual turn-around point and headed down an old railroad bed. I followed far behind, occasionally losing sight of him. After about two or three miles, he came to the end of the trail: the busy state Route 233. When he crossed, a car was forced to brake to allow him to pass.
For whatever reason, my screaming finally got his attention on the other side of the road. He then crossed back over as another car screeched to a halt.
When he came to me, I was angry. I resisted physical punishment (barely) but did keep him on a one-foot leash, with angry words, for the entire walk home. He was exhausted and confused. I haven’t let him off the leash since for more than a few feet.
But the memory lingers of his utter joy while off the leash.
My hope is that, as Yogi nears the end of his days, I can again take him back to the farmer’s road and — with my wife at one end and me on the other to insure he doesn’t stray — unhitch that darn leash and let him run totally, happily free.
“I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely, I could always be that way again and yet, I’ve grown accustomed to his looks, accustomed to his voice, accustomed to his face.”
In that play, the “accustomed” feeling passes as Henry Higgins' love for Eliza Doolittle so, in that sense, it does reflect how I feel toward our family’s pet Labrador retriever.
It’s a strong bond, as the song’s full lyric (only slightly canine altered) can express:
“I've grown accustomed to his face,
He almost makes the day begin,
I've grown accustomed to the bark he lets out night and noon.
His smiles, his frowns,
His ups his downs
Are second nature to me know
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent and content before we met,
Surely I could always be that way again and yet
I've grown accustomed to his looks,
Accustomed to his voice,
Accustomed to his face.
I've grown accustomed to his face,
He almost makes the day begin.
I've gotten used to hear him whine good morning everyday.
His joys, his woes, his highs, his lows
Are second nature to me know
Like breathing out, breathing in
I'm very grateful he's a canine and so easy to forget
Rather like a habit one can always break and yet
I've grown accustomed to the trace of something in the air
Accustomed to his face.
Good ole Yogi. He is “such a good boy,” as I tell him several times daily. The 85-pound chocolate Lab has been a friendly and valuable companion to one and all in our household.
Now, as he heads toward 11 years old (mid-70s in dog years), I find myself tearing up at the realization that he is in the twilight of his years. Labradors, as a breed, rarely live past 13.
In fact, while researching this piece, I learned that Yogi’s father, Sargent Brown of Sauquoit, passed away last April at just that age. His owner at Decoy Kennels said this well-papered pure-bred pooch — he had an AKC Labrador lineage going back many generations — was a tough one to part with.
I did not learn the status of Yogi’s mom (or Dam, as canine mothers are called), Raisin Kane of Cassville. If still alive, she would have turned 15 last August. So, chances are she, too, has left us.
Raisin Kane was one of the incredible Freedom Guide Dogs. As its website states, the non-profit organization, based in Upstate New York, “breeds, raises, trains and places guide dogs with the blind and visually impaired through a distinctive program called Hometown TrainingTM. Freedom Guide Dogs' services are available to people in the eastern United States at no cost.”
Sargent Brown, being the kennel stud that he was, led a life that was the envy off all males. His owner could not even guess at the number of puppies who have called him sire. Yogi, on the other hand, has never mated, although he is not a virgin. He had relations many years ago with a neighbor’s roaming female dog within our electric-fenced back yard. I caught them in the act. Not a pretty sight.
As was the case for our first pet dog Bowser, a yellow Lab, we never had Yogi “fixed,” the euphemism for castration. We just could not go through with such a brutal act and felt, in our rural setting, our dogs were not likely to contribute to the problem of canine overpopulation.
However, unfortunately, Bowser is alleged to be the father of a neighboring dog’s litter. He did escape our property several times (that was before he had an electric fence) and, on more than one of those trips, did head in the direction of that female dog, so there’s that. But no paternity test was ever done (LOL).
Bowser passed at age 13. While he was in his final hours, my wife and I were able to get our youngest son from Clinton Elementary School and head to Clinton Veterinary Hospital to say our final goodbyes. I called my oldest son at his boarding school to tell him the news. We all cried. As all dog owners know, it was like losing a member of the family.
We then waited a few months before bringing a new dog into our lives. That allowed us to properly pay respect to the special place Bowser had in our lives — so he was not treated as just one of a revolving door of pet dogs in our household — and take advantage of the travel freedoms that come with non-pet homes.
When the time was right, we went back to Bowser’s old Sauquoit kennel, which had since changed hands, to seek another Labrador. We love the look and easy-going disposition of this incredible breed. (As I was crying on the phone with my oldest son, Mickey, over Bower’s death, all I could blurt out was “He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.” Neither he nor Yogi have ever been angry — never a growl — or upset. Bowser, in fact, was only heard to bark once, when startled from sleep by a UPS truck coming up our driveway. Yogi, though, is quite the barker.)
To set our new dog apart from our Bowser memories, we asked for a brown-haired one.
When “our” litter was born at Decoy Kennels, there wasn’t a chocolate Lab among all the little waggers. It was a minor setback. Another litter was due with Raisin Kane in Cassville, and when those April arrivals included some chocolate pups, a swap was made for the yellow labs in the Sauquoit litter.
You see, Freedom Guide Dogs prefers yellow Labs. They feel they are easier to train. Chocolate Labs are known to be, shall we say, a little more fun loving.
This difference — based on hair color — may sound weird to non-Lab owners but we can attest to its accuracy. Bowser was a sharp as a tack. Got everything after one lesson. Yogi? Let’s just say he’s “such a good boy.” Always up for a good time. Love him.
Now, Raisin Kane was a black Lab, and I’m not sure where they fall in the spectrum of serious vs. party animals. For the record, that ole studmuffin Sargent Brown was chocolate.
Our youngest son, Sam, was given the task of picking out our new puppy from among three (as I recall) male chocolate ones now spending time with their dad at Decoy. Sam had prepared a calendar that counted down the days to “Puppy Weekend, Yeah” in May 2004 (see photo below).
It was a tough choice for him (puppies are all wonderfully cute) but the puppy selected to be our Yogi was the one most drawn to playing with us humans (especially Sam) as opposed to frolicking with each other.
From the start, Yogi has had the rascal in his eyes. Loves to play.
Among his quirks is a speed run — as we chase in vain — after an incredible rapid-spin move, in place, as a taking-off point. Never seen anything like it, in any dog. He still tries it in his old age but a few months ago came up lame after landing awkwardly on his left hind leg. It took him a few days, a trip to the vets and some meds to recover.
His other strengths include: a powerful jaw grip in games of tug; an athletic flying leap to catch any thrown object; adaptability to changes in his schedule; fearlessness during thunderstorms, blizzards or other weather events; love of people.
On that last point, he is truly a “love the one your with” type. For those who don’t know, that’s the title of a famous Stephen Stills song, with the refrain: “When you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”
As much as we’d all like to feel that we are special people in Yogi’s life — he eagerly awaits us in the morning; he loves to curl up on my son’s lap or my wife’s lap at night, licking their faces all over; he jumps up and down with incredible, whining joy when I tell him it’s time for a walk — he’s just plain friendly to any and all who pay him attention.
That’s great for his beloved caretaker Lynn, who gives him invaluable owner-worthy attention whenever our travels take us away from home for extended periods. And that’s great for his doctor, for whom Yogi goes ballistic at every visit.
It’s not so great for all our visitors, however. Yogi is a jumper and a humper, despite all our efforts to break him of those two bad habits. (Truth told, we did not do a lot of strict training with Bowser or Yogi. I’m not big into disciplining and domination of dogs. I hate to yell and punish. I treat pet dogs as friends, which means, as animials, they remain a little wild.) The jumping has lessened in his old age but the humping remains a nasty nuisance, although it is limited to a select few whose scents bring out his horny side (or underside, as the case may be).
Yogi’s “love the one you’re with” attitude was in full display recently when he had his first solo night away from home. He had come down with a fever and lethargy. An examination by his vet, Dr. Renee Walsh, showed he had hepatitis. That meant antibiotics and procedures that required an overnighter at Clinton Veterinary Hospital.
As my wife and I braced for a tough goodbye at the Vet’s office, Yogi happily pranced off, tail wagging, with the doctor’s assistant. When I picked him up the next day, he showed no signs of recognition — no big welcome look, no rushing into my waiting arms, no frenzied jumping or tail movement He had a real good night, the doctor said.
It was a sobering development. Good for him. Actually, great for him. He can adapt to any circumstance. But his owners? Well, maybe we were taken down a peg.
Yogi’s quick recovery from this rare ailment was at least partially credited to his good physical shape. Now, that’s my little bonding thing (along with regular baths during warm months) with him.
We have been walking four times a week (when weather permits) from April through October since he was a few years old. We average about two miles per walk, or eight miles a week.
Our primary route is the farmer’s road behind our house. When out there in the early years, I took him off his leash. It warmed my heart to see him run free, sniffing and exploring and going at his own, jaunty pace. He looked so happy. Sometimes the sight brought a tear to my eye.
But that freedom came to a screeching halt one day. Yogi, as was his want, caught a scent that took his mind completely into full canine mode. Previously, I had always been able to snap him back to my world with a sharp call or a whistle. This time, he paid me no attention.
He kept going past our usual turn-around point and headed down an old railroad bed. I followed far behind, occasionally losing sight of him. After about two or three miles, he came to the end of the trail: the busy state Route 233. When he crossed, a car was forced to brake to allow him to pass.
For whatever reason, my screaming finally got his attention on the other side of the road. He then crossed back over as another car screeched to a halt.
When he came to me, I was angry. I resisted physical punishment (barely) but did keep him on a one-foot leash, with angry words, for the entire walk home. He was exhausted and confused. I haven’t let him off the leash since for more than a few feet.
But the memory lingers of his utter joy while off the leash.
My hope is that, as Yogi nears the end of his days, I can again take him back to the farmer’s road and — with my wife at one end and me on the other to insure he doesn’t stray — unhitch that darn leash and let him run totally, happily free.