Last summer my mom and I took a road trip to Houston to attend my niece’s high school graduation. With all the activity in the house, a few scuffles broke out between the family’s American Staffordshire Terrier puppy, Eli, and their nine-year-old Poodle mix, Kipper. By the end of the weekend, we agreed it would be best for the dogs if my mom and I took Kipper back with us.
Kipper was a runner, but in the suburbs of Houston, he was confined to the backyard. On his first morning at the ranch, I hesitated to let him off the leash. At thirty pounds, he was no match for coyotes, bobcats, javelina, or rattlesnakes. But this was a dog who needed to run free. With his remarkable human-like eyes he pleaded with me to let him go. Before I did, I kissed his muzzle. He’s in God’s hands, I thought.
That first morning he was gone over an hour. I heard yips and yaps coming from the desert and feared the worst, but he eventually came home. After having his treat, he sprawled out on the living room floor, where his legs twitched as he chased critters in his dreams. He’d been a naughty boy in Houston— peeing in the house, running away, sneaking into rooms where he didn’t belong. After that first run, his behavioral problems disappeared.
Each morning Ron and I walked the airstrip with Kipper and our other four dogs. Kipper would vanish into the creosote and tall grass then pop out only to dash off into the brush on the other side of the runway. Most days, after the rest of us returned home from our walk, Kipper would continue on his adventures. I worried about him being out there hunting and chasing on his own. If he was gone too long, I’d get in my truck to go look for him. Sometimes he’d show up carrying a rabbit or a sun-bleached bone from a deer or cow in his mouth.
Kipper’s eyes danced with newfound freedom. Ron and I dubbed him The Happiest Dog in the World. He did not adhere to the rules of dog obedience, instead he had his own way of doing things and seemed grateful we were willing to go along with his antics, which earned him his nick-name, Ding-a-Ling.
In the past I’ve fostered dogs for rescue organizations, volunteered at vaccination clinics, worked as a behavioral trainer, and sat on the board for the Santa Cruz Humane Society. In short, I thought I knew dogs, but Kipper changed all that. I learned Poodles are not little French fufu dogs made for our laps. Instead, they are skilled hunters and water dogs adapted with webbed feet. The rabbits he brought home were no accident. They were trophies he presented to me. Next to Border Collies, the Poodle is ranked the second most intelligent breed. Kipper wasn’t naughty, he just didn’t have the words to express his disappointment at being confined as a house pet.
With tractors, trailers, trucks, and livestock, a ranch can be a precarious place and accidents happen. Kipper was hit by a truck nearly a month ago, and we are still grieving. Our other dogs are wonderful, well-behaved animals. They wouldn’t think of running off or stealing a sandwich from the counter when I wasn’t looking. I miss the infectious energy Kipper brought to this otherwise quiet place.
We buried Kipper at the end of the runway surrounded by creosote and scrub brush. On our morning walks I still find myself waiting for The Happiest Dog in the World to cross my path before disappearing into the desert.