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Rogues
The life
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Franky was my companion and best friend for 12 years. My shrink called it trans-species bonding. I had been roommates with Dan for about six months in 1991 and had grown to love Ernie, his Enormous Responsibility Never Independent Ever. So it was time to expand the family. I visited the Northeast Los Angeles animal shelter; it was segregated into males and females. I went to the side for males … I’d already decided to name my new family member Frank, after the comic strip Frank & Ernest. Besides, it sounds good – our family is frank and earnest! I found Frank in a litter of about 12 ten-week-old pups. She was by far the cutest. I could hold her in the palm of one hand, and of course she was terrified, throwing up all over the car on the way home. Two days later we visited the vet for the routine check-up paid for by the animal shelter. As she lifted my pup’s tail, the vet said: “What a nice bitch you have!” “What?” I replied, astounded. “She was in the male side of the pound.” I hadn’t even checked. From then on, Franky was her name.
She was about 6 months old when I first taught her to ride on my motorcycle. A friend from one of the clubs made a harness for her out of an old inner-tube; I strapped a milk crate to the back of the bike, put Franky in, fastened her down with the rubber harness and rode ever so slowly down our street in West Hollywood. By the time we reached the corner, Franky was begging me to take off the harness. I admonished her never to jump out of the crate; she seemed to understand. I took off the harness and we never looked back!
Franky became a regular at the motorcycle runs. She was even given her own run pin by the Warriors Motorcycle Club. I attached it to the little leather cap I had bought for her; but, she hated the cap, so I only had her wear it once, until I realized she hated it. I still have it, with the run pin attached. I must confess that dogs are not allowed on motorcycle runs; the clubs seemed to make an exception for Franky, though, because in the early days we’d both show up on a motorcycle. As far as I know, she was the only dog to ever arrive on a motorcycle. So they tolerated her. I did, though, have a really anxious moment the first time we both went to Badger Flat, the annual big-daddy of all the runs, presented every Labor Day weekend by the Satyrs M/C in the High Sierras. One morning, while I was still asleep, Franky managed to get out of the tent and took herself of a tour of the campground, ending up in the kitchen. A real no! no! For awhile I thought they’d throw us both out, but I guess we survived because both of us attended every Badger run from 1992 through 2003, missing only the one in 2002 when I was in Europe. When she was very young, perhaps about 6 months, we started visiting the one and only (at that time) off-leash dog park in Los Angeles. It was near our West Hollywood home, in Laurel Canyon. Franky was enormously social, and loved playing with other dogs. For many years, up to about the last year, she had huge amounts of energy and would play furiously with any dog who wanted to. Sometimes they got so rough I would get worried, but early on I learned that as long as both dogs’ tails we upright, in the air, they were just playing. It was only if either dog dropped the tail, and hung it between his legs, that it was becoming serious. I watched constantly for the tell-tale signs, but Franky seldom got into fights. Once, though, I made the mistake of buying her a rubber ball on a string. The first time we had it at the park, I didn’t realize how possessive Franky would be with it, and she actually got into a fight over the damned ball. It was about 7 on Friday evening, and the other dog nipped her rather severely on her stomach. There was howling and blood everywhere; I was totally freaked out. We rushed home, but I couldn’t staunch the bleeding. Where the hell was I going to find a vet at 8 o’clock on Friday night? We ended up at an emergency vet, and the four stitches in Franky’s belly cost $50 each. That was one helluva expensive dog toy: it cost me $200, plus! We never took toys to the park again. Franky was not a lover of water. In fact, she rather hated it. When we had a swimming pool at the North Hollywood house, she simply would never get in.
But, when Franky saw all the other dogs having a total blast in the water, she must have realized it was OK because lo and behold, she actually went in. Only as far as to where she could still stand, but that was fine with me because I didn’t have to worry about having to rush in to save her. It’s not as if she couldn’t swim; she could, because when a big wave would come in and suddenly she’d be out of her depth, she had to swim, so I knew she could. We both loved dog beaches. We visited the one in Ventura, but it was relatively boring … too few other dogs for Franky to play with. Much later, in 2002, I think, we discovered the one at Huntington Beach, about 60 miles from home. We enjoyed that one too, but our favorite was always Ocean Beach. The highlight of Franky’s day was our walks. I’m not sure when we got into the routine (perhaps it was only when we moved to the delightful La Crescenta neighborhood in 1996) but she was not satisfied with just one walk in the morning. If I had time, she demanded a second in the afternoon, too. On my days off from work, she would appear wherever I was around 3 p.m. and simply start hanging out with me. Most of the time she was totally independent … I could be in the computer room and not see her for hours on end, or watching TV and she’d be in the bedroom, or the garden. Around mid-afternoon though, as if by magic, she would appear. “Time for my walk!” her expression would say. If I wasn’t ready I’d hold up the palms of both my hands – she knew exactly what it mean. “Wait a few moments,” was the message. She’d sulk away for 15 to 20 minutes, then re-appear with that same “Walk time!” look on her face. Eventually, she knew, I would give in. And so it was our routine: two walks a day. Well, it was good for me too! And in short order, we became well-known in the neighborhood, and all the neighbors seemed to love Franky. One day the gate to the back yard somehow was left open. Our back yard is fully enclosed with just one gate; that’s why we could have the doggie door in the kitchen, so Franky could come and go as she pleased, and she could play at will in the back yard. Well, on this day, unbeknownst to me (I think I was at work), the gate was open and she got out. Two blocks away, Franky was spotted by two of the nicest, friendliest neighbors (the Downs); they were aghast to see her, so they loaded her in their car, brought her home and locked the gate to the back yard. I didn’t even know about any of this until the next day when we went for our walk as usual. As we were passing the Downs’ house they called out and told me the story. The years passed and we both grew older. Ernie, Dan’s dog, passed away after considerable illness in about 2001, and I tried my best to comfort Dan, who obviously was grieved by his loss. Dan loved Franky, and she almost always came with when I visited him in WeHo. She loved him, too; it was so obvious to me that Dan was one of Franky’s favorites. While Ernie was alive, Dan and I had an unspoken agreement – if either of us was going out of town, the other would take care of both dogs for the duration. What an amazing resource; Franky spent only two days in a kennel her entire life. It was the time Dan and I went together for a weekend to San Francisco. On all other occasions, I was lucky enough to have either Dan or some other friend accommodate Franky while I was away. In the summer of 2003, Franky and I took a trip with our best friend Bjorn. It was our favorite summertime vacation, one we did several times in several different modes. In 2003 I rented a motorhome and the three of us left Tuesday for the beach at Oceano Dunes in central California. It’s a 5 hour drive, and the most awesome aspect is one can drive right onto the beach at Oceano and for just $6 a night park and “camp” at the high tide line. Talk about an oceanfront view! It’s so fabulous to sleep right at the edge of the water, and to wake up, step outside and be right on the beach. We spent three days at the beach, then packed up the camper and headed for the mountains and the Badger Flat run. In 2003, when we arrived at Badger, Franky was totally pooped; she had so little energy I had to literally lift up her hind legs to help her climb into the motorhome. At the time, I ascribed it to advancing age and the altitude. Badger is at 9,000 feet and I have noticed that with every passing year it takes me longer and longer to adjust to the lack of oxygen. In 2003, it took us both about two days. Eventually, though, Franky’s energy seemed to return. It was also about the same time, however, that I began to notice strange lumps on her belly. Like most dogs, Franky loved to have her tummy tickled, and I did it often. Running my hand across her stomach I could feel small bumps, several of them. About two years before, she had a large lump from her rear shoulder removed; it was just a fatty deposit, the vet told me, nothing to worry about. So when I felt these lumps on her belly, I reassured myself they were probably fatty lumps and nothing to worry about. However, since Ernie passed I had had an increasing awareness that I would outlive Franky. Perhaps she had another 4 or 5 years, I thought, at most. So I did begin to think about the eventual probability that the time would come when Franky would be old and/or ill. For me, it would come down to a quality-of-life issue. I’ve also been thinking about it with regards to myself. When my quality of life is reduced by age or illness to the point where it no longer exists, I do not want to be kept alive by any artificial means. And so this is how I came to think about Franky, in full awareness that I would have to make the decision for her when the time came. When quality of life vanished, it would be time to go. Indeed, more than once it occurred to me the lumps in her belly might be more than mere fatty deposits. However, even if they were malignant, there would be little or nothing I could do, since it would be enormously unfair to force an animal to endure chemo or radiation – I mean, they surely would not understand the need for a treatment that is often worse than the disease. All was well, until the Saturday two weeks before Christmas. That morning Franky didn’t want to go for her walk. She simply put her tail between her legs and sat down, shivering, when I went to get the leash. This was totally out of character, and immediately I knew something was wrong. She had no other symptoms until late that night when I rubbed gently across her belly, as I often did, and she yelped with pain. Then I knew something was wrong. By Monday evening she seemed to be quite disoriented. She wet the bed, something she had not done since she was a little puppy. And she couldn’t find the doggie door to get out of the house. Tuesday we went to the vet. I left her overnight, but the following morning the vet wanted to keep her for more tests. An hour later I got the phone call. “There’s nothing we can do for her,” I was told. When I picked her up I saw the x-rays; there were several tumors all over her stomach. Apparently the cancer had spread to her brain. She didn’t even recognize me. I lifted her gently and brought her home for one last night together. It was a tearful but ever-so-important night. She would take no food or drink, so I kept a bowl handy and every so often would dip my fingers in the water and rub some on her lips. We hugged for many hours, and I cried a lot. Eventually the sun rose. I called my neighbor, Jim, who drove us in my car back to the vet. The doc gave her a tranquilizer, and as it took effect, I held her tightly and told her how much I loved her. In less than a minute, it was over, and she was at peace. “That was the biggest act of love,” the doc told me. And he was right. There’s not much left to say. My life was enormously enriched by Franky. She was a happy puppy, her whole life, which reflects that I was a decent guardian. Her demise was quick, only five days. I will always miss her, but life goes on. So must I . |
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