The Tell Tail Dog

I was not a dog person.

Over the last 40 years, three amazing dogs have changed me.

The journey began in 1983 when my wife and I visited my parents at their home in Hazelhurst, Wisconsin. 

Soon after we arrived, my mother asked, “Would you like to visit the Nastalski’s puppies?”

I immediately thought, “Damn. We’re getting a damn puppy.” Damn, I was right.

My wife named the dog “Hazel” after Hazelhurst. She was 50% purebred golden retriever and 50% whatever type of dog cleared the fence and nailed her mom. Hazel was the size, shape, and color of a golden retriever with rounded edges.

She was a sweet beast with the disposition of Nana the Saint Bernard in Peter Pan. Hazel supervised as our family welcomed three sons in the next nine years.

The first word our oldest son spoke was “Hazel.” He named his daughter Hazel. If my parents lived in Oconomoc, would my grandchild be named “Oconomowoc?” What if they lived in Ashwaubenon?

There’s not much more to say about Hazel. The dog, I mean. She passed away 12 years later.

We were dog-free for six years, and life was simple.

Then came Harley, who joined the family on 9/11/2001. My wife and sons wanted another dog, so the simple life ended. 

On September 10, she called a trainer in Chicago and asked if he had any dogs we could adopt. He said, “No. I’m a trainer. I do not run a shelter.” He took our number, though.

The next day (9/11/2001), he called, “You’re not going to believe this, but a friend just asked me to find a home for a young golden. A family in Barrington neglected him for two years by leaving him in a cage in the garage. Last week, a lawyer brought him into her apartment. She worked long hours and got upset because he destroyed her couch, bed, a couple of armchairs, and the bathroom rug in two days. She can’t find the carpet.  Do you want him? 

Of course, my wife said yes.

We were back in the dog business.

What could go wrong?

I picked him up on the drive home from my job. On the way, the criminal son of a bitch chewed through the wiring harness for the Cherokee’s trailer lights.

Game on.

Our sons named him Harley.

He was the luckiest dog on Earth. He landed in a tolerant home with three big brothers. The only things he chewed up were stuffed animals, which I saw as a service to humanity.

He ran a shoe relocation program. The boys left their shoes by the back door. Then Harley took the one shoe and hid it somewhere. The following day, I often heard one of the guys who was late for school stomping around with one shoe on and saying, “Damn it, Harley.”

Cancer got him in 2009.

More about Harly later.

In 2011, I went shopping for a dog on my own for the first time.

The family dynamics needed a diversion.

I entered the used dog market by visiting local shelters. Before choosing a pet, you should kick the tires on many mutts. The best way to find a low-mileage quality stray is to befriend a shelter employee. They’ll select a match when they know what you’re looking for.

After visiting the same facility for weeks, they called and said the perfect dog arrived. 

That’s when the family met Bo. Who was sometimes called “Bojangles.”

He was less than two years old, a yellow lab mix with the ears of a hound. The shelter provided a document from a small town in southern Illinois. He was found on the street and scheduled to be killed five days after they picked him up. Bo was starved, a walking skeleton.

He settled in and was one thankful SOB.

At the dog park, he hoarded tennis balls. One day, everyone looked around and asked where all the balls were. Bo had four balls in his mouth—a new personal best.

From 2020 until spring 2023, he lived the good life on Rileys Bay in Door County. He often wandered away and met his neighbors, several of whom wanted to adopt him.

On his best day, he chased a pair of deer for over a mile across the ice. He was gone for more than an hour. I finally spotted him trotting towards home with the happiest face ever.

On his second-best day, he brought home a severed deer head that a coyote left in the woods.

In March 2023, he was old and sick. He had retrieved his last stick. He did not want to enter the house and wandered off like he was going for a pack of smokes. Some dogs know what’s coming and don’t want to be a bother. He took his final snooze in a neighbor’s yard. 

So it goes.

Now, back to Harley and the story of the tell-tale dog. One night, he was in the room when my wife and I became passionate. It used to happen. Harly got worked up and tore the dust ruffle on our bed. 

Several weeks later, I was looking for a book in our eighteen-year-old son’s room when I noticed his dust ruffle was torn. He had his first serious girlfriend. Before then, I did not know how serious it was.

Now, my friends ask if I want another dog.

Nope. After three winners, my luck will run out.

I only have happy memories.