Denbigh the Dog, Part One

There was once a family that lived on Resseguie Street that had a couple of dogs.  One was a dog of questionable breed, though probably had some border collie in her, named Riddle.  The other was a dog that was definitelya border collie; his name was Denbigh. 

They were located at the end of this fabled street in Boise, so automobile traffic was limited just to those living up the dead-end street that adjoins at Resseguie’s terminus.  Riddle was much older and was approaching the end of her life as Denbigh was reaching his prime.

Riddle was going blind and deaf, and was happy just to sit on the porch and enjoy the sunshine.  Although she could no longer see or hear me coming, she could feel the wooden steps and porch reverberate with each footstep and when I offered my hand for a sniff she immediately would start wagging her tail and say “hello” to me the best she could. 

Riddle didn’t quite make it to the 20-year mark, but she gave it her best.  Once she was gone and Denbigh was alone, he needed a diversion.  His “parents” got a few backyard chickens, which immediately became his obsession; his herding instincts took over and he had a sense of purpose to his life.  Denbigh would spend hours watching “his” chickens and keeping track of their every movement.

Denbigh was also one of the smartest dogs I ever met, and this excess of intelligence often got him in trouble.  Early on in our friendship, Denbigh had decided that my sole purpose in his life was to throw a stick for him whenever I showed up.  He once told me (telepathically, of course) that “Petting was fine for other dogs… but life is short and here’s a stick.  Now THROW it!”

The minute I would step into Denbigh’s yard he would start glancing from left to right until he found a stick that was suitable for the task and then bring it to me and drop it at my feet.  He would then back up a few feet and then hunker down, never taking his eyes off of the stick.  I’d throw it, he’d bring it back and we’d repeat the process a few times until I had to move on.  Then he’d look at me with a hurt expression, like I’d failed him somehow by walking away.  But if he was out the next day, all would be forgiven and we’d start the process anew.

Ah… now there was the key.  IF he was out.  You see, he had a nice fenced back yard.  He wasn’t hurting for space to run around in.  But Denbigh was an escape artist, and if he could find a weakness anywhere along the fence line he would exploit it.  Many a day would find me ringing the bell, and then letting the folks know that Denbigh had escaped once again.  “I just fixed two new escape routes I found in the fence yesterday” would often be the reply.  No matter.  When the master closes a door, Denbigh opens a window. 

Not only did Denbigh know how to get out with alarming regularity, but he also could recognize the sound of my mail truck before I’d get to the house.  So as I was rounding the corner a couple of houses away I’d see Denbigh come bounding out of his yard with a stick in his mouth, running up the middle of the street directly at my truck.  I’d have to stop and open my door, at which point he would get out of the way and come over to the door and drop the stick inside by my feet (or in the footwell, depending on his placement).  He’d then back away and wait for me to throw it.

It’s tough to play with a dog and drive at the same time.  Especially when it’s a determined dog.  Fortunately the houses just prior to his had some terrain that required a little effort to get up and into, so I could make it to the next house before he’d show up with the stick again.  One more throw and then I’d be at his house, ratting him out to his owner once again who would say in a defeated tone, “nowhow did you get out?”

The trouble with an escape artist is that sooner or later they discover that they can wander further than the front yard.  Denbigh did just that, and I’ll share a couple tales of his “travels” in Part Two of this tale one week from this posting.

(Jump to "Denbigh the Dog, Part Two)