Jericho, (my) Spirit Dog, Part 1

Jericho at home, May 2000

He was the saddest-looking pup that I had ever seen.

It was Mother's Day, 2000 and for some inexplicable reason, my son and I had ended up at the SPCA. In fact, I thought we were going to Walmart. But instead of turning right, I turned left and headed through the doors of Montreal's largest SPCA. There were old dogs and young dogs, some with faces pressed close to the bars and others lying far back in their pens, looking as though they had already given up hope of finding a familiar human face. We rounded the corner and there he was, a little fellow standing up on his hind legs and wagging his tail frantically, desperately trying to get our attention. My son stopped and put out his hand and the pup covered it with kisses. I found myself looking into large, dark eyes, eyes that looked at me...... and through me. Wherever a look meets a look, the pup and I met. It was as though we recognized one another, somehow. Here I am, we said.

We went for lunch, having left his tag at the desk and asking them to hold him for an hour. I didn't want to adopt a dog in a fit of emotion. (I had not yet learned that feeling is another form of thought.) We debated names before we tucked into our hamburgers. My son was a serious fan of WWF and his first suggestion was "The Undertaker!" I snorted and shook my head. After several other tries, we agreed on "Jericho". After, who else? Chris Jericho, another WWF star. And then hurried back to adopt him.

After we had paid and signed the papers, a woman took us back upstairs to get him. When she opened the pen, he let out a howl and ran in joyous circles until we, quite literally, collared him. By now, we knew that his former name had been "Balou," that he was 4 months old, that he had been the second dog in a family where there were 2 little boys, one 5 and one 7 yrs. old, and that he had been tied up outside mostly and fed once a day. The adoption form described him as a "shepherd cross/mix."

The photo above is our first image of Jericho in his new home, big head and all, the sadness still tangible in his sombre demeanor.

Now, before we adopted Jericho, I had become fascinated by the wolf and had acquired numbers of books and other texts about wolves, capped by the purchase of a beautiful wolf's head that you can almost see in the photo above, whom I had christened "Luna." I was at a point in my life where I was considering the issues from my past and trying to close cycles of hurt and shame; when I reflect on it today, I see that I worked harder at this personal transformation than most people do on their doctorates! For whatever reason, a big part of the process involved thinking and dreaming about wolves, and wishing that it were possible to have a wolf as my companion. In that synchronic way that events in life sometimes have of interconnecting, I discovered "Women Who Run With The Wolves." In this delightful book, I began to understand my instinctual pull to wolves at this time in my life and I found the author's Jungian interpretation of the fairy tale of "The Ugly Duckling" particularly resonant. Except, not being much attracted to the feathered realm, I rewrote the author's premise in the following way: "I am a wolf (swan) who was raised by dogs (ducks). And I've spent many, many years believing that I was an inadequate dog(duck). But I'm not a dog -- I'm a wolf (swan)."

As Jericho grew from 4 months to 6, he not only transformed from within, losing his sadness, but from without as well, trading his markings for a more uniform coat of black, beige and tan. He blossomed into a very beautiful -- and decidedly wolf-like -- pup and young adult. It was the power of love that changed the look of hurt in his eyes. And it was the power of a wish that transformed him into my idea of a perfect companion: a dog who resembled the "wolf within," from which all breeds descend.

Jericho, July 2000

Jericho & James, summer 2001

Our lives changed as Jericho's presence changed us. We talked to him, played with him and thrilled to every baby step from puppy to adult. Along the way, puppy tales that I will never forget punctuated our experiences together.


Spirit Dog story: The first took place within days of our bringing baby Jericho home. In the years that had passed since my previous dog, the "crate" had come into vogue and, accordingly, we bought one, put a soft blanket down on the floor and scattered a few toys inside for good measure. Then we waited for Jericho to do what the dog books said all pups do: namely, to adopt the crate as his indoor doghouse. After 6 days of waiting, during which time Jericho sniffed at it but otherwise crept passed it with the aura of deep mistrust, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Scooping him up, I placed him in his crate with several puppy cookies, closed the door and went out for 10 minutes or so. When I returned, Jericho was waiting at the door! I examined the crate. I had definitely drop-locked the door. So how had he.....? The next day, I placed him inside the crate again, closed the door & double-locked it securing the door to the frame of the crate with a leather belt. I tried the door to be sure it was invincible a few times and then out I went, for another 10 minutes. And again, baby J. met me at the door upon my return. I was astounded. At work, I told the story to a few women from the Cree Nation that had come down from the North to work together with me on a project. Daisy Bearskin smiled and argued, in a gentle but convincing tone, "He's a spirit dog. That's why he can get out of the cage. He is your spirit dog and a cage is not the right place to keep him." That night, my son and I disassembled the crate and took it down to the basement.




The Brownie Episode: James and I left for school and work, respectively, one morning and arrived home to find a tupperware that had contained about 10 brownies, empty, on the floor, the lid neatly pried open. Jericho, then about 7 months old, met us eagerly at the door as he always did. Jericho was not the first dog that I had owned and I knew that chocolate was deadly to dogs. With trembling fingers, I dialled our vet's office. When I told him what had happened, he started to laugh and said, "What time did you leave? 7:45? And you got home at 5? And he met you at the door like usual? That tells me he's just fine. Anyway, there's hardly any chocolate in those brownie mixes....if I were you, I'd concentrate on learning how he opened the
tupperware!"

Scenes from the dog run -- the dogs, Tony (back to camera), Sheila, Kevyn

As Jericho got older, we began regular morning walks to our local dog run, where a whole new dimension of my dog's personality began to emerge. Specifically, Jericho was a terrible tease, a herder of other dogs and the Leader of the Pack. In 2000, the concept of "alpha male/female" was being applied to dogs with dizzying regularity. It seemed that everyone's canine was an alpha and I avoided the usage because it seemed to be a mere statement of some sort of (human) need to feel superior. But I did know about alpha wolves and their role in a pack......and I had to admit, Jericho was showing several of these traits. He was bossy and seemed to need to be the one to decide what game would be played. He herded some dogs -- usually the most passive -- away from his special buddies, Rockey and Seamus. He was never aggressive or nasty, but he sure was "The Man In Charge!" In the photo above, that blur of beige at the head of the pack is Jericho. How he loved to run! Mr. Puppy (his aka) not only could run for a mile but was fast -- really fast. He was also athletic: he could jump the dog run fence (about 4.5 feet) with a good 6 in. to spare, at zero distance. So outstanding were his abilities, that at least one security officer told me that if I ever tired of him, he would be pleased to adopt him as a work companion.


As time went by, season-to-season and year-to-year, I found myself falling in love with my dog over and over again. He was handsome, hale and hearty and very intelligent. He savored life -- every ounce of it. In the winter --definitely his season of preference -- Jericho climbed the highest mountains of snow with zest, where he stood observing his domain with touching canine majesty, or else tunneled head-first into banks of snow, emerging in all his wolfish glory with white icing laced into his deep, dark coat. In summer, there were swims in the lagoon at our local park. Even though he was a poor swimmer, Jericho splashed about in the early morning coolness with Rockey, at his side. Too, there were summer holidays in the mountains, where my dog was really in his element. Without either collar or leash, Jericho and Seamus took long walks with their owners, rushing off into the underbrush and then re-appearing somewhere on the horizon. When we returned from our hikes, Jericho would settle on a rise near the house and remain, statue-like, napping or gazing out onto the lake until dusk.


I began to re-consider Daisy's insight about my "spirit dog," since, in four short years, Jericho had been responsible for bringing me into a new group of (dog run) friends, as well as assuring that each and every one of my days began with a smile and ended with the gift of his love for me. Here he was -- my very own "wolf" and in keeping his company, my life had been deeply enriched. Instead of rushing through the morning to get to work, I savored a sunrise, or the gambits of morning play, or great conversations with interesting people. And at night, I often fell asleep with my arms around Jericho's neck and his warm breath brushing my cheek.


And then, it all changed.
Forever.