Alice the Dog

Ever patient with my shinanigans, Alice wears my sunglasses

As blog readers know, mom and dad had a terrific brown dog named Alice. She died yesterday after suffering a severe heat stroke.

They've had her since about 2002, when she was given to them by my brother Dan and his wife Sarah. A young adult dog, she was a little rambunctious for their household. I recall her eating an entire closet full of Sarah's shoes. But she seemed to fit right in at Mom and Dad's. She quickly became a compadre to their dog Frisky. Who, at 10 or 11, was not very frisky at all, but was wise and gray. Alice provided a nice balance to that. She replaced a terrifically funny dog named Shadow whose life came to a tragic end in May 2001.

Alice moved in with Mom and Dad after I left for college. I didn't live with her until the spring of 2009, when I lived with Ma and Pa for about 6 months between jobs. In that half year, Alice taught me about obedience and hearing the master's voice.

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Obedience
Alice and I ran together in the mornings when I lived at Mom and Dad's. We would trek up to the nearby diary farm and back. Because we ran to the dairy farm, we passed fields full of cows. With spindly legs. To Alice, they must have looked like steak on a stick.

Our first few runs together to the farm and back were hard. Alice pulled and jerked at her leash, trying desperately to fling off her collar and chase a steaksicle. I swatted her, reminded her we don't chase cows, and told her to heel. She didn't much appreciate the guidance.

On subsequent jogs, Alice needed more reminders that cows are not treats. Sometimes our runs could hardly be described as runs, unless chasing a brown dog intent on eating a cow counts as exercise.

But over time, I noticed I trailed behind her less. She did a better job running with me, not ahead of me, nose towards the cow pastures. And after several weeks of running together, Alice didn't need a leash at all. She would run next to me, or a little in front of me, but not in the pastures.

Not because she didn't want to run through the pasture and chase cows. Quite the opposite. But because she chose to obey. When we ran past the steaksicles, Alice would whine quietly, and drool. But she didn't dash for them anymore.

She chose to obey. Even when it was hard. Even when it probably didn't make sense. ("But they look so delicious!") And in doing so, she showed me in very real terms what it means to obey. It means not doing what I want to do, but listening to the One who knows. Its hard, and sometimes I'll whine. Or drool. And I'll be in good company.

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Hearing the Master's Voice

Alice went to dog school when she was one. When I lived with her, she was 8. Naturally, she needed to brush up a little. So I borrowed a training collar from some friends, pulled out an incredibly old leash of Mom and Dad's and we got to work.

As blog readers know, an important skill for dogs is staying when told and coming when called. And so Alice and I worked on those skills. I would tell her to sit and stay. Then I'd walk 20 or 30 paces away, then turn around and face her. She'd watched me intently. Studying my face, waiting for me to call her name. Every muscle in her body tense, ready to launch herself. Almost quivering with excitement, but sitting still as told. Waiting to hear my voice.

"Come here, girl!" I'd shout. With a burst of energy, Alice would gallop toward me, often barreling past. She'd jump around at my feet and lick my hands to tell me how excited she was.

In her sitting still, being patient, and waiting, Alice taught me what it means, in real terms, to hear the master's voice. It means being still. Waiting. Not doing what I want to do all the time. Trusting. And then launching myself when called.

So thanks, Alice. For teaching me what it means to obey and hear the master's voice. I love you, Alice.

JFB

Alice runs on the ice on Mom and Dad's pond - spring 2009