The Ballad of Zeke & Tall Guy
“All this happened, more or less.” – Kurt Vonnegut
The phone rang.
“The kids and I are at the SPCA, walking some dogs. You should come over.”
“We’re not getting another dog,” I said. I could tell from the tone of my wife’s voice where this conversation was headed. We already had a dog. She was a year-and-a-half-old Border Collie/Blue Heeler mix. Her name was Spotty Dog because she had spots and was a dog.
I wasn’t interested in more vet bills. I wasn’t interested in spending more money on dog food. I especially wasn’t interested in picking up twice as much dog poop. Besides, Spotty Dog was a good pupper. She was more than capable of providing all the dogness I needed.
“There’s a yellow Lab here. You should see him …”
Jane knew that I’d always wanted a yellow Lab. I’d talked about getting one every now and then, most recently right before we’d adopted Spotty. I’d plead my case that although $1500 was a lot of money for a dog, a yellow Lab would certainly be worth it. Labs are beautiful, intelligent, gentle dogs. Perfect for a family with young children. Some people have a dream house or a dream car. I had a dream dog.
My brain repeated we’re not getting another dog, but my mouth said, “I’ll be right over.”
I loaded Spotty into the car and left right away. The SPCA was close to our house, so 15 minutes later I was standing in the cacophony of the dog orphanage. There must have been 20 or 30 dogs, all voicing their dissatisfaction with their current situation. It sounded like they were barking “LET! ME! OUT! LEMMEOUT! OUT! OUT! OUT!”
I followed Jane and the kids to the back corner, where there was a concrete enclosure with chain link across the front. Inside was a defeated-looking yellow Lab. He had a cut on the top of his nose where he’d been poking it out under the chain link, apparently thinking he could force his way back to freedom if he could just push a little harder. He was so skinny that you could see his spine and ribs and hips. He looked at me like he had something important to tell me, but he wanted to say it in private, not here in front of all the other dogs. He glanced at the door and tilted his head a little, like a friend does at a party when he wants to get you alone for a minute to tell you something important about the girl you’re chatting up.
“We’re not getting another dog,” I repeated to Jane, “but since I drove all the way over here, we might as well see if he wants to go for a walk or something.”
There was a big yard out back where the dogs could be taken for some exercise. The lady at the front desk had a bone shaped name tag that said “Leah”. I asked her if it would be okay if we took the dog in stall number 17 for a little bit of play time.
Leah said, “Of course. He’s only been here since yesterday, and you’re the third family to take him for a walk. If you’re interested in adopting him, I wouldn’t wait. He’s popular. Labs always are. Especially yellow Labs.”
“We’re not getting another dog.”
When we got outside, the dog immediately perked up and played with the kids. Our daughter, Eliza, was 11 years old and fully infatuated with all animals. Our son, David, was seven. He was mostly interested in seeing if the dog could beat him in a race.
My inner voice was repeating He’s perfect. He’s the perfect friend … but I can’t let Jane do this. I can’t let her manipulate me, but look at him … he’s perfect.
Jane told me later that when she saw me staring at him and smiling, that had been the moment when she had known for sure that the yellow Lab would be coming home with us.
“I bet Spotty Dog needs to pee. We’ll go get her,” she said. And with that she rounded up Eliza and David and herded them — complaining all the way — out of the yard, leaving me alone with the yellow Lab.
As soon as they were out of earshot, the dog ambled over to me and sat down.
“You’re tall,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. You’re yellow.”
“I’m light grey.” After a brief pause, the dog said “I like those little peoples. They’re nice. I like running with them.”
“They’re good kids.”
“I will make them happy. I’m a good listener and my licks are only a little bit slobbery.”
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“At the place where I used to live, they yelled a lot of things at me. I think some of the words were my name, but I’m not sure. I was scared mostly. It was hard for me to think.”
I looked at him. He was staring at a bird in a nearby tree. “I like that bird. It makes happy noises.”
“We have a dog in our family already.”
“I know. I can smell her. You need two dogs, though. You have two little peoples.”
“I only have one wife.”
“That seems like enough. But you should have two dogs.”
“I’ve never had two dogs before.”
“I’ve never lived with a tall guy before.”
We both paused for a moment.
“Do you have squeaky toys at your house? I like squeakies.”
“We don’t. Spotty Dog keeps chewing the squeakers out of them. It’s funny to hear to her go poop.”
“Oh. Would you make some squeakies for me?”
“I don’t know how to make them, but I’d buy some for you.”
“Make … buy … if the result is the same, then the words are the same. What I want to know is when I come live with you, will squeakies be provided?”
“Yes … no! We’re not getting another dog.”
At that moment, Jane and the kids appeared. They had Spotty Dog with them. The yellow Lab sprinted off to greet her, the negotiation over squeaky toys instantly forgotten.
I excused myself and went to the front desk to ask Leah where the men’s room was, then casually asked “How much does it cost to adopt a dog … if I were to be interested in taking that yellow Lab home … which I’m not, because we’re not getting another dog.”
“$400, and that includes neutering, a full check-up, and an ID chip.”
I thanked Leah and headed towards the men’s room, with a quick detour to the car to grab my money.
On my way back to the yard, I stopped at the front desk again.
“If I were to give you $400 for that yellow Lab right now, would I be able to get my money back later after I talk my wife and kids out of bringing him home?”
Leah said, “I could give you a couple of days to think about it.”
I counted out $400 in various denominations of bills and a heap of coins. I’d been saving every spare cent to buy myself a new guitar, and it was all the money I had. I’d been keeping it in an old pair of Doc Martens; bills in the right, coins in the left. I had grabbed the shoes on my way out the door to go meet a dog I wasn’t going to adopt.
When I returned to the yard, the dogs lay panting in the shade under a big maple tree. Eliza and David were squatting beside them, stroking their heads and scratching their ears. They’d been sitting on the grass only seconds earlier until Jane had said, “I wonder how many dogs have peed there?”
I stood beside Jane in silence for a few seconds and then said, “I used my guitar money to buy the dog.”
Jane smiled and said, “I know.”
“I think the kids would be really disappointed if we didn’t adopt him. I mean … look at him. Spotty seems to like him too.”
“Uh huh,” said Jane.
I could have stuck to my guns and continued to say, “we’re not getting another dog.” Jane hadn’t forced me to come to the SPCA, and she hadn’t suggested that I bring my guitar money. Truth be told, Jane had deftly helped me to fulfil a life goal.
We called the kids over to let them know that the yellow Lab would be coming home with us. They reacted with jumpy claps and Kermit flails, which Spotty Dog and the yellow Lab happily participated in. Jane smiled. She loved it when a plan came together. Especially a plan that made her family happy.
We had to leave the yellow dog at the SPCA for a few days while his neutering was undertaken, but we were back bright and early on Saturday morning to pick him up. When the staff brought him out, he was wearing a cone on his head to prevent him from licking his incision. He looked tired.
“Are we going home now?” he asked.
“Yup.” I said.
“Thank goodness. I think they wanted to remove my ding-dong next.”
The conversation in the car for the entire ride home was about what the new dog’s name would be. David and Jane favoured traditional pet names like Buddy or Max. Eliza and I preferred less traditional names.
I didn’t see any reason not to give him a name you’d give a person, so I suggested or Daryl or Garth.
Eliza wanted something a little more eccentric, and suggested Bonkers, Gym Socks, and Pickle Train. The last one made me laugh out loud, and I lobbied alongside Eliza for the new dog to be named Pickle Train. Jane vetoed the idea for the same reason I loved it; because of how it would sound when it was yelled at the dog park…”Pickle Train! C’mere boy! C’mon Pickle Train!”
The naming debate went on for the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. Earlier, somebody – nobody could remember who – came up with “Zeke”. It had been put on the “maybe” list, and left to simmer for a while until Jane came back to it later. She was bored with the name game and wanted it to be over.
“Who suggested Zeke?” she asked.
“I’m not sure”, David said, “but when you said that, he looked at you. Dad, try it out. See if he looks at you when you say it.”
“Hey Zeke!” I said, and sure enough, he looked right at me.
“I guess his name is Zeke,” I said.
Eliza was still pushing for something more unique and said “He’s the colour of pancakes when mum makes them. How about Zeke Pancakes?”
“If he was a black Lab, he’d be the colour of pancakes when dad makes them,” said David.
“It doesn’t flow,” I said, “It needs to be more musical. It needs more beats. Maybe Zeke Pancakes Jr., or Senator Zeke Pancakes.”
“What’s grandpa’s name?” asked Eliza.
“Andrew,” I said.
“Zeke Andrew Pancakes,” she said.
Everyone knew immediately that that was the yellow dog’s name. It felt right. I didn’t think he’d been paying attention, but he nodded his approval to me.
And so the skinny yellow Lab with the scabby nose and the cone on his head was now Zeke Andrew Pancakes. Everyone just called him Zeke though, unless he was in trouble. Then we used his full name like your mother did when you broke the lamp; “Zeke Andrew Pancakes! Who ate all the KitKat bars that were on the table?!”
It took almost no time for him to blend into our family. I expected a few days of transition during which he’d have a few accidents inside the house or perhaps have some complaints about the food and lodgings. But he fit right in, right from day one.
He wasn’t very happy about there being a cat in the house (Eliza had won the name game with him. His name was Dexter Butterknife)
“Cats are creepy. Like spiders and that doctor who stuck his finger in my bum.” Zeke said.
Other than that he seemed content. Almost immediately he started calling me “Tall Guy”. David became “Small Tall Guy”, Eliza was “Nice Girl”, and Jane “Mymum”.
Everybody thinks they have the best dog in the world, and everybody is right, but Zeke Andrew Pancakes was actually the best dog in the world. He was one of our family dogs, but he was my dog and I was his human. Over the years, he taught me things about myself that nobody else could have, and I kept him supplied with squeakies. We were a team.
That’s how our story begins, and I suppose it’s how a lot of family dog stories begin. With the simple act of adopting an animal who’s down on his luck and looking for some people to love, and who will love him back.
I’m glad we got another dog.
Zeke & Tall Guy is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
