IVY’S STORY
Her name was IVY. Black as night and as impossible to catch as a feather in a storm.
After a previous beloved canine passed from old age, I mourned until it was time to embrace a new life again. I always choose rescues from my favorite breeds — German shepherds and dachshunds. I usually have one of each sharing our home. I know their traits, behaviors and quirks. I stay proactive so our human/canine family can live and love in harmony.
My GSDs were intelligent, loyal and fearless, but territorial, needing a firm alpha leader and a job to keep them happy. Then there are my dachshunds. Clever, yes, but oh, so stubborn, and highly reactive to unknown sounds, sights, or movement. It’s always tempting to manually lift a troublesome little dachshund instead of enforcing commands. I refuse temptation. They can be crafty, calculating and cute, all at the same time. As the saying goes, if I give them an inch… But like my GSDs, they’re fiercely loyal. Yes, I know the score with my favorites, and stay in my comfort zone.
Yet somehow a quirk of fate decreed that I’d rescue a breed I knew nothing about, an Afghan. I named my new puppy “Black Ivy.” I should have named her “Ballistic.” I soon learned that my new sighthound loved, no, lived to RUN. AKC stats–40 mph. Our new dog could be in the next county in sixty seconds. No matter how huge our yard, or how much we exercised her, it wasn’t enough. EVER.
Biking with a leash? She’d outdistance me, tow me into the bushes, yank free, and fly. We’d need the car to catch up to her. My poor son was forced to “capture and contain” multiple times in strange territory. Despite my constant training, COME wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Ivy wasn’t willfully disobedient. Running was in her DNA. As Maverick said in TOP GUN, she felt “the need for speed.” I soon learned she couldn’t walk any more than a bloodhound couldn’t sniff. Ivy’s races were a sight to behold. Her legs folded, her muscles bunched, then she exploded forward with pure power. When Ivy ran, I swear her paws never touched the ground. She laughed and soared and circled from our house to streets to open fields…rested…and soared again.
Ivy refused to accept boundaries. Our family took multiple precautions. We were terrified of car-dog accidents. A true Houdini, no gate, yard, or door could stop her. Ivy once jumped out of my moving car when I was driving 35 mph. I’d rolled the windows up tight because I knew her tricks. We kept her away from electric windows. But she saw a lovely meadow, rolled the window down with her paw rotating the lever, launched herself from the back seat, and was off. Injury or death seemed inevitable but Ivy kept beating the odds.
I was always getting phone calls from my sympathetic neighbors. “Your dog’s jumped the fence again.” Our six-foot high fence. I tried to keep Ivy inside when she’d get the “wandering fever,” but that fever never abated.
Because Ivy was so active inside the house, I wanted her outside but contained during my little daughter’s nap. I bought a metal leash, its bright red plastic covering 25 feet of flexible, pet-approved cable. In the backyard, I hooked it up to her for the first time. Not even an hour later, I heard Ivy pawing at the door. I opened it, and there she stood. She’d completely gnawed through the metal leash. The hook was still attached to the collar, the frayed metal end hanging below.
I gasped with horror at her bloody lips and chipped teeth as she pranced into the house. She was so proud of herself. Her warm brown eyes sparkled. Mine filled with tears. I decided then and there my daughter could sleep to the beat of canine feet, or not sleep at all.
It was wrong to tie my sunbeam down. Terribly wrong. I never did it again.
Ivy later escaped during a torrential rainstorm when a huge gust of wind popped our front door inwards and open. As she ran from the house, I screamed, “Ivy, come! Come!” As always, she didn’t. Suddenly I saw a huge bolt of lightning strike the house right across the street with a BANG that shook our own house.
Ivy didn’t cringe, whine or freeze at the simultaneous flash and boom of thunder mere yards away. Magically…supernaturally…this gifted athlete spun around without one break in stride. Half deaf and temporarily blind, Ivy retreated with winged paws, and came when I called her for the first and only time in her life. She defied Mother Nature, laughed at death, and ran back, following the sound of my voice until she was safely inside to dry and recover. That incredible scene remains forever seared on my brain.
Ivy remained a joyous racer for twelve years. I was shocked when she suddenly stopped. It seemed surreal. Bizarre. Ivy merely walked the next three days, then collapsed. She died in my arms, her once dancing paws limp on the vet’s metal table. As grief stricken as I was, having Ivy at home, listlessly dozing away her last days, would be too cruel. Running was her heart and soul. When she couldn’t, I do believe she chose to move on.
I said goodbye to Ivy over thirty years ago. I’ve deliberately not adopted any sighthound since. As I stroke my little dachshund in my lap, I revisit the past. The truth is, despite her affectionate nature, Ivy refused to bond with me. Or with anyone. We’d raised her since she was a puppy, but she wasn’t happy when grounded to our home, hearth and kin. She wanted to run, run, run! To be free, free, free!
I couldn’t accept her rejection back then. I didn’t understand. I do now.
Of all my dogs, only Ivy lived with the inherent belief in the Goodness of Our World. She didn’t feel the need for my individual love and protection, because she truly believed she was loved and safe EVERYWHERE. Pure innocence in any creature doesn’t last. As younglings grow, that pureness fades in the face of life’s realities and slowly disappears.
I’ve only seen one exception. Her name was Black Ivy.
And if she was an exception, perhaps there are others out there like her. So I set aside my senior citizen’s cynicism and stay open to the possibilities. Ivy gave me more than just wild chases. Ivy showed me that a magical world does exist on this earth. What an incredible gift to give!
Bless you, my sweet changeling. And thank you. Rainbow kisses until we meet again.
THE END
“When you find that people have failed you, turn to shelter pets. People have failed them, too. You can heal together.” Anonymous