Catch

My Good Catch

He arrived in my life sight unseen. An adoption group President told me he was the dog for me, and I said I’d take him.

I was told his name was Manny, but he never responded to it. Those first months, he claimed a corner of the bedroom floor, seldom looking directly at you as he tried to pretend he didn’t exist. This wasn’t normal greyhound behavior and I desperately wanted to get some engagement from him. I knew he was physically hurting and was shutting down mentally too. 

Every day I’d run through different names, in the hopes that I’d get a head lift or an ear twitch. I tried every sound of the alphabet – Adam, Ben, Corey, Dan, Ernie, Fabio – but nothing. As a cow dog, white with black, I tried Oreo, Zen, Topper. Still nothing.

I won’t forget the early evening when he emerged from his self imposed, up against the bedroom wall exile. I threw some dog toys in an attempt to engage him. To my utter joy, he caught every one out of the air. We started doing this once a day, same time. He was a dog who liked a routine. Every time he caught the toy, I’d joyfully exclaim “good catch”. It took me a bit, but I realized that with my repetition he had decided his name was Catch and he liked it.

Catch’s medical needs overshadowed his life. He arrived with gunk oozing from every orifice – toes, neuter site, ears. Pills, doctor visits (consults from Florida to Vegas), every test imaginable, diet, foot soaks and wraps. He and I were both exhausted from the constant care regime. His systemic immune mediated issues were finally controlled, though not fixed, after 3 years, with daily mega drugs.

Through all this we had our behavioral quirks. Catch was a dog who thrived on routine. The Gang household does not. Take the car, for instance. He was a gem riding in the car. Finding his spot, and not moving for the rest of the ride. However, it took him about ten back and forwards in front of the open car door to finally jump in the car. Then our first trip, he refuses to get out of the car. He stayed in the garage with all doors open for three hours. I had to resort to pushing him out. Then he’d only leave the car via the back passenger door. God forbid I tried to get him out using the back driver side door.

 

Feeding. If you watched him, he wouldn’t eat. If you stood too close, or walked near him while he was eating, he’d stop. If you made a loud noise while he was eating, he would stop. If you put the bowl somewhere different, he wouldn’t eat. Food wasn’t the issue, the place and how were.

Over and over he emphasized his need for routine. He’d sleep draped across the bottom of my legs in the bed. Pinning me down, dead weight and never moving a muscle. Same position every night. I was just happy to know he felt loved, even if my legs atrophied.

 

Catch instituted routine into my life. And with him gone,

it’s even more glaring how the routines we had – the good morning kiss, the bowl placement just so, the couch corner he claimed, all the white hair he left behind, the drooling for raw veggies when I was cutting them up for my salad, the turkey neck for dinner outside on the porch, the sad sack look in his eyes just asking if he’d pleased me – mean so much to me.

 

I told you over and over Catch that you were a ‘good catch’. And I meant it.