How a Little Black Dog Changed My Life.

How a Little Black Dog Changed My Life.

by

Gilles N. Parker

When I think of which animal has changed my life the most, a whole bunch of candidates show up on my Bucket’s List. You see, I love animals. Now that does not seem so uncommon, to most of you, but my next statement might. And, animals love me too.

Animals seem to work mostly on instincts, am I right? Following this line of thinking, it would be logical that animals are attracted to a child who refuses to eat them, hurt them, and who has often stepped forward to protect them. In my long, colourful life, I have had the pleasure of befriending a lot of various animals. From my first dog, to my first pet snake, caught in the wild, to the first time I swam with dolphins in the Philippines, to the first time I sat and patted a zoo kept adult tiger, and the list goes on.

Now, which one had the most profound effect? That is a tough one. I will have to choose one, my almost very first dog. I say almost very first since Miquette, a small, black Labrador looking dog was the first animal I remember bonding with, at 10.

Those who knew me as a child will protest and ask, «But what about Prince, the beautiful Golden Retriever you had, ever so briefly?” Prince still has a cozy place in my heart, as all animals have, but, when we drove to visit my grandmother, ages ago, and I left Prince in the neighbour’s care, returning with Miquette had such a profound effect I had already pretty well forgot I had Prince at home.

You see, acquiring Prince was my father’s idea, and, my father being the big and strong man he was, Prince undoubtedly considered him the Alpha Male of our family. This put me a distant second. Prince ran with glee when my father came home from work, but barely wagged his tail when I arrived from school. We were like brothers, or maybe even step-brothers.

Miquette, however, had a different place in my heart the second I noticed her. “Why is that?”, may you ask? Unlike Prince, bought by my parents, I rescued that cute, defenseless puppy. “Rescuing from what, or whom?” may you ask. Spoiled cousins, too young to know better. This would have been the adults’ excuse, including my parents’. I recall, bewildered, watching my two younger cousins, as they tortured the defenseless puppy. Yet, I was the only one concerned! When I saw them grab its fragile legs and throw it against the wall, something snapped!! I was so upset; I ran to my parents for help. More upsetting than seeing an abused animal was looking back at 4 adults who didn’t give a damn

Being a very determined young man, I had to rescue that poor Soul. I soon devised a plan. I borrowed 2 dollars from my father, approached my cousins (with their parents’ permission) and offered to buy the dog. Their eyes widened and, in unison, agreed. I walked away, triumphantly, with Miquette, safe in my hands, and in my heart. What I did not know, however, was that my mother had already devised a plan of her own. Unbeknownst to me, called our neighbours, and donated Prince to our American uncle. One condition, that everyone lie and told me that Prince had been hit by a car.

I was sad, but having a defenseless puppy in my arms, I did not grieve for long. So much so that, the next summer, when my uncle Alderic returned with Prince, I was thrilled Prince was still alive. I was fully content with Miquette, my best friend for the next 15 years.

“Why was Miquette so essential for this young, adopted boy?” may you ask. Guess I let the cat out of the bag. I was adopted, very lonely as a child being the only child, and isolated from my many cousins. My mother, realizing I had a much higher than average I.Q. forbade my cousins from spending time with me and distracting me from achieving the highest scores. You see, for her defense, my mother suffered from two major illnesses, cholesterol and diabetes, and was secretly terrified of dying. So, turning me into her own personal doctor seemed the only way to go. I understood that, intellectually and wanted to rescue her as well, but a lonely childhood without friends or playmates forced me to depend on Miquette in a semi dysfunctional way, I feel.

Miquette would sleep with me, every night that I needed consoling and cried myself to sleep. She would listen to my deepest, darkest secrets without once betraying my confidence. She would provide warmth for my aching heart, and companionship for my saddened Sole. She was everything for this 10-year-old boy, all during my teens. When my mother died, age 48, I was 15 years old and Miquette was the only one to whom I could confide. She was so patient, so gentle, and so needed.

Years later, when I left home to go to university, I was not only leaving my father and my not so nurturing new step-mother, I was leaving my best friend. Is it a wonder that I was so crushed when I returned one semester and was told, nonchalantly, by my father, that he had put Miquette to sleep, without even informing me of her demise? I had even more trouble getting over the passing of my only childhood friend when I saw she had quickly been replaced by my step-mother’s new pet. That was a very unapproachable Chiwawa, who barked constantly and threatened to bite me, in my own home.

Good news is, years later, searching for the elusive Miquette clone, I walked into a local SPCA and there she was. Christmas Eve, looking sad and in need of rescue. My first reaction was that of apprehension since there were a lot of potential dog owners staring at the very cage. To my relief, the cage had two dogs, one Miquette, and one young, beautiful Golden Retriever. The other hopefuls had to draw straws for the GR, since everyone, except me, wanted it. As soon as the commotion had ended, everyone left and I was there, with a childlike enthusiasm, begging the volunteers to take her out of the cage and let me cuddle her. I knew she would be mine for the next 15 years and she was.

Unfortunately, 14 years later, I was faced with the difficult decision to bring Miquette along, on a long and perilous journey to Taiwan. The other option was or leave her with her other best friend, Azim, who loved her just as much as I did.

I had to do something drastic. I found a pet photographer who could not satisfy my vision of her portrait, then went home and took a brilliant picture. My next move was to scavenged the city to find the perfect tattoo artist. I did. The most famous animal tattoo artist was an Aborigines man on Commercial Drive. He was a no-nonsense kind of artist, which I appreciated. When I asked him if he could tattoo Miquette over my heart, he laughed and said, «Of course”. When I asked to see some sketches, he laughed even heartier and replied, «You want it or you don’t. Sit and let me do what I do best.” He was right.

To this day, 20 years later, I still have a beautiful, perfect copy of the photograph I took of Miquette before leaving Canada. It may have faded a little, maybe stretched a bit due to some weight gain on my part, but I wear it proudly. Miquette sits on my heart, for all to see, and there she’ll stay, “Till death do us part” as they say.