Jamie, King of Dogs
River Farm was a rundown homestead that had lingered on the market for over two years. Despite two price reductions, the old farmhouse had been unoccupied for over a year, its yard a tangle of brambles, thistles, rusting farm equipment and barbed wire. Among the many reasons the property failed to sell was the small family cemetery just fifteen feet from the front door of the home – a cluster of leaning, decaying headstones on a landlocked parcel within River Farm, separately deeded and not for sale. Ownership was vague and it held a long list of protective covenants.
At the first viewing I absorbed River Farm’s captivating setting, its privacy, its potential, and mulled over the wisdom of purchasing a home with someone else’s cemetery right outside my front door - funeral processions, shiny new monoliths, plastic flower displays came to mind. But a moment later my thoughts were interrupted by a very strange sight. A jet-black, densely coated dog lumbered out from behind the farmhouse, his front feet tripping over the empty 30lb dogfood bag he carried between his teeth. He dropped the bag at my feet, then plopped down beside a headstone. His perfect black labrador head and chunky torso were peculiarly balanced on four stubby, disproportionally short legs, which splayed out when he lay down. He looked as if he had been put together with random parts. I went over to pet him, but he responded with a low guttural growl. I stepped back. This was my first meeting with Jamie. The realtor looked over at him and said, it’s a divorce situation, both parties are living elsewhere until the place is sold. A helper comes by, drops off his food, and he gets water from the river. (I made a mental note that the river was at least 800 feet from the house). Jamie’s an outdoor dog, she added. The empty bag suggested that the helper was overdue. We walked the property and Jamie followed a few feet behind, waddling on those little legs, not taking his eyes off us. I asked, will someone be collecting Jamie? Oh yes, she said, it’s all arranged.
Linda McThoy Cobb graphite drawing
A week later at a second viewing, the beauty of the land, the mountains, the river, the potential, became seductive, the cemetery issue a minor blip. Contracts were exchanged. Jamie trotted out from behind the house and settled down by his headstone. There was a full bag of dogfood by the back door with a head-shaped hole in it, suggesting he was eating again. I spoke his name and he growled as before.
Just before closing, the realtor said, there’s a small problem - the arrangement for Jamie fell through. Would you consider keeping him? I sighed inwardly, treading a familiar path. None of my former dogs had been chosen, they had all “arrived”, including my two current mutts with their checkered histories, missing parts, and personality quirks. Jamie’s alternatives were bleak. I wondered who would adopt a stunted dog with a bad attitude. The local high-kill shelter would pop him into the incinerator in a nano second. Jamie’s history was sparse. He was a lab/chow mix, which made sense, although I think he was short-changed on both components. The realtor said he had spent his first two years mostly alone at River Farm, so he was a little suspicious of strangers. But I already knew I would keep him.
Jamie observed moving day from atop his favorite grave, and the lower half of the pitted headstone was smooth from his frequently resting body. He and my dogs bonded immediately and the next day all three disappeared, re-emerging muddy and hungry the following morning, Jamie leading the way. If dogs could beam, Jamie was beaming.
The real challenge was human contact. While he followed me everywhere, I still could not touch him. I left my truck passenger door open, thinking he might jump in, but it seemed the leap from ground to passenger seat was too much for him. Finally, a two-step system involving a straw-bale solved the problem and the next day Jamie was sitting shotgun in the truck, waiting. My other two jumped in the back seat, and we started taking local trips. But if I so much as looked at Jamie he would growl and show his teeth. Optimistically I interpreted this as smiling.
After a month, nothing had changed. I tried treats, no interest. I tried simple commands, but he only stared or waddled off. When not with me, Jamie would guard my possessions. If I’d left a tractor or wheelbarrow some distance from the house, he would lay next to it, even overnight, making sure it was safe. However, I started to worry about logistical matters, managing vet trips, emergency situations, people visiting.
While sitting by the river one evening and watching Jamie swim, there was a glimmer. He was a beautiful swimmer, totally at ease in the water, most of his body completely submerged, just a black nose tilting upwards, no splashing, no frantic paddling, no wake. Occasionally he would disappear completely under the water. He moved with a lithe, fluid grace that was unimaginable on land. Eventually he emerged, shook himself dry, and plopped down beside me.
Part of his body landed on my outstretched hand, and he leaned against my arm. I remained perfectly still, resisting the urge to pet him. He didn’t move. After a few minutes he got up and waddled over to the other two dogs on the bank.
Soon after the river event I was able to give Jamie a light rub on his chest, a monumental first step, and little by little he became more trusting. He continued his very determined attempts at jumping into the truck without a mounting device but crashed unceremoniously to the ground each time. Even with a running start to build momentum, he failed. His bottom half simply could not boost his top half. Finally, we perfected a move whereby, mid-leap, he allowed me to shunt his rear-end into the truck. This was teamwork. Finally, we could now do all the usual things people did with their dogs, park anywhere, snuggle, check for ticks, visit the vet (muzzled), play fetch. Jamie was becoming a normal dog.
Except, he wasn’t like other dogs. When he sat majestically in the truck, passersby often said that’s a good-looking lab, but the minute I opened the door and he scrambled down to the ground with a thud, they would roll in laughter and point at the odd sight he presented. Without fail, friends, relatives, everyone, joked about Jamie’s peculiar shape and his short little legs. I was comforted that he couldn’t understand.
So far, having someone else’s cemetery in our yard hadn’t posed any problems. No new burials or memorials appeared on our watch. Jamie still gravitated to the same spot. One morning a local farmer came to bushhog the fields and, to my surprise, he looked at Jamie and said, you’ve got a fine dog there, Ma’am. Elated, finally, to find one person in the world who didn’t laugh at my dog, I pointed to the headstone and asked if Jamie might have known someone buried under that spot. He said, not unless your dog’s 200 years old because that’s about the last time anyone was buried here. I’d say he just likes being in a sunny spot.
I was contented as the farmer prepared to leave. He shook my hand, wishing me a Good Day, Ma’am. Then, looking down at Jamie, he said ‘Bye Stumpy!
