Phoebe II

It was Uncle Louie who did the despicable deed. None of the rest of us could do it. Certainly not me! Instead I locked myself in the bathroom, sobbed all day, and never forgave my uncle for the rest of his life.

Louie had taken the feeble Phoebe to the vet and left her there for the doctor to infuse her with a poison so toxic that she died in an instant, breaking all of our hearts. He didn’t even wait for the vet to begin. He just dumped her there, paid the vet’s secretary, and walked out, leaving our beloved Phoebe shivering and terrified. She knew. She was always a smart one. No. A brilliant one. She knew.

I did understand, really I did. Phoebe and I were the same age, 15 and a half. For me that was the beginning of womanhood. For her it was the final decline. A dog who reaches that age is considered lucky. A good life and old age. Not bad for a street mutt retrieved from the slums of Brooklyn. But Phoebe was so much more. It was hard to even consider her a dog. She and I grew up together and we understood each other. Letting go was like a frightening bad dream — except it wasn’t a dream. It was real.

I really did fathom why this had to happen. Phoebe was now completely blind and would fall down the four steps leading to the back yard several times each day. It had to be painful, and her bones were in constant danger of being broken. She also had asthma and coughed day and night, struggling to catch her breath. She could not go on like that. Her suffering was not going to be alleviated by any treatment. The veterinarian agreed that a painless quick death was the only thing that would relieve her misery. Yes. I did understand, and so did the rest of our family. It was just not having the courage to do the deed. None of us could do it. Only Uncle Louie.

Phoebe was not like any other dog we would adopt in the coming years. We were destined and eager to be a dog family, and even now, in our ancient years, when a dog would be a burden that would physically challenge us, we still miss the companionship and love that a dog provides.

Phoebe, however, was not just a pet. She was a guardian with a real job. A career.

My maternal grandmother, Peshka, was wheelchair bound but never resigned to the immobilization. Home alone all day, she was inclined to escape the chair’s confines, which caused her to fall down to the floor, a dangerous, life-threatening event. She needed a companion, a reliable reporter, someone who would bark incessantly enough to alert Uncle Charlie in his dental office, one flight above, when the escapes were attempted. Thus was Phoebe put to work, first as a deterrent, and occasionally as a rescuer. She never failed in her heroics, and our family championed her numerous successful interventions.

After several years of canine supervision, at only 62 years old, Peshka ultimately succumbed to her grave condition. But Phoebe remained in her exalted position, retired as a caretaker but beloved as a member of our family.

It became obvious that Phoebe loved us all but that my father, Sam, was her clear favorite. A mere mention of his name would awaken her from sound sleep, displaying her most alert response, the one ear up, one ear down, excited animation look, always accompanied by a rapidly wagging tail. It came as no surprise when we were in summer mode, in Parksville, and she determined that it was nearing Shabbat. She would interpret the many signals heralding the holy day and know that it meant Sam was on his way.

What were the signals that a very smart dog witnessed that signified that the wonderful event was soon to be? One came from Mom’s kitchen. During the week our meals were simple, unadorned, nutritionally adequate but distinctly non-fancy. No shiny silver and no immaculate white tablecloth greeted us

It’s easiest to say we ate but we didn’t dine.

Shabbat was a complete reversal. We certainly dined to fulfillment, always generating sufficient scraps to delight the hungriest dog. It was win-win for all of us. And Phoebe could discern that this was clearly not everyday, pedestrian fare. So could we all.

She also could see that the Bauman House women were more carefully doing their hair and makeup, and dressing more elegantly in anticipation of their husbands’ arrival, after a five-day absence, for the jobs in the city that sent them scurrying back to Queens, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Newark each summer Sunday. These tender family reunions were another sign that Shabbat was on the way.

For Phoebe, the best motivation was to hear that “Sam is coming.” She already knew this, but the verbal confirmation sent her to her lookout post. She would perch on the porch corner where she could see the parking lot and listen for the noisy, distinctive rumble of Dad’s car. Once it pulled in she would fly with abandon to greet him with joy and passion. Such love! All these 70-plus years ago and my eyes still fill with tears at the memory of those tender moments. I remember them as if they were yesterday.

I have more to tell you about our Phoebe. Look for Phoebe III soon!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of 12. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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