He was born on an otherwise uneventful day in an otherwise uneventful year. The year was 1994, the day being the seventh, and the month was October. I wasn't there when he was born. I didn't even learn that he had been born until a few weeks later. I was oblivious to his passage into this world.
So there I was at work one day, and a coworker starts to yammer incessantly about her sister's puppies and how darn cute they are. They were Siberian Huskies, and being somewhat of a fan of the large working breeds, it caught my interest. How many were there, I asked. Four, I was told. How much did they cost, I inquired. Cheap, I was told. Could I possibly go look at them, I wondered. Of course, I was told.
Well, I still wasn't even sure if I wanted a dog. I lived a fairly free and easy lifestyle and liked to come and go as I pleased. Still, the puppies sounded too adorable for words, and I figured a quick peek at the little shits certainly couldn't hurt. I mean, I could always just walk away, right? I could always just set them down, push them away with my foot, and say sorry, that I just wasn't interested. Yes, and I could just as easily remove my own head, set it on the mantelpiece, and admire it, possibly even commenting on the perfection of my hair.
And so, off I went on a horribly cold and rainy night to “see the puppies” as they say, and saw the puppies I most certainly did.
Upon arrival at the breeder's home, I was led by these semi-strangers to their well lit and spacious garage to see the havoc and destruction that four Siberian Husky puppies can achieve if they are truly unified, have their minds set on destruction, and are well fed. These were four of the best fed and organized pups I have ever seen. Chaos and destruction was the game of the evening, and they triumphed in their art. They ran, they jumped, they yapped, they peed. Somewhere in the midst of all this, lay a tired but proud mother who looked up at me as if to say “please…… take one……… I'll do anything for sleep”.
I took note of each pup, checking it carefully to see if he or she could interest me enough to loosen my checkbook. I took a deep breath, and tightened the steel bands around my heart, as I wasn't going to give in easy.
The first was a silver male, striking and bold. He was running like a lunatic in circles, barking and just generally setting the destructive tone for the others. Next was a female beauty, her coat a soft and snowy white. She was chewing anything that came in her path, and her path covered everything and everyone. Fingers needed to be counted after playing with her. Up next, a slightly tubby red one who, despite his girth, tried desperately to get inside everything from a spare time to some old flowerpots, which nicely tipped over and broke, causing the silver male and the white female to yip and cavort even faster. The din was deafening.
And then there was the little black and white male.
He sat quietly, looking at me, as if to try and determine what this strange creature was who looked back at him with a big, dopey grin (uh, that would be me). I picked him up, and he didn't seem to mind, and that beautiful, incredibly soft ball of fur, with blue eyes like the tip of a glacial peak, fell into a deep sleep in my arms.
Did I have any choice whatsoever?
The steel bands around my heart split apart and flew away effortlessly. I paid my money, happily, and waited for the 26th of November to come along.
Dawn came on the 26th, and the family truckster headed off to where the pups would be waiting, and we were bubbling with excitement. Today was the day! The dishes and food were ready, as well as the leash and collar and treats and toys and everything else that was required to bring this sweet little guy into our home. We couldn't wait, and hoped he'd remember us. Yes, the silly thoughts of new parents filled our eager minds.
Once again we were led into the well-lit garage on that beautifully sunny November day, and once again we were immediately assaulted by four scampering balls of fur that had grown out of their awkward stage and had become a twisting cyclone of puppy-breathed fury. As before, three of the siblings were having a grand time of things, causing mischief and chaos, but where was the cute little guy who had fallen asleep in my arms?
It seems the devil himself had grown into his skin.
While the other pups were wild, this one had a wild streak that couldn't be matched. Boundless energy, wickedly fast, and a twinkle in his eye that you couldn't ignore. Any and all trouble cause by pups through history up until that point was merely a prelude to the onslaught that would be…………..
Raider.
One of his eyes had changed from the piercing blue to a soft brown, thus giving him a somewhat possessed look. His little face could be described as “adorably unhinged”. He was cute enough to break bones. I scooped him up as he squirmed like a berserk wolverine, and took him home.
“Here is your new home, Raider”, I said, as I plopped him onto the living room carpet, where he bounded away and proceeded to go out of his way to find new things to smash. What he didn't smash he chewed. What he didn't chew he smashed.
We loved him.
And later that night I would discover who the boss was.
There is an age old question that asks, “How many hours can you sleep the first night with a new puppy in the house?” The correct and obvious answer is of course, “yawn”. Raider howled and carried on and just couldn't simmer down. At one point in the night, bleary-eyed and zombie-like, I shuffled out to where the baby gates held him in the kitchen and stepping carefully over one to see if I could settle him down. Trying my hardest not to put my cold, bare foot into a fresh pile of puppy poop, I scooped him up to comfort him. Almost immediately he bore down with his tiny puppy teeth onto my left nipple with the strength of a wood clamp being twisted by Hulk Hogan.
I shrieked in agony.
He seemed utterly delighted.
I knew, right then, that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that if he was going to live in my house, that he would need obedience training, and need it fast.
His first obedience trainer, a very nice woman with more patience than Gandhi, finally after weeks of training said something along the lines of the dog having a spirit that couldn't be broken, and that he was going to be, in a nutshell, trouble. She insisted she could do nothing more for him, and tucking her whiskey flask into her back pocket she got in her car and tore away, throwing a shower of gravel.
And so I enrolled Raider in a more regimented class. Now there were other dogs in the class as well, so he'd have to behave. With much hard work, Raider learned to walk at my side in and out of the orange cones, and to sit next to an orange cone when I told him to, and to stay next to that orange cone until I called him to me. The weeks went by, and Raider became a star pupil. He graduated with honors. We had cake.
And so, every time we came across orange cones in our travels (which was exactly NEVER), Raider would behave. With no cones to be found, Raider went back to being the “shoot from the hip”, “devil may care”, one hundred pounds of attitude he was born to be. Obedience is for chumps, his eyes seemed to say, and he said it often.
Years passed.
There were many days when Raider was at the core of something truly destructive and mischievous. In an attempt to catch a passing squirrel while on a cable run I had put up for him, he managed to tear the door frame off the back door of my home, in addition to quite a bit of the siding, as well as rip down one of the shutters. His energy was something to marvel at, and he was amazingly fast for such a large dog. To see him running at full bore was enough to make cheetahs hang their heads and weep, and possibly consider alcohol.
He had a passion for cheese, popcorn, and after dinner mints from the dollar store (I have no bloody idea why, but he would howl in frustration until he got them). His toys were one of two things, either indestructible or rent to shreds immediately like tissue paper. When being walked, he pulled like demons were on his tail, to the point where he would often choke himself. When he jumped on the bed in the morning, his 100 pounds of bulk in your abdomen in a running leap from the floor could kick the wind out of you like a sledgehammer blow.
Hair enveloped my home and all who entered it.
He loved Christmas, and knew when his stocking was empty. He would run to where it was hung, throw back his head, and howl. When filled, he would almost knock it off the mantle where it was hung trying to get to it. There was never a human on this planet that enjoyed Christmas like this dog did. I would hype him to people, telling them what a unique animal he was, and few would truly understand unless in his presence. To experience Raider for the first time was something words cannot describe. You had to live it. It was something you didn't forget.
Years passed.
He became a celebrity in the circles I traveled. He was the only dog to ever escape from the local kennel (nicknamed “The Crowbar Hotel” for our pleasure), and then for him to go and do it twice made it even more amazing. On long walks in public places, small children would see this gentle (to children, always) giant coming at them and would exclaim, “Look, mommy… a WOLF”. When in the back of my truck in his crate, which had to be strapped down, he was like a Tasmanian devil, howling and thrashing and going insane (understatement) as we drove past people who turned to see what the heck was making such a sound. People far and wide knew Raider, and how he was the sweetest dog in the world, wrapped up in a muscular package that was always doing something unpredictable and crazy.
As he entered into his eleventh year, he started to slow down. Trips through the deep, deep snows on our snowshoeing route, something Raider loved above all things, would tire him out much easier than in his youth. He would often have trouble jumping into the back of my truck, and spent more time sleeping. Still, on the days when he was on top of his game he was still a brute force to be reckoned with, with an attitude to match. People would often ask if he had EVER calmed down from his puppy-like exuberance, and apart from an odd day here and there, the answer was always no.
I was enjoying his autumn years, and hoped he'd continue to amaze and delight for a long time.
I came home one day to find he had collapsed and could not get up. With the help of my then girlfriend, we got him to my truck, all 100 pounds of him, and rushed him to the vet. He was severely anemic, and had a huge tumor located in his abdomen. It was cutting off part of his stomach. He was at an old age for such a large breed, but I knew I had to try and save him. Damn the expenses, and spare nothing, I would tell the vet. Please save my friend.
We went to visit him the night before his surgery, and he was himself, once again. The vet was amazed, truly amazed, that the same dog I had to almost carry in a few days earlier had responded so quickly. His constitution was nothing short of amazing. We played, and I fed him treats, and the doctor said he would do the very best for him. When we were alone for a few minutes together, I got on my knees, and I held his face in my hands. Looking deeply into those oddly colored eyes, I told him, from the heart, that I loved him more than anything. I hugged him, and he actually let me hug him, something he never allowed anyone to do, ever. I believe it was a first. I sent him off with one of the staff, and I watched him leave. He looked back at me once, and I said a quiet prayer for his safety.
I never saw him again.
When the call came that Raider had not survived the surgery, the tears came hard. He had been my hiking partner and best friend for many years, and now I would have to go on without him. On rainy days, when it seemed he couldn't make up his mind to stay in or go out, I would get frustrated at having to clean his muddy feet again and again, but now I suddenly found myself wishing I could do it one more time. I would miss our game of “Don't touch me”. I would miss seeing his eyes light up and ears perk when I said the word “woods”. I would miss what he gave so freely each and every time I returned home.
Months passed.
Life began to reclaim my home and my heart. The loss, while seemingly unbearable on certain days, began to ease. Hiking in the woods near my home would never be the same. Should I live to be 99, it will never be the same.
And so I find myself in the present, with wonderful memories of a true and loyal companion who lived by his own rules and had a spirit this world could never break. I find myself today, October 7, 2005, on what would have been Raider's eleventh birthday, and as I watch the rain pour down on this gloomy evening, I think of my friend.
Sleep well, buddy. I love you.
“And so I raise my glass, in a last goodbye,
Sleep in peace old friend, for me you'll never die.
The best thing I can say, after all this time,
You were a real friend, of mine.”
–Roger Taylor (1994)