Jefe

Adopted 1 August 1986 in Tulsa – died 29 June 1995 in Tulsa

Early Sunday morning 27 July 1986 I let Ponson (Blog bio 22 FEB 2017) and Bonus (Blog bio 26 APR 2015) out.  After a quick pee they both rushed to the fence staring at a car parked across the street.  Under the chassis there was a dog, flat on his belly. He didn’t stir at my whistling nor did he try to run away when I approached carefully for a closer look. He remained static, eyes wide open, panting intensely. The temperature was fast climbing to 104°F that day. Neither cooing nor treats would entice him until I brought a bowl of water. Slowly he crawled out and still on his belly he drank desperately.

It took a few seconds to realize what I was seeing: He glistened under the sun ... like bubble wrap.  Covered head to tail with engorged ticks, he was a skeletal, young Shepherd-Retriever mix who could hardly stand.  Why most animal emergencies happen on weekends and holidays is an enigma, but once again, the sainted Dr. McCoy came to the rescue on a Sunday.  “He is carrying most of his blood on his back,” he observed sadly.

Transfusions, medicated baths ... the works ... and on 1 August the skinny red dog came home to fill the void left by Xuska a few days earlier (Blog bio 2 JUL 2012).  After three days of intensive care, the nearly exanguined dog was as irrepressible as a 9-month-old pup should be.  The human offenses that nearly killed his body didn’t make a dent on his spirit. He exuded joy of life.

First day at home; bald spots from tick infestation. Two years later.

Without hesitation he blew into his home, bossing the two older resident dogs, the cats, my parents (my father died 26 days later of vascular disease), and defying me as a source of great amusement. No other name would do but “Jefe” (Chief and Boss).

Ignoring Gloria's "down".

On Friday 13 October 1987 we went for an early walk and, imprudently, I took Jefe off leash to let him burn some energy. He crossed the sleepy 17^th Place just as the one and only car approached.  The impact was severe, but worse was being rolled under the chassis, which few dogs survive. Jefe did, with only a cracked pelvis and a slight decrease of exuberance, if only temporary. The definitive shaping of his personality, however, came almost one year later, when his play pal and mentor, Bonus, died.

Had I believed in the immortal soul, I would bear witness to transmigration. After the ritual of lying Bonus’ body in state, I sought relief in a walk. Taking Jefe along was counterintuitive, but his loss was as great as mine and we both needed distraction. Only a few steps into our walk I stopped in disbelief – in every detail Jefe was behaving like Bonus – considerate, relaxed, stately. The drastic transformation was sudden and permanent. Jefe remained Bonus-like, a living memorial – a trouble-free companion and a mentor to consecutive pack mates Kissu, Maximus, and Estrella (Blog bios 22 JAN 17, 10 NOV 2016, and 30 APR 2017).   

Jefe with soul mate Bonus.

Why Jefe needed a splenectomy I don’t remember; Dr. McCoy’s old files long gone, he doesn’t remember either.  On 24 June he began bleeding internally after “another vessel ruptured” as I wrote in my diary. Letting Nature take its course, he died 29 June at 6:45. I was with him all night.  These facts of his final illness and death were nowhere in my mind until I found a scribbled note taken from my diary. Perhaps the protracted process of his death was too painful to remember; but, no, it was sweet and I was with him.

He was the last of the dogs my father knew. Salvador and Jefe were good together. I miss them both.