Calhoun's Cannons for Oct 11, 2013
Her mother brought
her back inside her belly after a hot date with a good ol' Georgia
boy. She and her siblings would be the new scions of an old line breeding with
Champion Kenset Made in the USA.
And after a whelping that started out
with difficulty -- her big-headed sister having gotten stuck for a while in the
birth canal -- she popped out, one of
four wet, mouse-brown puppies and one exhausted mother. And in honor of
her journey, I named the pup Zuri a Kusini Mizigo -- Beautiful Southern Baggage
-- and called her Mizigo, for short.
Her lineage promised a kind of Basenji concentrate, Basenji
x 10, and when I saw her starting to climb out of the X-pen almost before she
could walk, I knew I was in trouble. In
short order the tribe earned their well-deserved nickname: The Hideous Georgia Babies. Even their mother
fled her duties as soon as she could, leaving much of the mothering to her own
mother, the gentle-eyed M'Tawi, who apparently tolerated their concentrated
Basenji-ness better than most.
Two of the clan went to live in Morro
Bay and I would get frequent
reports, complete with much eye-rolling and long, exasperated sighs -- a normal
response from all Basenji owners. And
two stayed here with the rest of the tribe of greats and grands, mothers and
uncles, all of whom snarked and rolled their eyes as well.
That was nearly 16 years ago and over time the tribe, one
by one, passed on until Mizigo was the last Basenji standing in what had then
become a house of tall dogs -- rescue racing greyhounds, a greyhound cross, and
a sleek Sloughi. But, being a Basenji,
she was up to the challenge, chugging her way determinedly among the forest of
legs, firmly demanding her place in this now-towering tribe, a tough little
Dame who must be obeyed. Which they did,
gazing to heaven and stepping out of her way.
Even when time began to take it's toll, her fierce will
would brook no concessions. She came
down with some sort of chronic gut infection that couldn't seem to be cured,
only maintained, and when it broke out, she would collapse and take to her bed,
hovering at death's door. I would tuck
her in and say my tearful good-byes, sorrowfully mourning, convinced that come
morning, she would be gone.
But the next morning, there she was, up and hoovering around
for food. A miracle!
Then it happened again.
And again. Collapse, death's door, sorrow, Boo-hoo good-byes, sleep, then, "Where's
breakfast?" After three or
four of these episodes I started
referring to her as my Resurrection Dog and rolled my eyes and after a while
found myself in half-jest starting to
whisper, "Go into the light,
Sweetie, " then firmer, "Time to go into the light, Mizigo,"
then hollering, "GO INTO THE LIGHT, DAMMIT!"
But she wasn't about to listen to me. She was on her own
focused journey and would do every step of it her own way, thank you very
much. So I rolled my eyes and followed
behind, with medicine and baby-food at the ready, a steadying hand when her
balance left her tipsy, and a mop handy when she got confused about where the
back door had suddenly gotten to.
And marvel at her astonishingly fierce determination and
iron will; she would do what she would do and if old age and infirmity made that hard, well,
she'd just work around that however she could and I could jolly well get out of
her way.
That was our new covenant until the end, which came with
stunning rapidity. She had eaten her
dinner, then within a couple of hours, began her final collapse. I packed her into bed and made her as
comfortable as possible. By the next
morning I knew she wouldn't be up and hoovering for food. When we got to the
doctor's office, she was more than ready to step into the green darkness where
all her tribe was waiting for her, eyes gleaming. And with barely a whisper, she was gone.
The house is a tall dog house now, some thirty years of
Basenji energy gone, an era ended.
Mizigo's ashes will join all her
relatives in the back yard, to be transformed into flowers and vines, a yard
filled with little ghosts.
And memories.
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