Boxer chose us: he showed up one fall Colorado day and didn't leave. It helped, of course, that Coco gives all dogs who visit a treat—Kraft Singles cheese or, if it's more of a dessert dog, a Nilla Wafer.
Boxer was a dessert dog.
"Cookie" and "cheese" were among those human words in his vocabulary, as were commands like "stay" (sort of) and "come" (sort of) and "sit" (60 percent of the time) and "shake" (he arrived knowing this one). He also understood general praise and adoration—things like "good boy, Box"—but never quite connected "porcupine" with anything negative (three hundred-dollar vet visits later). But one word was music to his ears: walk.
This word, no matter who said it, was associated with me. He'd hunt me down, wake me up on a Saturday morning, whining and panting outside my door because someone forgot that we spell out W-A-L-K in this house. Other things triggered this response without uttering the word; if I put on my running shoes, he'd start stalking. If I started filling my water bottle with ice cubes, it was an all-out frenzy. Imagine his disappointment when I was just using the elliptical. But once you uttered THE word—even a whisper, "You want to go for a
walk?"—you witnessed the doggy touchdown-dance.
Boxer was my trail buddy. As soon as spring thawed enough of the five-mile loop that is my slice of Colorado heaven, we'd go running. In his younger years, I was too slow: he'd yo-you back and forth, getting way ahead, then checking back. In his golden years, I was too fast. He trailed nonchalantly four yards or so behind—and he cheated, cutting corners, waiting in a giant fir's shade while I got done with the
long way.
He wasn't much protection. Sure, he'd bark at the elk, who in Evergreen couldn't give two hoots about a dog. He had such a warbly bark as it was. It was useless in keeping varmint out of the house. His arch nemesis was a fox, one who came down to the deck every morning to eat Boxer's breakfast and leave a little poop on the deck-door rug. Foxy Locksy, we called him. And then there was that porcupine.
Boxer hated Lake Powell—and all bodies of water, and the hose, for that matter. But more than that, he despised being left behind. So he braved Utah's desert seas each summer. And this summer, he was dearly missed on the houseboat, bad attitude and all.
After 14 years, a week before the trip, my mom and Jace had to take him to the vet for the last time, scratching that spot behind the ears as he drifted into his last nap. The last thing they could get him to eat before he refused all food: Nilla Wafers.
We miss our dessert dog.
