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Warning to people who dislike dogs: Don’t read this column. Life in the 70s is going to lapse into personal canine history. I’m a dog lover, and I’ve had a few of them.
QuaQua was one of the best: a smart and diplomatic miniature poodle who made me happy every day I was with her. And she was happy with me.
The dog loved her master. She enjoyed being with me, hanging out beside me watching TV. We were pals.
And she’s gone. I’ve lost my latest dog, and I’m almost certainly too old to acquire another four-legged companion. (Unless I shop at a taxidermist. But that isn’t going to happen.)
I had to have my latest dog put down in late summer. QuaQua had illnesses that could not be cured.
The woman delivering the final verdict was an excellent veterinarian whom I’d dealt with for many years … and for more than one dog. She delivered a fatal injection, and I spent time alone with my dog, watching her gently fade away.
A sad occasion.
This 76-year-old has been a dog lover since my earliest childhood.
I was born in Saint John, N.B. The city, in 1948, was where a baby boy could be parked on the occasionally sunny street, accompanied only by a dog who sat as a sentry next to the cradle.
No one tried to kidnap the baby. And no one bothered a large-sized protective canine.
Those were the good old days followed, sadly, by bad old days.
My mother married outside her Jewish religion. My father was a good-looking fella who was three years out of the Second World War army service and in the process of becoming the franchisee of an Irving gas station.
I can’t go into the details because my mother never talked about it. By the time I was five, the marriage had headed south and my mom and I went west.
Her father lived in Montreal. So that’s where we moved.
My mother got a job as a bookkeeper in what was then a healthy garment industry. We lived in a small apartment that didn’t allow dogs.
I had some difficult early years. No father, no dog, no ability to speak and/or understand the primary language of the province to which we had relocated.
One of my neighbours had a great dalmatian. It was the only dog on the street. We kids loved it. Then we went back to our “No Dog” apartments and duplexes, watching Lassie and Rin Tin Tin on black-and-white television.
My five years at McGill University included government financing for a single-parent student. I moved downtown and lived with a girlfriend. We loved dogs and rescued one from the SPCA.
Great dog. But the romance fizzled; the dog went to a friend.
I was a hopeless pot-addled student who wrote for the university newspaper — which changed my life.
I was lucky to get a newspaper job at the now-defunct Montreal Star. I was even luckier to be hired by the Montreal Gazette when the Star folded.
I got married. We had a daughter. And a succession of great dogs — all of them Boston terriers.
We loved our child. We loved our pets.
Our relationship, however, didn’t last. My ex and I separated when our daughter was in her late teens.
But life continues, right? My daughter excelled in university; my ex remarried.
And I hooked up with a great partner. Each of us had a miniature poodle. As I wrote a couple of years ago, the four of us were a cute quartet.
Then canine illness happened. QuaQua, at 15, had issues that couldn’t be fixed.
And so once again, I had to have my dog put down. An injection, then maybe 10 minutes of watching my beloved dog passing away.
I love my partner’s dog.
I pet every friendly dog I meet.
I admire them on Facebook and on TV.
But that’s it for me and pets. QuaQua was my beloved four-legged ball game.
— Mike Boone writes the Life in the 70s column. [email protected]