Fresh off the proverbial bus from the Midwest, at the ripe age of twenty, I was certain I knew enough to become some kind of major Force in a strange, new, big city. What kind of force, exactly, wasn’t clear. I had energy, youth, better than average looks and some smarts. Somehow, I’d figure the rest out.
Working at various jobs, I tried on new career choices as often as new hair styles. What I really wanted was to break into "The Biz" - show business - in some capacity other than acting. Necessary for that to occur requires a combination of good contacts, good delivery and good luck. The delivery part however, usually seemed to include some form of prostitution for which my decent Catholic upbringing would surely burn in hell over.
Between professional disappointment and a personal kaleidoscope of ever changing friends and boyfriends, my world seemed to be doing a chaotic spin out of control. Had I been truly smart, I would’ve packed it in and moved back. Stubbornness prevailed, I suppose, that, and having little to return for.
In time, I joined forces with another gal who seemed to know the ropes. She had actually acted with Dustin Hoffman, for all of thirty seconds on screen. Her resume had some credibility aside from college or drama school productions. If our business plans were pie-in-the-sky, we at least had each other’s company in coo-coo land. Things seemed to be coming together in my path to glory.
I had a decent apartment with lovely city views, a career to focus upon and was free of a long time, substance-abusing boyfriend. Life was looking rosy.
One morning, arriving at work (my partner’s walk-up basement pad), a young collarless stray dog approached me. He was hungry, thirsty and lonely. His ribs stuck through a tawny smooth coat. Somehow we two orphans of the city connected and that was pretty much that. Except. Having a dog in an apartment that didn’t allow pets - I could only sneak him in and out for so long before some cranky neighbor turned me in.
Also, he was such a well-mannered young (neutered) male that someone must surely want him back. No purebred, but a shepherd mix, with white collar and amber eyes with a wild coyote look. Of course, I immediately started calling him my little Gypsy dog, to which he responded and trotted obediently along, as well heel-trained as any Seeing eye dog.
I made some half-hearted attempts to find his rightful owner, looking in the papers under lost and found and calling a few local vets. After four or five days, I found the owner; sad for me, happily for them. I promised to return him on Saturday.
Early in the afternoon, I drove up the winding canyon road some five miles from my apartment to their large, gated estate. A pack of kids and parents welcomed us in. They checked out the dog and declared he wasn’t their missing pet, but would be willing to give him a good home.
A large yard, a pool, a big happy family - it all added up to the perfect home for my newfound stray. So I did the right thing and left him there, knowing he’d have a good dog life. Driving home I felt sad leaving my buddy behind, and glad he’d been adopted.
Later in the afternoon, I received a phone call from the father, angry at me for leaving a crazy vicious dog with them. Gypsy had apparently bitten several of the family members and bolted free of the fenced estate. The father was convinced I might know the dog’s whereabouts, but didn’t want the dog back.
I was horrified! My sweet little stray had never shown the slightest aggression in the time I’d kept him. Apologizing profusely, I felt responsible, but how could I have known?
I spent the next day wondering over Gypsy’s fate, back on the streets of Los Angeles, what would become of him: cars, coyotes, dogcatchers? No good choices occupied my thoughts.
My partner and I were headed out to our favorite Sunday night pizza place up on Sunset Boulevard, less than a mile from my apartment. I parked the car, looked down the sidewalk and watched in amazement as my little Gypsy dog came trotting up to me, smiling his doggy smile. I called him into the car, he jumped in and the rest would be figured out. Gypsy was definitely mine.
Gypsy was my constant protector and watch dog for the next eleven years. He helped mother my two kids, never snapping nor biting anyone again. Although he did threaten a few people, I learned to trust his judgment as my guardian angel dog. Even as he aged and became less active, he always accompanied me wherever I went, just happy to watch over me.
Long after we’d moved out of the city, we took a day trip with the kids to a theme park, leaving Gypsy behind with a house-guest. Later in the day, I called in to find out how things were going at home, only to be told that my princely protector had quietly gone outside, laid down under my kitchen window and died.
I buried him within that kitchen window’s view, planting a plum tree as a marker to the first, best dog to guide me through my grown-up life. The tree grew thick and strong from the love that seeped out of his weary body.
And I will never forget my guardian angel dog, who came along at a time in my life when I was spinning so wildly, insanely out of control. He brought me a sense of duty, a return to my family values, a life of normalcy. He set me on my life long walking habit. And he always, always was there for me: demanding nothing, accepting whatever time and attention I had left after the demands of motherhood exhausted me beyond capacity. He showed me the gift of unconditional love and gave me the foundation to be the mother to my own little wolf pack: the power of DOG.
Nancy Nylen is a woman of many roles, newly retired from the single mother post (her youngest left the nest to attend university in San Diego), she is now adjusting to being just plain single…writing down the pathways of life. Stop by to visit her at: http://www.causeoflife.com
