The Box-Kicker and the Old Dog

My best friend is sick. He has pneumonia. My best friend’s given name (given by me)  is Virgil Riley Runnels Crans, and I have known him since he was two. Across the sweep of his life (he’s about the same age as me, although no one really knows for certain) we have been dedicated to each other, leaving each other’s sides only when business took me away.

Today, I am at his side helping him to wage the fight for his life.

I met Virgil in August of 2014. He was living in a shed in Dubuque, Iowa, having just escaped a life of rummaging through the woods and backyards of Virginia, looking for food or hoping for a handout from a kind person. He found that kind person- an older man who fed him. Virgil lived in the woods by the old man’s house and the old man took it upon himself to make certain that Virgil (or Red as he was called then) had what he needed. The two became good friends. Unfortunately, the old man became very sick. His daughter came down to Virginia from Iowa to care for him, but unfortunately, he passed away- leaving a grieving daughter and leaving Red to fend for himself.

Well, if Red was nothing else, he was certainly (1) charming and (2) industrious, and when the old man’s daughter loaded up her car to return home, Red jumped in and went along for the ride.

To Dubuque, Iowa.

And that’s where we met- and not at the happiest times. My personal life was falling apart around me. My marriage was crumbling and to make matters worse, my beautiful red dog, Buddy, died unexpectedly in my arms at the veterinarian’s. We had saved Buddy from the streets of Dubuque when he was just past puppyhood, and the suddenness of his passing completely destroyed me.

I was totally blown away, but from somewhere in the back of my befuddled mind, I remembered a quote from Star Trek II, The Wrath of Khan in which Kirk says, “How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, don’t you think?” So I decided to deal with the loss of my Buddy by finding another dog. My wife’s aunt told her about a coonhound that a friend of hers had brought home and wondered if I would be interested. I had heard stories about coonhounds from my father-in-la, Pete Esser. He loved to talk about the coonhounds that lived in the little town in Wisconsin where he had grown up. They lived a rough life, with no comforts generally associated with the traditional house pet. They were housed in pens and ate leftovers and bones. They were shown no love or affection. They just toughed it out- their only positive experience being the joy of the hunt, which was always followed by a trip back to the cages and leftovers and no love.

Well, I figured, maybe I can do something for one coonhound in tribute to all those dogs that Pete liked to talk about.

So, I went to the house in Downtown Dubuque to meet a lady maned Ellen Rath and the coonhound that she was trying to give away. Ellen Rath is one of the kindest human beings I have ever met. She and her husband lived in a nicely maintained house in a working-class neighborhood. She met me at her gate and told me to be careful not to step in the dog poop in the yard. “We have six dogs already,” she said. “My husband won’t let me keep another one. I appreciate your interest, but I doubt that you will want him. He’s a coonhound, so he has the coonhound bark, and he has been traumatized. He is afraid of men. He was beaten and thrown away because he is afraid of loud noises and wouldn’t hunt. Have a seat on the lawn swing and I will go get him.”

I took a seat and waited. I heard her calling him. “Come, Red,” she said. “Come.”

Out of the green shed behind me, walking very slowly, came this scraggly, scrawny dog. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days, and while there was a large red spot on his back, the major portion of his body looked like he had just come through a major dust storm.

And I’ll be damned if he wasn’t smiling!

Then he did the most unbelievable thing. He walked over to the swing where I was sitting and jumped into my lap! Ellen was amazed. I was convinced- convinced that my job was to give this boy the best life possible.

So, I took him home. My wife Cathy decided that Red was not the correct name for him. She thought his coat was a dusty color and suggested the name Dusty. I agreed with the idea, but not because of the color of his coat. I had seen a red spot like the one on his back once before- on the right side of Virgil Riley Runnels Jr., The American Dream, Dusty Rhodes.

And Red had more in common than Rhodes beyond the big red birthmark. Dusty Rhodes (Virgil Riley Runnels Jr.), the professional wrestler, was given his nickname of Dusty by his father whose sports hero was Jim Dusty Rhodes, a reserve outfielder for the New York baseball Giants who became the Most Valuable Player in the 1954 World Series. So, both received nicknames to commemorate their father’s favorite. Like Rhodes, Dusty Crans came from a humble background. Rhodes was the son of a plumber; Dusty Crans was the son of a son of a tool and dye maker. Dusty Crans lived in the woods for most of his early life, while Dusty Rhodes, “Wined and dined with kings and queens and slept in an alley and dined on pork and beans. And both had one more thing in common: both were so genuine that people were immediately drawn to them. Rhodes had down home blue-eyed soul. Dusty Crans has mystical spirituality.

In January 2015, Dusty and I moved back to Ohio from Iowa. It wasn’t of our choosing, but as with everything in life, we decided to make the best of it. We bought a little blue house in a working-class section of Cleveland Heights and went about establishing ourselves. Along the way we picked up a calico cat named Ginger and a coonie named Isabell. We also picked up scores of friends and established a morning social group of dogs and their owners: Louis and his dog Charlie, Irvin and (dog) Loki, Paul and (dog) Cash and Courtney and (puppy) Walter being the regulars. Every morning we would chat for about an hour while the dogs interacted and begged for treats.

And one more thing: over those seven years both Dusty and I turned into old guys- one old dog and one old box-kicker.

On Thanksgiving, Dusty was barely able to move. I panicked and took him to the emergency vet. After $1,150.00 of diagnostic work and medications, it was determined that the old guy had pneumonia. The next day, I followed up with a visit to my vet. Another $650.00 bought me some IV fluids and additional advice- advice that included: take the medicine, give him some mild exercise, keep him comfortable, take him out for brief walks, wait and hope for the best.

For the last couple of days, I have been following the instructions. As it is woth humans, pneumonia in dogs is an insidious disease. And also as it is with humans, the old ones are more susceptible to the worst outcomes.

I am amazed as I watch him. He has established his sick room in my office. He patiently rests as he waits for the medicine to take effect and for his lungs to clear. I am not leaving his side and have taken to sleeping on the floor next to my dear friend each night.

We do have one thing going for us: both the Old Dog and the Old Box-kicker are pretty tough. I am in awe as I watch Dusty deal with this and it makes me think that perhaps Kirk got it backwards. Perhaps how we deal with LIFE is at least as important as how we deal with death.

Don't you think?