Jasmine Blue's Tails of the Dog Park
Chapter 11: An incredibly sensitive dog
by Susan Dyer Reynolds


On Monday afternoon, June 16, Jasmine Blue’s new trainer, Michael Wombacher, came to the house for our first session. The second thing he did, after shaking my hand, was to lie down on the floor next to Jazzy, which she seized as the perfect opportunity to try one of her stealth tongue kisses. Some people like it and some people don’t; fortunately, after 20 years working with dogs, Mike doesn’t mind. He then did a general assessment, going through a few maneuvers like putting a treat on the floor and saying, “Off.” Of course, Jazzy went straight for the treat and promptly got squirted by a water bottle. You would have thought he had beaten her with a stick from the woeful look on her face. Again, Mike put a treat on the floor. Jazzy looked longingly at it, but didn’t move – even though the bottle was behind Mike’s back, she wasn’t about to tempt fate. “Go ahead,” he told her; still, she didn’t move. After encouraging her a second time, Jazzy timidly went for the treat, and then lay down on her dog bed with that same woeful look.

“She is going to be a very easy dog to train,” Mike said, stroking her ear. “She’s really smart and she’s incredibly sensitive.”

After Mike left I went downstairs to check on my dad, who was watching the Boston Red Sox play the Oakland A’s, his two favorite teams in the world. I brought him an O’Doul’s, and Jazzy climbed into bed with him and tried to sneak in one of her famous French kisses. My dad laughed, and she wagged her big pittie butt fast and furious. “I love my granddog,” he said as Jazzy’s tongue made a misguided dip nearly into his nostril. “I know,” I smiled, “and she loves you, too.”

One week later, on Monday, June 23, my father passed away quietly in his sleep.
The day that followed was a whirlwind of friends taking turns making sure I was never alone. Northside San Francisco publisher, John Gollin, and vice president of advertising, Ryan Bentham, kindly drove down to San Jose to pick up his long-time girlfriend, Kickie. When she arrived, she fell into my arms, a pile of grief and tears. I was in shock – I cried that morning when I found my father, but now I felt numb.

Later that evening, when Kickie and I were alone, we sat on the sofa as we always did when she visited. We tried to watch TV; we talked a bit; but mostly we just sat in silence. Suddenly, Kickie perked up.

“Where’s Jazzy?” she asked. Normally when we watched TV, Jazz was there – usually on the sofa between my dad and Kickie while I sat cross-legged on her dog bed because there wasn’t enough room on the sofa for four.

“Maybe she has to go out,” I said. Kickie needed to get some medicine downstairs, so she said she would let her out to do her final business. After several minutes, Kickie returned. She was clutching my dad’s favorite cap and tears were streaming down her face. “Jazzy is laying on Dad’s side of the bed,” she told me. “She got up and went into his dressing room, she sniffed inside his shoes and his slippers, and then she got back up on his side of the bed again. She looks so sad, like she knows.”

The rest of the week was another whirlwind of friends, phone calls from family, and trying to comfort Kickie. On Saturday, I drove Kickie home, and when I returned, it was the first time I had been alone since the morning I found my father dead … and that’s when it finally hit me. Unable to hold it in any longer, I curled up on my bed and sobbed. Less than a minute later, I felt something push at my back. I turned around and through bleary, swollen eyes, I saw Jasmine Blue above me holding her big stuffed pink bunny. Her ears were back and her butt was wagging tentatively. I turned over and continued to sob. Again, I felt something nudge my back. This time she had her orange octopus. “Go away, Jazzy,” I said. But it happened again and again – three, four, five, six, seven ... this time she had her Girducken, a stuffed duck with giraffe spots. When I saw it staring down at me in all its ridiculous glory, I couldn’t help but smile. This made Jazzy’s butt wag faster and she did something she never does – instead of walking in circles around me, her “gift” held tightly in the perfect tease, she actually let me have it. When I sat up, I discovered that she had taken every single one of her toys out of her toy box; they were scattered on the bed and some were on the floor leading out of my room. It was as if she were determined to find the right toy, the one that would make me stop crying, the one that would make it better. I wrapped my arms around her big, muscular neck. She sat steadfast as I wept into her fur for what seemed like an eternity. I let go to get a tissue, and when I turned back, she was still there, Girducken back in mouth. Again I wrapped my arms around her neck and sobbed into her fur until it was soaked; she never moved, but she wouldn’t give up either. She rubbed her cheek against mine, she pawed at my arm, and she tried to put that damned Girducken in my mouth. When I started to laugh, she dropped it on the bed and tried, as always, to slip me the tongue. Some people like it and some people don’t; I’m one of those people who don’t mind an occasional slip of the tongue from an incredibly sensitive dog.

E-mail: Jasmine@northsidesf.com