I own a very unusual dog. His name's Snugs and we figure he's a cross between a Collie and a Golden, with a little Borzoi thrown in to keep him from ever getting middle aged spread. The kids and I adopted him at Helen Woodward's Animal Care Center about ten years ago knowing even then that he was emotionally challenged. He cringes. He cowers. Loud noises send him diving into the nearest corner, where he curls himself into a tight little ball and shivers. Fire crackers are his worst nightmare, but he gets almost as panic-stricken by the Goodyear (or any other) blimp. He doesn't fetch, bark at burglars (we got robbed once and he just sat there) and sometimes he won't eat for days.
Snugs howls at the door and barks if we leave him outside. This is the only time he barks, mind you! In his younger days he'd climb over the fence like a cat to get out of the yard like I'd imprisoned him or something. I'd pull into the driveway and he'd slink out from under a bush where he'd been napping stretching and wagging his tail at me, while giving me one of those slightly ticked off looks that made it abundantly clear I'd done him wrong.
Yet we love this dog. Derek sleeps with him every night. When he was still in diapers, Derek would climb onto Snugs' back and take his afternoon nap on top of him both of them on the sofa. I've taken countless trips to Mexico just me and him in the van. In fact, in all these years I've never gone anywhere without him unless he was plain old not invited. And no, he's never stayed in a kennel. He's "visited" neighbors and family but I would never dare institutionalize him. He was far too traumatized the first time, back when he was seven months old and his first owners rejected him and put him up for adoption. Let's face it he's way, way too sensitive to be treated like a dog.
That brings me to the kayaking part. It all started one day on the beach in Baja about four years ago. I'd just gotten two kayaks for my birthday. We were at the family casita in La Bufadora a few miles down the road from Ensenada. The morning dawned hot and mostly sunny, except for a few wispy ribbon clouds. The humidity was down and the Santa Ana winds were blowing. It promised to be a perfect beach day. Gayle, Derek and I were anxious to try out our new boats. We loaded them into the van, packed up our beach gear and cooler, called for Snugs and took off.
We launched the boats, one by one. Gayle got in one and Derek and I got in the other. We paddled off. Thirty seconds later the howling began. I turned my kayak around and grimaced. Snugs stood in the shallow water, wailing as pitifully as if he'd been abandoned for good. I came close to shore and tried to reason with him. Some friends tried to distract him. No luck. He wouldn't shut up and he wouldn't budge. He wasn't about to let us strand him there on the beach. We paddled back and beached our boats, wondering what in the world to do next.
"Mom," said Gayle. "I have an idea. What if we put him on my boat? Maybe that'll keep him quiet."
"Snugs? On a kayak? Are you nuts? He's scared of his own shadow. What makes you think he'd want to go kayaking?"
"Well,
it's either that or take him home and lock him in the house," said Derek---ever
the pragmatic son.
I sent
the kids off in one boat and started talking to the dog explaining to him
why it would be in his best interests to get on my kayak, sit quietly and
enjoy the ride. He listened. He got on. He sat down and, after a minute
or two, he lay down with his head on his paws and started soaking up the
view. We cruised out to the edge of the bay. Tourists visiting La Bufadora
to see the Blow Hole started pointing at us. Someone sounded an air horn.
Someone else blew a conch horn. The kids and I waved. Snugs sat up and
struck his most handsome pose. He was loving it! He was finally famous
for something else besides being a wimp!
Yes, he kayaks with me to this day. I wouldn't even dare think about leaving him onshore! The minute that boat hits the surf, he's in it, lying down with his head on his paws. I've often wondered, though, if he really enjoys it as much as he acts like he does or if he just can't bear the idea of being left behind....
REPRINTED
FROM THE COAST NEWS, DECEMBER 9, 1999
FYI:
Snugs died on March 20, 2000. Here is Ann's goodbye to him, REPRINTED FROM
THE COAST NEWS, MARCH 30, 2000:
GOODBYE
SNUGS ...
YOU
WERE THE BEST by Ann Hazard
There’s
a red rosebud in a blue vase sitting on the end table next to my desk.
It’s where Snugs always slept. He died yesterday—after being part of my
family for 10 years.
We found
him at Helen Woodward’s back when Derek was two and a half and Gayle was
barely five. He had one of those plastic lamp shades on his head because
he’d just been neutered, but he came right up to us, put his nose through
the bars of his cage and let us pet him. Looking into his eyes, even then,
when he was only six months old, was fairly disconcerting. There was a
sadness, a depth and sensitivity in them that you don’t expect to see in
a dog. It was like he was a human trapped in a dog’s body. The people at
Helen Woodward’s told us we shouldn’t adopt him—that he was too timid and
had been given up because the family’s other dogs beat up on him. We didn’t
care. We were smitten. We knew he needed us and we knew we needed him.
Derek and Snugs bonded big time. That bond never faltered, but grew stronger as the years passed. Snugs had been aptly named by his first owners. He was the most snuggly dog I’ve ever known. If a group of people were sitting or standing around, he’d come up to someone and park his nose against one of their thighs. Invariably he would get plenty of pets that way. Everyone who knew him (unless they weren’t dog people) adored him. His specialness was so clearly obvious. People sensed his fragility too. There was something about Snugs that made you want to protect him.
He
slept on Derek’s bed every night. He didn’t just curl up by my son’s feet—he
slept with him spoon-style. As Derek and I went through our photo albums
yesterday afternoon, we laughed and we cried. There was the picture of
Derek in his feety jammimes, using Snugs as his back rest, reading a picture
book, at about age four. There was one of Gayle and Derek laughing as they
posed with Snugs, who was wearing my wedding dress and a couple plastic
leis. Snugs used to walk the two of them to the bus stop on the corner
every morning when they were in elementary school. 
As
soon as the bus left, he’d trot on back home. We have a picture of that
too. And one of Gayle dancing with him and singing karioke when they were
both about the same height. We’ll always cherish the pictures we have of
Snugs kayaking in La Bufadora. We couldn’t leave him on shore because he’d
howl like a banshee. He used to let the kids bury him up to his head in
the sand there too. Lots of people have pictures of that! Finally, we went
through the pile of photos from our recent holiday trip down Baja. There
were so many of him running on the beach like a puppy, his tail in the
air, chasing Gonzo. Gonzo gave him a new lease on life—for a while.
Snugs was a comfort to me in times of stress and loneliness. The year I lived in Huntington Beach he was my only friend. Every morning we’d walk on the beach together. Over the years, when my kids were gone for weekends, it was me and Snugs who’d hop into the van and head south to Baja. He never stayed in a kennel in all those years. On the few occasions I went somewhere that he couldn’t come along, he stayed with my neighbors Chuck and Christy, or with Kathy. He was like family to them too. In fact, he was the only dog Kathy’s kids weren’t afraid of. They named him “Snugs the Wonder Dog.” Kathy reminded me yesterday of the time I accidentally shut him in my closet. She and I called and called for him. When we couldn’t find him anywhere, we scoured the neighborhood. We made flyers and put them on every telephone pole. My folks came over and helped in the search. By the time Gayle and Derek came back from their dad’s, we were pretty much sure he was gone for good. I told Gayle. She burst into tears. A moment later we heard a bark. She ran into my room, flung the closet door open and threw herself on the dog.
For
reasons I’ll never know (this side of heaven), Snugs was never was really
okay being a dog. There were times when he would retreat into himself and
shiver and shake. We made jokes about it and decided he was autistic, but
it was hard on us when he had those spells. Fireworks drove him bananas.
Any loud noise did, but fireworks were the worst. Every Fourth of July
he would find the darkest, most remote corner around and curl up into a
tiny, quivering ball. One year he ended up in my friends, Jack and Ardell’s
bed! No matter how much we tried to calm him
and
love him out of his fear, he was usually a basket case until the next day.
My favorite memory of all is from back when Derek was three. I couldn’t find the picture yesterday, but I will never forget it. Snugs was asleep on the family room couch. Derek was sound asleep right on top of him, his diapered bottom sticking up in the air. You know, Snugs wasn’t really a dog to us. He was a member of our family and we will miss him mightily ... for a long, long time....
© 1999 and 2000 Ann Hazard. No part
of this article may be reprinted without permission.
This story is featured in Ann's newest book,
Agave
Sunsets.