When my son Joe came to visit today, he found Hagar dead by the back steps. We had left him on the
dog run today because both Pat and I both were going to be gone. We didn't want him to have to stay inside for more that eight hours without a potty run. I wish now we'd left him inside. What is a puddle to clean up against losing a family member? The cable of the dog run got tangled in the steps and Hagar choked himself fighting to get free.
Hagar was my Pound Puppy. German Shepherd Rescue located him for me at the Everman City Pound. I really thought I wanted the little female they had there, but Hagar wouldn't leave me alone. The minute I walked inside the gate, he was following me and nudging my hand, wanting to be petted. The little female was too shy to come out to be seen, but Hagar loved me from the minute he saw me.
The people at the Pound called him Traveler because he was found running stray. Even though he was obviously a purebred dog, no one ever claimed him. One guy took him for a while, but brought him back when he learned he couldn't use him for stud if he didn't have papers. So there he was, probably on borrowed time, when we found each other. That was seven years ago.
I wanted to name him Thor, but Pat prevailed and we named him Hagar the Horrible, after the Viking in the funny papers. He was about 18 months old, and didn't have a lot of sense. I took him through obedience training. Pat taught him to quit slipping out the door and running off the moment it was opened. And he proceeded to become Family in Fur.
Lala was about the same age as Hagar. She was a sturdy toddler who liked to walk with her baby fist clutching his back. Of course, the minute he turned around, the wagging tail bowled her over. Lala never seemed to mind. He was her furry uncle. Years later, when we moved to Kansas, she missed Hagar so much that I wrote her a letter chronicling Flat Lala's adventures playing with Hagar in the evening. (More about Flat Lala at http://flatlala.blogspot.com )
Hagar liked being in the middle of our lives. That nose was constantly finding its way into your hand so you could pet him. Then he'd prance over to the old popcorn can that we kept dog biscuits in and poke it until we got the message he wanted a biscuit. (Not that we didn't really know.) Pat would take out two and make Hagar choose. There seemed to be a reason he wanted one over the other. Maybe he knew it didn't matter 'cause Pat would give him the second after he finished the first Still, he played Pat's game. I was a push over. Once the lid was open, he got his biscuit immediately. He had to do other tricks for Pat. He had to sit down and offer a paw to shake. We never could get him to chase a ball or roll over. There were some limits to what foolishness he'd put up with.
I was never sure if Hagar was Furball's dog, or if Furball was Hagar's cat. In 2002 when Pat was taking his Tour USA motorcycle trip, I found a six-week old black kitten caught in the potted plants on Helen's front porch. I knew the little thing wasn't Helen's, because Helen is allergic to cats. I was dressed for work and going to be late, but I took the baby back into my house and fed her some milk, then left her in the care of my three adult cats and Hagar. She was so small. I was afraid she'd get out the doggy door and get lost.
That evening I grabbed cat food, litter and kitten and took her to my friend Steve. He kept her until she was big enough to handle my herd, then she came home. I'd taken her over there so quickly that I hadn't even named her. Steve was the one who dubbed her Furball. Later I gave her the full name of L.C. Furball to go with my tuxedo cat, Dewey D. Cat. (Hey, I'm a librarian. What can I say?)
Furball was about 3 months old when she came back to our house. She still wanted a Mommy and she found one in Hagar. Wherever Hagar was, the kitten wasn't far away. She liked to curl up against his side or between his front feet. She played "Catch the Tail". It might have been dangerous if Hagar had noticed she was back there. Of course the night Pat got him to wagging his tail frantically for a biscuit and Furball was trying to catch it on the other end nearly sent the kitten flying across the kitchen like a hockey puck. Still, their bond was strong. Furball is a fine, dignified ladycat now, but she still cuddled her dog at every opportunity.
We had lots of adventures together. Hagar went with me to Kansas when I drove alone to my mother's funeral. He guarded our back yard against squirrels, bluejays and other mauraders. He slept with grandkids and gave them all the doggy love they ever wanted. He endured baths.
Hagar really loved it when we moved to Kansas. He thought he was a FARM DOG. No matter that we don't live on a farm -- we live in a village of 675 people. That was close enough for the dog that grew up in a suburb of Dallas. He got to ride in the back of Pat's pick-up. He got to run loose in the back yard whenever we were outside. He'd spend hours keeping Pat company as Pat worked in the shop. He had squirrels to chase and stray cats to keep off our property. Best of all, since Pat was self-employed, one of his people was home with him almost everyday. What more could a dog ask for?
Here there was no fenced yard. There was a big dog pen, but Hagar could dig out of it faster than Pat could fix it. So, Joe ran a 30' cable from the back porch to a corner of the dog pen and suspended a dog cable from it. That was the dog run. Hagar didn't use it much because he could get caught on a stalk of dead grass or the corner of a rock. He weighed 115 lbs., but he wouldn't pull himself free from dead grass. He'd just lay down, usually under the butternut tree, and wait for someone to get him loose.
I sure wish he'd sat down and waited today.
) would be a good project. 
