I miss my dog.

Yesterday I caught myself walking home, sloshing my way through the leaves caking onto the sidewalk, thinking about my dog, Karch. Well, he's not really my dog -- he's my big brother's -- but for three years I lived at home with no one but my mom, dad, and our dogs (the other is Heidi, Karch's mom), so I can't help but be a little more attached to the guy than usual. I found myself wondering if I were to throw a tennis ball into a pile of leaves, would Karch go and get it?

First of all, let me tell you a little about Karch. My dad and I bred Heidi back in the early spring of 1997. I was about 12 at the time; my dad convinced me to join him in this "business venture" to make a little Christmas cash, as he put it. We'd breed Heidi, keep one, and sell the others! I'm surprised my mom didn't divorce him right then, but then again, this is also the woman who stuck around after my dad bought a timeshare, a boat, and batting cages (that's right) ... all without telling her. Needless to say, our "business venture" went completely bust after Heidi had to go in for an emergency C-section half-way through delivery in a specialized clinic (our normal vet was closed due to power outage) because the third and final puppy (that would be Karch) was too big to do things the conventional way. Karch was stuck inside of Heidi for minutes without oxygen. The veterinarian pretty much guaranteed that Karch was brain-damaged, and when he did come finally rolling into the world, he wasn't breathing on his own. For the first 24 hours of his life, my mom, my brothers, me, and all the neighborhood kids took turns holding Karch and stroking his back. He would only breath if he had constant stimulation.

Which perhaps accounts for a lot of Karch's behaviorisms. He won't come and sit at your feet -- he sits on your feet. If your hand is draped down over the arm rest of the couch, he comes and pushes his nose and head into your hand. On occasion he'll walk by you on the loveseat as if to go outside, then without warning jump into your lap. God forbid there is a thunderstorm, because Karch has been known to squeeze himself inside of a pantry that had been bungee-corded closed to keep him out in the first place. Karch will work himself into such a frenzy when we kids come home for break, that his barks climb in octaves until he's literally screaming and wagging his nub of a tail so hard that his entire back half swings like a metronome in 6/8 time. And he loves to play ball. My eldest brother once through the ball so many times for Karch that the poor dog actually puked, then brought the ball back for more. His excitement for that yellow fuzzy ball is electric. I still laugh remembering the sound of him trying to bark and hold a tennis ball in his mouth at the same time. Sounds a little like someone trying to start up a rusted out Volkswagen van, with long-sounding vowels.

I was wondering about the leaves because Karch, having lived his whole life at our home in South Florida, has never seen a pile of leaves. I can imagine exactly how the scenario would go. The ball would disappear into the pile, and Karch would screech to a halt right at the edge. He'd sniff and smell around it, then look at me and bark just once -- like he does this when the ball rolls under the couch. It's as if he thinks he can't do it, but if you give him the go-ahead, then he must be able to do it. All it takes is "Get the ball, Karch!" and he dives right in -- in a pool, in the canal, in the newspaper bin ... I miss my dog.