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| Tobias "Toby" Singer, 2001-2012 |
He really was a good dog.
A sweet, loving, frolicsome dog, full of the joy of life.
My memories of Toby will always be of a happily-bounding four-legged beast racing towards water. He was always the first one in lakes and rivers, beating me only because he had four legs and I had two. At June Lake, every year, he was the only one who went in with me the moment we arrived at the beach, and stayed in with me until the end.
Or at Lake Arrowhead, where we'd put on his doggie life-vest, and he'd jump off the boat into the water, all four legs splayed, tongue lolling, and a giant dog-grin on his goofy dog-face. He'd stay with us in the water for hours, and even learned to climb the ladder back onto the boat.
Or when we'd go on hikes, and he'd go up the streams and creeks with me, while normal people walked the paths, wading happily through 50-degree water just like it was bathwater.
He wasn't the brightest dog I've ever had, especially by retriever standards. Not for nothing did he earn the nickname "Two-Neuron Toby". I have vivid memories of Toby repeatedly smacking himself in the head with "Kong", a piece of rubber at the end of a rope. He'd hold the rope end in his mouth, and swing his head back and forth rapidly, causing Kong to bash him about the skull. Not Pulitzer-Prize-winning behavior. But he was clever enough to know the difference between his toys, so you could tell him to "Get Big Bone!" or "Go get Red Bone!", and he'd bring you the right toy. Even after he went blind, he'd bring Big Bone or Red Bone to you, and wait patiently for you to throw them, then stumble off after them, after listening for the thump when they landed.
And oh, Lord, did he have some disgusting habits - especially his eating habits. Dessicated fish heads, ground-squirrel road-kill, snot-encrusted tissues - they were all manna to him. I will never forget my dad smacking him on the nose to try and make him let go of a squashed, dried bit of squirrel nastiness he had found on the side of the road. It was clenched in his jaws, and he would not let go of his prize for the world. We were all convinced he'd get the plague or rabies because of that particular foulness. And his breath - if the pits of Hell were to open up, I'm absolutely positive they wouldn't smell nearly as horrid as Toby's fetid mouth.
But Toby's overriding personality trait was his purely sweet heart. He was the only dog we'd ever had - of a long line of dogs - that had never bit my sister. That was saying something. All dogs before her - Annie, Scout, Pockets, Banjo, and even Winston, our other retriever - had tried to take a chunk out of Lindsay at some point or another, responding to her nervous energy with some of their own. But not Toby. He adored her.
Even at the end, when he was obviously in pain, panting with the agony of the bone-eating tumor on his leg, he was a sweet boy, nuzzling up to you for love, or backing into your legs, which was his way of asking you to scratch his back. He never complained, never snapped, and came when you called him, just like a good dog should, levering himself painfully off the floor, and limping over to you.
He really was a good dog. And we will really miss him.
Good-bye, my Toby-dog. I'll see you eventually, running through the fields after birds and coyotes, and then we'll splash through lakes and rivers together again, and maybe, just maybe, I'll finally beat you in.
