The story of our family’s first dog—a pompous, whip-smart Pomeranian—is about two grandfathers. My paternal grandfather Fred was instrumental in bringing Minnie into our lives. My maternal grandfather Bob was there when she went out of our lives. Minnie was there when Bob passed awa.
On one of our trips to Fresno to visit Fred and Grandma Monica, we became aware of a female Pomeranian holed up in a broom closet at the rear of their 1920s vintage home. The dog had been running down the block several days before our arrival, no collar, no identification. In obvious distress, she’d stumbled over to where Fred was working on his Chevy pickup in the front yard. Monica, an animal lover, came out, looked the dog over, and immediately took her into the house. Thinking the dog was sick, she prepared a bed in the broom closet. That night, while Fred and Monica slept, Minnie birthed a stillborn pup. They awoke to find the dead puppy deposited just inside the front door—Minnie had carried it there in the night.
During our stay in Fresno my youngest sister was taken with the dog, visiting the closet to check her water, refill her food bowl with the kibble Monica purchased, and once leaving a Milk-Bone biscuit, which Minnie never touched. On the day of our departure back to the Bay Area, with all four kids sitting unbelted in the backseat of our 1959 Buick La Sabre four-door, Fred came out of the house with Minnie in his hand and plopped the dog in my sister’s lap. Dad had a chance to say no, and didn’t. We drove the four hours home with Minnie’s nose sticking rather imperially out the window.
Minnie became our pet. She was fastidiously housebroken, as if someone who lost her in Fresno had trained her. Mostly tolerant of the glad-handling of children, but liable to snap if we violated her physical boundaries. Her bark was a high-pitched yap, heard Monday-Saturday around noon when the mail was delivered.
On the occasion of my father’s corporate transfer out of state it was decided that Minne’s future wouldn’t include being uprooted and crated for an airline flight. Her obscure origins precluded knowing how old she was. That’s when Grandpa Bob and Grandma Bernadette stepped up and agreed to take the dog. We said our goodbyes, with hugs, and thereafter received periodic updates on the life of Minnie, left behind in Oakland. The gist of it was that Minnie was doing fine in the care of an elderly couple, enjoying the quiet hours and predictable routine.
Two years after we moved away, Bob had a heart attack while walking to the cigar store that was only steps from his home on Bancroft Ave. He made it home but died the following morning. When the paramedics arrived to take Bob away, Minnie went apoplectic, yapping, snarling, running in circles and snapping at their heels as they carried him out the door.
By the next time we flew home, for Thanksgiving, Minnie was gone too.