Chapter 3 (Freedom and Animals, cont.)

CLEO, THE OLD ENGLISH SHEEPDOG

It’s only fair that I mention Cleo. I had considered getting an Old English Sheepdog way back when I instead got my Springer, Wendy. Then, when my first husband Al and I separated in 1980, he got my son Alb an Old English Sheepdog puppy. I think it was kind of to make up for our separation and also to make up for having given away Claude, who Alby claimed to be “…My dog that you sold and lost….”

After promising ourselves (and failing) to brush her constantly, once her mutant sheepdog fur grew out, it matted so badly that it required a shearing once a year. I took her to BOCES for the clip. The first time it was done, the neighbor children didn’t recognize her so we tried to convince them we had swapped her in for this [what looked like] a Giant Schnauzer. They actually believed us, and I couldn’t blame them. Not only did she look that different, Cleo even acted differently when trimmed. I think she felt more vulnerable. Her thick fur must have pulled and itched. When we’d pat her, I’m sure she had felt almost nothing. The hair hanging down over her eyes must have been a nuisance. Suddenly she was lighter; the world looked brighter; when someone reached out to pet her she suddenly could feel the loving sensation of being stroked.

Another reason I had given thought to getting a sheepdog was because of the sheepdogs’ wonderful dispositions. I wondered that they would be kept for guarding sheep, as they haven’t a mean bone in their body. I later found out that the sheepdog originally was raised by the ewe. In this way it kept its pack instinct and when its family (of lambs) got threatened, it would defend the fold.

By the time alb was a senior in high school, I was married to Tom. Alb was rattling around in the messy house on Galaxy Drive--alone, except for Cleo for the most part, as his dad had a serious relationship going for him by then. His dad had found a very much more suitable woman for him than I could ever be. However, I hadn’t known that Alby was alone so much.

It had been a bad year for fleas, and with almost no one to care for Cleo, her coat not only got matted, but the fleas caused abrasions which festered, and [UGH] flies laid eggs on that area… Therefore she had maggots under all that matted hair. There was a dog groomer on Bunn Hill--a short walk from Galaxy Drive. Alb was to get her trimmed there. The groomer, I think, got nauseous over the shape Cleo was in. I was contacted, and we took Tom’s classic Camaro to pick up Cleo and bring her to a vet in Binghamton. She stayed there overnight to be treated and cleaned up. I felt guilty about the state of affairs at the old home on Galaxy drive, and also felt badly about how I had let the dog become so neglected. Somehow I felt a certain penance having to drive her--smelly and pest-ridden-- to the vets. Cleo recovered, though her coat looked more ragged than trimmed by the vet's job of finishing her trim, and they shaved her to the skin around her tail giving her a naked look… not at all pretty. But her hair grew back in, and she continued to be a great companion to Alb, but he was off to SUNY in Buffalo the following school year, (1986) and his dad found Cleo a new home with a retired couple... (…Where we hope she lived happily ever after, to die in her sleep with a grin on that funny furry face.)