‘Last Dog on the Hill’ and the first Sam

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I have been reading “Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou,” by Steve Duno. Lou was a Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix that Duno found as a puppy in the wild in Southern California. A feral litter was roaming the freeway’s hillside as the dad chewed on a deer carcass — likely roadkill. The story is that the feral pack was protecting a marijuana patch. The six-month old puppy, who would become Lou, was the only one in the litter willing to approach Duno and his then-girlfriend. He was covered with fleas and ticks and stunk, of course. They took him to a veterinarian, and then home.

Lou became an incredible dog, inspiring Duno to become a dog trainer with Lou by his side, helping him “fix” dogs considered unredeemable. He was strong, fast, brave and smart. Lou broke up an armed robbery, took down a rapist, had a vocabulary of nearly 200 words and helped rehabilitate thousands of dogs bound for the needle, according to the book jacket.

I would have loved to have met Lou, who died at 16. I am about two-thirds finished with this book. I do not want it to end. It is refreshing to read something uplifting during these times fraught with peril.
I have cared for many dogs in my life, starting with Sandy when I was 6. She was a redbone hound, or at least looked like one. I remember her being pretty smart. Of course, I was 6 and likely easily impressed. But Sandy was old, and one day my dad took her away and told me she had gone to heaven. I figured out later she had been euthanized because she was terminally ill.

Next up was Willie, an Airedale my fourth-grade teacher persuaded my mother into taking, because he was tearing up her apartment. The first night Willie spent inside, he ate my glasses, leaving shards of plastic and glass on the floor. Then he ate — and promptly barfed up — a T-shirt. Willie could have used the wide counsel of Lou, perhaps saving him from his sad fate of being chained to a doghouse and largely ignored by a family that did not know how to handle him. I plead not guilty to pet neglect, since I was only 9.
That cured my parents of owning dogs for many years, until I became an animal-control officer in Nacogdoches while trying to graduate from SFA. One day a beautiful cocker spaniel arrived. I sneaked her out, drove to Longview, and announced to my mother, “Congratulations, you now have a dog. What would you like to name her?” She sputtered and protested, but Susie was a part of their lives for several years. In the interim, I collected five dogs that I wanted to save from Death Row. They joined Sam the First on our little place in the country.

The first Sam was a poodle mix given to me by my former brother-in-law. We became inseparable. He rode in my 1953 Chevy pickup to town, went over to the millpond to go swimming on summer afternoons, curled up at my feet as I studied for finals. But Sam developed a bad habit of killing chickens at a place down the road, and one day he didn’t come back. I suspect he had killed one chicken too many.

Nearly 40 years later, Sam the Second sleeps on the couch. He is also a black poodle mix, though intellectually he doesn’t quite measure up to his predecessor. But he is also a fine companion, and I think his buddy Rosie has made him a bit smarter in the nearly five years since he showed up unbidden.

The two dogs start our day, prancing in circles at the foot of the stairs — they’re not allowed upstairs — waiting to go outside and be fed. And they are waiting at the den door, noses pressed to the glass, when I drive up about five in the afternoon, to repeat the routine. It is a great way to begin the day, with creatures who love you, crowd around your body as you don tennis shoes for a walk.

If you love dogs, even the dumb ones like Sam, you will devour “Last Dog on the Hill” like it’s a piece of pork rib tossed to your pooch. Check it out sometime when looking for a diversion from the headlines of the day.
God bless you, Lou.

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