May, 07 | TALes

Kip

“Christopher Maier, VICTIM 1: Lexington, KY: University of Kentucky student Christopher Maier, 21, and his girlfriend are attacked while walking along the tracks near the college. Maier is bludgeoned to death, and she is assaulted, almost to the point of death. She miraculously survives.”

Our nightly walks, most after midnight, were starting to become routine. I hadn’t had Kip long at that point, but was getting used to our walks. We had a little path we followed: down Conn Terrace, across Elizabeth Street, and finally into the Elizabeth Street Park. It was an enclosed park in the center of a block—only two ways in or out, one a gate-less entrance at the front of the park, the other a secret gate at the back, in the bushes, a path to the railroad tracks.

I’d play fetch with Kip, or sometimes sit on the benches in the dark and watch him sniff around and chase invisible things in the glow of a single amber street lamp which illuminated the park. When it was time to go home, as was our routine, Kip and I would walk through the back secret gate and the forty feet of trees and bushes to the railroad tracks which led us to the back door of our house on Journal Avenue.

I was the intended victim that night. He was there, watching me from the dark bushes, by the secret gate. He had walked through the wooded path, from the railroad tracks to the shrouded side of the fence and waited. Angel Maturino Resendez, the Railroad Killer as he would later be known, was there looking for the first kill of his murderous spree of fifteen or more.

He was just a few feet behind the gate. He tensed up as I walked toward the gate and put my hand on it. His fingers gripped the board he’d later kill Christopher with as I unlatched the chain-link gate to head down the path, but something was wrong...

Kip would not go through the gate. He stopped cold and stared into the dark shrubs. He started growling as I never heard before. Hesnarled, fangs exposed. His body tensed up, and he started to bark viciously. He was a terrifying site, one-hundred pounds of muscle and teeth that could take a grown man down—shaking and saying “stay away."

This was new—in the previous two years I’d never seen him act like this, and I took it as a warning that something was very, very wrong. For a moment I scanned the dark; I felt the cold all around me—instantly becoming aware that someone in the dark was watching me. Kip stood at the open gate barking loudly as I backed up. I called him, put him on his leash and we both took off in the other direction, toward the street lamp, the light and the safety of the neighborhood. Periodically I’d look nervously back at the dark as we hurried away.

We took the long way back, avoiding the tracks, walking in the bright lights. After a block or so Kip cheered up, trotting and panting with a big smile on his face. Within fifteen minutes of leaving the park Christopher Maier was dead, his girlfriend brutalized. They were walking home on the tracks and were jumped at the end of the path I just left.

When I heard the news, the next day, I just kept starting at my dog. He was on the floor, happily chewing a rawhide. Occasionally he’d look up at me, wondering why I was staring at him. Kip saved my life that night—and now he was just fluffy and lazing around the floor. The police later showed up; someone had seen me and my dog leaving the park the night before and they tracked us down for questioning. I told them what happened, how Kip had kept me from going through the gate. The officer told me I should “thank God for such a wonderful dog."

Sometime after this I started to wonder if Kip wasn’t just a dog, but perhaps an angel sent to protect me.

Everyone loves their pets, but some pets go beyond just being a pet. They ascend (or are naturally) in the realm of Benjis and Lassies, Old Yellers. Some dogs are just special animals and do more than you’d think possible. That was Kip, white, noble—he always seemed like a lion to me. He was distinctly male—strong, powerful. He begged for food, but kept his distance. He never slept in the bed (except for two times—once when he was sick, and in his final few weeks). He would come up for petting, but liked his space. Every night, after a belly rub, he’d hop down on the floor and point his nose at the bedroom door and quietly sit guard. I never noticed him sleeping—always alert and guarding. I’m sure he did, but not often. I always felt assured that nobody would come near me or harm me while I was asleep.

I rescued him from a terrible situation. He was the unwanted “Kramer vs. Kramer” dog of a lesbian love triangle. At the time, I lived with a lesbian named Jen. She had become entwined with a lesbian couple of seven years in a heated threesome-thing. Each of the coupled women had a dog, Kayak and Kip. I met the dogs as the split was commencing. As all threesomes seem to end up, the couple was split, one on the out and the other with the newly introduced lover. The one who got the boot was Kip’s owner. She moved out to an apartment where dogs were not allowed and left him for Helen. Kip stayed behind, ownerless. One night I was asked to dog-sit while Jen and Ellen went to a retreat.

I wasn’t feeling good that night. I showed up with a 12-pack of beer. I went to find the dogs to let them out. They were both in the basement, unfurnished. Dog crap and piss were everywhere. The basement was full of it. The women had just been locking the dogs in the basement. It was terribly sad to see them down there in the dark, bored and lonely.

I let them out so they could play in the yard which was a giant pile of dirt and dust, no grass to be seen. Kayak was a huge German Shepard and Kip was a large Samoyed-Golden Retriever mix. Kip was so dirty I actually didn’t know he was white. He looked like he was a dirty yellow dog from all the neglect. After they tired of running around the yard, they both came in, but kept their distance from me as I watched “The Fly.” I was drinking way too much, especially for how sick I was, and soon passed out on the couch. When I woke, Kip, all one-hundred pounds of him, was lying on top of me, his nose about an inch from mine with a big smile on his face. He started to lick my face and paw at my chest, just saying as best he could that he chooses me.

I doubt it was coincidence that he did that. I wasn’t looking for a dog at all. I was quite happy not having a pet and really, really didn’t want all the hassle. But then again, Kip wasn’t a pet, he was an angel. People often have the notion that you pick your angels, like making a stop at the pound. This is not the way it works; they pick you for a reason. Kip had his.

The “divorce” drug on; more and more I was asked to watch the dogs. I would go over daily and walk Kip and Kayak. As we walked, Kayak seemed less and less important. Thelast few days I’d just walk Kip, lazily strolling around the neighborhood watching leaves fall. I found being with him incredibly relaxing. It was just meant to be. One day I walked him—and didn’t return him. I just called Ellen and said, “I’m keeping Kip.” She didn’t care—she didn’t want him. Her ex didn’t want him. But, I wanted him; I knew from the first day he was my dog.

And so it was, he was mine and I relied on him for all my emotional security. Those were some hard years, those first six years. I would have killed myself many times over if it were not for Kip. I just couldn’t stand the thought of nobody taking care of him, of him having to find another family or being put to sleep in some pound. It kept me centered, stable during some incredibly terrible times.

There was the heart-crushing breakup. My girlfriend of five years and I broke up after a long, miserable relationship. I was destroyed.

He only met her once. We were out walking and when we came home, Karen was on my steps smoking a cigarette. I was madly in love with her, cared about her more than anyone. Our relationship was horrible from the start, all love and emotions with no base, no friendship. We couldn’t shake each other for five years, and when it was over the emotions that had been caught inside me poured out in a crushing wave. It was around this time that Kip came into my life.

That weekend was the last for Karen and me. We went camping for three days. It was then that every emotion, every fight we ever suppressed came out. We screamed at each other for three days straight. At one point I ran from the tent with nothing but boxer shorts on. It was raining, freezing, and pitch black. All I could see was Kip’s form navigating the path along the Red River Gorge. The rain was coming down like ice, and I just lost it and collapsed all tears and frustration. Kip curled up next to me and kept me warm. We spent the night out there; I couldn’t be in the tent with her. When the sun came up I looked back on the path we had walked. It was along a shear cliff, almost a hundred foot drop. Every year people die, falling off cliffs at the Gorge. But like a beacon, Kip’s white fur kept me from my death. His warmth kept me from the cold. He kept me from myself.

About 5 years later I was going through old letters. For some reason, I had kept everything ever sent to me in the mail for my entire life. I was making piles for different people. Karen had a big pile on the floor. I stopped to go get beer. I was only gone five minutes, but when I returned, there was a huge pile of runny shit and piss all over Karen’s stack. In his whole life, this was the only time Kip ever had an accident in the house, an accident that I now love him for with all my heart.

One day we were at the park. I was trying to teach him how to play frisbee, a truly hopeless pursuit—he was far too noble to play fetch. The game worked like this. I would throw the frisbee, and he would sit by my side and watch it fly. Then we would walk together to get the frisbee. Well, I was walking to get the frisbee when two attractive women on roller blades cruised by. While I was “appreciating” Kip ran up behind me, full speed, and knocked me to the ground—flat on my back. The echoes of laughter from the women and other park-goers rang in my ears as I stared at the sky. Kip just smiled and panted.

He had a terrifically affecting smile.

Kip had a funny habit of eating tube socks. He ate them whole. He knew he wasn’t supposed to eat them, but he did anyway. He would go to great lengths to steal them for his dining pleasure. One day he was sitting on my bed, looking rather guilty, while I folded laundry. I pushed him over and under him was, yes, one tube sock which he had stolen from the wash. He must have eaten two hundred socks in his life--amazing how he never got sick.

My favorite memory of Kip was the day we went to Jacobson Park in Lexington. I still have his ashes and vow one day to throw them in the lake in memory of that day. It was bitterly cold for Kentucky. Giant fluffy snowflakes fell all day. He ran around like a mad-dog, playing in the snow. It was the first day I’d ever owned a camera. It was my first roll of film. He was my subject, and the day was ours. We chased Were-Chickens (these hideous, aggressive geese that were everywhere) and played, ran, laughed. He kept rolling in the snow, for it was the first time he’d ever been in it. He would lick his paws, shocked by the surprising cold. He posed for pictures. The ones right here. They were the first pictures I ever developed in a dark room by myself. It was a beautiful day, full of light and magic, and we were all alone in the giant park. Just a boy and his dog—so much happiness inside me and inside him as though the world really didn’t matter. His head scruffed by my hand all day, eight hours of happiness.

The next summer, in that same park, we ran into a skunk. Kip chased it down to a bush, where it turned and defended itself. The stench was horrible. You just have no idea how bad it was. Kip was rolling around, rubbing his eyes and howling. We both dived into the lake, and I scrubbed him desperately trying to get the smell to stop. At home I doused my white dog in every tomato based soup, dressing, and condiment I could find. It was a ridiculous site: my white dog, soaked in tomato soup, looked like a scene out of the movie Carrie.

The third time he saved my life, I was in my room mixing some tracks with headphones on. I heard that growl. I immediately jumped up, grabbed a Mag-Light and ran to him. In the living room was a huge homeless-looking man. He was beaten to a pulp and holding a knife—blood was everywhere. Kip had him cornered by the window he’d broken in through. The man was yelling, “Get your dog away from me, don’t let him hurt me.” I opened the front door, and the man ran out. I would have never heard him coming. God only knows why he was there, but he was more scared than I was.

The fourth time, we were walking out in the suburbs of Lexington. Right before Richmond Road there was a hundred-foot shelter-belt. We were walking along in the dark and he stopped. The growl rang through the night. I scanned the trees, and there, not more than 5 feet from me, hidden in the trees, was a man holding a Jack Daniel’s bottle over his head. He was about to hit me over the head with a crushing blow. He looked at the dog, lowered the bottle, and began backing off. He begged me to hold my dog back, and then took off running. Like I said, an angel.

I feel bad about some of those years. I was so busy, one-hundred hour weeks. There wasn’t much time for Kip, but he was always waiting at home for me. I wish those years could have had more walks for him, but sometimes life is like that. I never walked him enough, but he understood. My life was hard that whole time I had him. He never asked for anything but gave enough to keep me going. How many nights I looked forward to coming home, seeing him wagging his tail.

Later we moved to Florida, and spent the cool nights walking down to the beach, chasing lizards and just being together a lot more.

One day we were walking to the beach. Kip started limping, and I knew something was wrong. He lay down and stuck his back paw up in the air. Nestled in his pads was a painful sand bur. I removed it, he licked me on the face, and then jumped up and we continued our walk. It was the least I could do, and somewhat touching that he depended on me too.

They told me he had cancer—there was no treatment. He came to work with me everyday for three months. Nestled at my feet, getting tummy rubs and long walks on the beach. I stopped talking to everyone. It was his time.

That last month he slept in the bed with me every day and I petted him to sleep every night. One morning I woke up, and he was in the closet. He’d never been in there. He was shaking violently. I knew it was time.

I went to the store and bought the most expensive steak I could find. I cooked it up for him with a baked potato with all the fillings (he always loved baked potatoes). We sat in the closet, and he ate. He laid his head down on me and I gave him one last belly-rub. I took a last picture of him to remember him by.

I held him while they put him to sleep, saying I wouldn’t cry. I sobbed for twelve hours straight. Coming home that morning, to a house with no collar jingling, sitting there really, truly alone for the first time in years. That silence was the most terrible sound.

That Monday when I walked into work without him, everyone in the office started crying. He had only been there for a while, but everyone had fallen for him, bringing him special treats and leftover pot roast.

There is a cd I listen to sometimes. When I want to honor him, think about him. Richard Young’s Sapphie, a tribute to his doggie. I don’t know much about Sapphie, but you can tell in his voice he understands. If you listen close enough, you can hear a collar jingling through the songs, and then it ends, and you are so very sad. It’s in his voice; he so understands.

Anyway, I’ve been crying for hours just trying to write this. Just wanted to say…

Kip was my guardian angel, my dog...

Kip, nothing but love for you friend. Nothing but love.

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