We adopted Frankie Blue Eyes from the local animal shelter in December 2002. Mom named him— and it’s pretty obvious why, isn’t it?
Unfortunately, we had not adopted him on December 12th, Frank Sinatra’s birthday. I was in Kansas at that time, so I don’t know the exact day— just that it was not the 12th. But he appeared to be between 6 months and a year old, so Mom picked Valentine’s Day to be his birthday.
He was small for his age, quite possibly the runt of his litter. But his small stature belied a superpower: he could jump seven feet in the air. A few months after we took him home, he jumped over a low corner of our backyard fence and escaped. After bringing him back, Dad fortified the fence to prevent that from happening again.
But Frank continued to jump, and continued to be very athletic in general. He caught a few birds in midair, and was a better mouser than our cats were.
All his life, he grew up with our malamute, Kodiak— and they quickly became best friends. Best friends like a couple of sometimes- rivaling brothers, for they horseplayed a lot. A rough-and-tumble kind of affection, but sweet just the same. Both of them would howl plaintively when they were separated from each other. Plus, they just looked so cute together— Kodiak the big, fluffy, brown teddy bear who bounced on top of the doghouse, and Frank his grey, high-jumping little brother.
Sorry I don’t have any pictures of Kodiak! I never took any of him on my phone— they only exist the “old fashioned way”.
When Kody died last June 9th, it was eerily one day after his other best friend, the neighbor dog Coal Mine, died suddenly of a stroke. Our guy died peacefully in the backyard on a lovely, moonlit night with a gentle breeze. Thankfully, not the next day, when it got into the triple digits and no one was home.
Frank had never been without Kodiak by his side before— and he mourned. He howled a pained, throaty version of his “where’s my best friend?” howl. He dug a hole under the fence and escaped several times, looking for his lost friend. He did this two or three times in mid-to-late June, but he always came back after a few hours.
Until he didn’t.
It was the weekend before Independence Day. Not a particularly safe time for dogs.
I was scared.
I called every animal shelter in the vicinity, describing him. No one responded until the same one we had adopted him from, called me about noon on July 3rd. They had a Siberian Husky matching my description brought in just an hour ago, they said. I asked him who had brought him in. They gave me the name of our former, long-time vet clinic, one mile from our house. Years ago we had gone with a mobile vet, to save money.
It turns out our old vet clinic, since moving to their new digs last year, had kennels inside to hold strays. And I’d had no idea of that. Seems a good samaritan had found him about a mile from my house in the other direction, picked him up and took him to the clinic. And there he stayed all weekend, thanks to business hours. At least he was able to stay inside, away from the fireworks.
When I bailed Frank out of the animal shelter, he rested his chin in my lap on the drive home.
The next day, Dad sat with him and petted him all through the fireworks. He pulled through with a minimum of fear.
So Frank settled in to acceptance of his single-dog status, helped by twice as many walks as before. But it was a long time coming. We filled up the hole under the fence, but it was several months before he stopped trying to break out and look for Kody. And he still, till the day he died, continued to howl mournfully from time to time.
So when I heard him howling this morning, I didn’t think too much of it. His lonely howl— and it always seemed to be more often in the mornings anymore. Maybe mornings were tied to Kodiak in some important way for him.
But when Dad went downstairs, he found Frank tangled up in the cage around the lilac bush. He liked to walk back there, but had never gotten himself tangled before. Dad had to break down the cage to get Frank loose, he’d gotten himself so stuck in there.
After he freed him, Frank heaved a few deep breaths, then tried to get up once, twice… and then sagged to the ground.
I’d stepped into the house at that moment and Dad yelled for me to come over.
Frank was on a fast track to being gone, I could tell that right away. He lay on his side, breathing motions slowing down. The last I saw of his beautiful blue eyes, his pupils were fixed and dilated.
I hope he was able to feel me petting him in his last seconds.
It had all happened so fast! Last night, he had been happy, with a good appetite, and went on his evening walk with his same level of energy.
His entrapment and death had all happened in less than an hour. I am thinking a massive stroke— why had he gotten tangled in that lilac cage? My guess is, he suddenly went blind or he suddenly became very disoriented, and couldn’t free himself like he normally could.
Dad and I are going to wait to get another dog for a while. Definitely after the 4th of July— we don’t want to be dealing with a new dog not feeling safe in our house, through no fault of our own.
But this— I am left with a new appreciation of how quickly life can end. It freaks me out, honestly.
Frank lived a long, happy life with us. I was so glad to have counted him a part of my family. He stayed youthful and energetic— though no more seven-foot jumps— till this morning, when he crossed the Rainbow Bridge to join his best friends, Kodiak and Coal Mine. I can just imagine them saying, “What took you so long, kid? We’ve missed you!”