Malcolm knew when to come in and when to leave

About fifteen or sixteen years ago when we’d barely fenced in our land and begun construction of the house, a pack of six or seven stray dogs, among them an ingratiating curly-tailed orange mutt we named Malcolm, showed up each morning looking for food. Pretty soon our handouts grew into a routine of almost two twenty-five kilo bags of kibbles a month.

Yet none of these endearing panhandlers, especially Malcolm, dared set paw inside the property, perhaps fearful of our own dogs or because at night they preferred their own hideouts. As years passed, many of them succumbed to old age, fights, and other accidents, and by a year ago, only Malcolm was left. He started to cautiously come into the ranch, walk around and then exchange some butt-sniffing greetings with our dogs. As he became more comfortable he discreetly joined the communal twice-daily feedings of our dogs.

As Malcolm became more confident, he claimed one of the dog cushions in the garage, the one safely in a corner under a worktable, and invited himself in. He’d greet us when we came home as if he’d been here all along. He never left.

We’ve since wondered about his change of heart. Did he realize he had an inoperable tumor in his neck that would lead to his demise? Or that at his advanced age—sixteen or seventeen years old—he could no longer brave the rigors of living outdoors by himself?

At this last stage of his life he still barked and jumped enthusiastically at food time and remained housebroken. Yet he spent more time sleeping each day and grew deaf and disoriented.

Then a week ago he disappeared. That started a three-day search of the ranch by us, Félix and even his young son, Edgar. We asked the neighbors across the street. By the third day I was having gruesome premonitions of what he would look like when we found him. In this part of the world, the lives of animals frequently don’t have neat or happy endings.

Problem, though, was that our search was completely misdirected. We looked in the area in the front of the ranch, where Malcolm used to hang out or sometimes follow us on our morning walks. But for his final walk he’d wandered off in exactly the opposite direction, to a pretty inaccessible quadrant of the ranch. There he was found, pretty much intact, by Félix and a friend working in the ranch at the time.

As Malcolm became sicker we hoped he’d die in his own bed, quietly, overnight. Please God, no fuss or one of those horrible trips to the vet to “put him to sleep”.

Malcolm had other plans, which I’ll never understand.

According to some surveys, about eight-five percent of dog owners say they “talk” to their dogs, and that dogs even respond by twitching the ears, tilting their heads, wagging their tails. These “conversations” can cover the weather, aches and pains, and other mutual joys and concerns.

I confess to having such conversations with our dogs, and even our two cats, but I am not about to hazard a guess what was going through Malcolm’s head or the meaning of any wordless last messages he had for us. We’ll just remember him as a clever and lovable pet right up to the last days of his very long and eventful life.