Gulliver could sit in my cupped hands when he came to Alta Mira in the summer of 1998. He was a black fuzzball with a huge white ruff and a white blaze on his face.
But he had the stout forelegs typical of male Shelties and his feet were big. Hence, "Gulliver."
He was not a nipper or a chewer. He gave the expression of waiting for something to happen. The black undercoat gave way to the sable color typical of Shelties and their larger Collie cousins. It may have been his size, or the size he was growing into, that gave an impression of awkwardness, resembling a teenage male human in a growth spurt.
But he matured into a boulevard dog. Gulliver by age four belonged at the end of a diamond leash on Park Avenue. A coat of pure, radiant silk. Huge white ruff thrown like an ermine stole over his shoulders and neck. The white blaze, the perfectly flopped ears, the carriage, the assertive strut which male Shelties display. He was a Gatsby dog. I guarantee, sooner or later, if he had lived in New York, his picture would have been in The New York Times.
Instead, Gully passed his years here with us at Alta Mira. Never in the spotlight, he still maintained an indifferent, celebrity, air. He didn't much let his intelligence show. He was a solid C student. He didn't need the grades; he was beautiful. When something happened, he was ready. Barkeley, his female running mate, was the provocateur. But when the chase began, she was halfway out to the patio while Gully was still turning around.
For the last few days, I have been watching Gully. He is the faded Gatsby now, head and ears still erect, the gait still suggestive but now slow and unsure, the ermine stole still there but looking worn, the gray muzzle dulling the electricity of the white blaze. His vision is suspect, his eyes watery. His hearing is either very poor, or he has decided to ignore us entirely. He is the herding dog, but now we are herding him. A couple of days ago, he managed to get three feet – not all at the same time – into his water bowl.
Next month, Gully would be 105 years old. Fifteen, in human years. "The Gully-Man," as Karen croons to him. Tomorrow the circle closes anew: when you decide to love, you agree to grieve. When Gulliver leaves at midday, tears will be copious, tomorrow afternoon, at Alta Mira.
