Darla's Song

By James Gerard Small

MOST WRITTEN STORIES, TRUE OR NOT, start at the beginning or the end. The former is understandable from anyone’s viewpoint; it’s a fairly standard narrative process. The latter is often used for purposes of creativity, pathos, or some other literary device the author felt important to the telling of the tale.

"Darla's Song" is a true story of a discarded senior American Eskimo dog, but it has the uniqueness of starting 2/3rds the way through the story as well as at the start. The incredible creature whose story follows had a life long before her final owners met her. They knew little of the first ten years of her life. In fact, they knew just enough to pretty much validate a few presumptions about that part of her life, based on information learned second- and even third-hand, after truly getting to know her.

This is the sweet, lovely, and inspirational story of a dog who changed families at least twice, though there are no “villains” here. At worst, there may have been some misguided individuals who traveled through Darla’s life and maybe made some not-so-wise decisions. But if it hadn’t been for their actions, the people touched by this delightful creature never would have had such a special experience, only to find their lives changed forever.

So, while there are no villains, there are a lot of “heroes” in this story. Finish the book to the last page and you’ll see. Darla, herself, is the primary one, but she’s far from alone. As the once reluctant husband to the woman who adopted this "reborn puppy" told his wife: “You saved Darla – not me – I just jumped in the passenger seat for the ride and somehow incredibly ended up driving. But in doing so, I traveled with Darla down roads far more beautiful and generous than I deserved, following winding paths that brought a lost man home to who he was always meant to be. We walked most of the way, especially at the end, when we changed places and I carried Darla instead."

And, at that, humans might have had been holding the leash, but this smart, loving, sensitive creature was leading the way...all the way.

Filled with laughter, tears, and much insight into the human (and animal) heart, and told in a very personal way by the author, "Darla's Song" provides a gentle portrait of a quite unique and extraordinary "soul."

A beautiful musical ballad is composed quite carefully. The opening notes invite the listener in. The first verse lays down the meaning of the story to be told. By the time the chorus comes in, the meaning behind things becomes very clear and quite personal.

When the end of the ballad arrives, the music and lyrics have hopefully so deftly, delicately, and beautifully blended that the listener is no longer a listener but instead a true participant. They walk away knowing they have had a profound experience.

This then is "Darla’s Song."

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Gerard Small
• Release date: May 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301016570

James Gerard Small

New Jersey native James Gerard Small is a professional Graphic Designer/Art Director with over three decades’ experience in the advertising field. He has handled work for a diverse number of clients over the years, including Nabisco, Disney, Sony, and Campbell’s Soups, as well as many lesser-known clients. His creative efforts often include additional copy and headline creation work as well. He has belonged to different writers’ groups and has mostly focused in recent years on short stories and blogs as creative outlets. He is the author of two as-of-yet unpublished horror novels and is currently working on two additional books. “Darla’s Song” represents his first foray into the area of publishing an ebook, and at that, a non-fiction story. As he explains, “it was something I had to do. I was always a ‘cat’ person until Darla entered my life – actually, she was kind of forced on me as an older dog. I went from not wanting her to falling completely in love with her. She possessed a gentle persona and sweetness I’d never before encountered in any living creature.” “I miss her dearly to this day; she changed my life. I just had to tell her story. And quite frankly, the book pretty much wrote itself.”

Book preview

The true story of a little dog with a very large gift for love.

And the lives she touched.

James Gerard Small

48 Hanson Avenue, Fords, NJ 08863

[e-mail] • [e-mail]

All contents © Copyright 2013. James Gerard Small.

Applied for electronically on April 26, 2013.

Library of Congress, USA

Submission: 25AE5E7L

People’s names have been changed to protect those involved with the story who wish to remain anonymous. It is heavily requested, upon publication, that this remains a private story between Darla and me, and that no effort is made to research those individuals. If such effort is made, serious efforts on my behalf alone will be made legally to prosecute those intruding upon private lives of those once connected with Darla and or me.

This book is dedicated to many people:

to my ex-wife, the REAL Kira, who saw what I couldn’t…who always had love and could always see a pitiful dog needing saving…lol…

to my father, Richard W. Small, writer, songwriter,…poet,

for whom it never happened…but who gave me both his sins and joys…

and the keys to my own literary soul…

and to AM. I was what you wanted but…I wasn’t. I know Dar and

Mr. Scott would have loved each other…in another world.

I can only hope for happiness for you.

Some promises remain.

LASTLY:

This is dedicated mostly to Darla herself.

Dar, you entered my life at a bad time. I didn’t want you. But in your own soft,

sweet, distinctive voice, in such a sweet and innocent way: you gave love…

unbridled, un-apologetic… so this is dedicated to you and all those others

who do the same, on a daily basis.

There’s a place in this world

for the innocents, somewhere strong, safe and true,

where a soul can so stand though we can’t understand

how much it means to me and you…

There’s a place in this world

for the gentle ones, souls not afraid to expose,

the heart and the love we have never enough of

that it seems none of us knows.

James Gerard Small

April 2012

Thank you especially to:

In alphabetical order:

David Cannon

Copywriter Par Excellence/Friend/Confidante

Ruth DiGeorgio

Proofreader/Editor/Friend/Confidante

…a time comes to let go. For the story to tell itself.

Thank you.

FOREWORD:

MOST WRITTEN STORIES, TRUE OR NOT, start at the beginning or the end. The former is understandable from anyone’s viewpoint; it’s a fairly standard narrative process. The latter is often used for purposes of creativity, pathos, or some other literary device the author felt important to the telling of the tale.

This is a true story, but it has the uniqueness of starting 2/3rds the way through the story

as well as at the start. I’m not being ‘cute’ here. The incredible creature whose story follows this Foreword had a life long before I met her. I know little of the first ten years of her life. In fact, I know just enough to pretty much validate my few presumptions about that part of her life, based on information learned second- and even third-hand, after truly getting to know her.

I will make it very clear, this being the story of a dog who changed families at least twice, that there are no villains here. At worst, there may have been some misguided individuals who traveled through Darla’s life and maybe made some not-so-wise decisions. But in an odd way, I thank them for that. If it hadn’t been for their actions, I wouldn’t have had this wonderful experience or this delightful person, who came into my life, only to change it forever.

So, while there are no villains, there ARE a lot of heroes in this story. Finish the book

to the last page and you’ll see. Darla, herself, is the primary one, but she’s far from alone. The strongest and bravest human one I’ve ever known is my ex-wife, Kira, for many reasons you’ll shortly experience. As for me, I’m not a hero, trust me. I once told Kira: YOU saved Darla – not me – I just jumped in the passenger seat for the ride and somehow incredibly ended up driving.

But in doing so, I traveled with Darla down roads far more beautiful and generous than I

deserved, following winding paths that brought a lost man home to who he was always meant to be. We walked most of the way, especially at the end, when we changed places and I carried Darla instead.

And, at that, I may have been holding the leash, but she was leading the way...all the way.

A beautiful musical ballad is composed quite carefully. The opening notes invite the listener in. The first verse lays down the meaning of the story to be told. By the time the chorus comes in, the meaning behind things becomes very clear and quite personal.

When the end of the ballad arrives, the music and lyrics have hopefully so deftly, delicately, and beautifully blended that the listener is no longer a listener but instead a true participant. They walk away knowing they have had a profound experience.

This is what happened to me.

This then is Darla’s Song.

– Jim Small, May 3, 2013

Darla’s Song

Chapter 1

I KNOW YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED an Alaskan Malamute, but what about an ‘American Eskimo?’

I had been married to Kira for close to thirteen years so I knew that when she started a conversation – or a phone call in this case – in such a way, she was about to approach me with an idea she knew I innately wouldn’t like.

What the heck is an ‘American Eskimo?’

It was about 3:00 pm on a cold November Friday and I was at home in my graphics studio in the back of the house; she knew I was most likely working at my computer. You’re ‘online,’ right? Go to www.petfinder.com. Kira led me, over the phone, to a particular page dedicated to a dog named ‘Dazi.’

There was long, silent pause after that. Finally, Kira spoke: So what do you think?

I moved in closer to look at the screen. It looks like a still pic of a big, white, nasty dog barking at the camera.

The truth was, I didn’t want her – the dog. I wasn’t even sure I wanted Kira, much less myself. I guess I was in a bit of a depression back then, self-focused fully and with no relief or happiness in sight. I felt alone and hopeless.

My then-response, though it might sound sarcastic, was, at the time, a valid one, at least for me. Even if it covered a greater pain. The truth was I had never been what you’d call a ‘dog person;’ I was a ‘cat person.’ The last – actually the only – dog I’d ever had was ‘Corky,’ a goofy brown mutt I’d experienced briefly as a four year old kid. Corky lasted only a few months, when he started eating the daily newspaper and my father’s shoes, and wallpaper right off the wall, among other things I’m too polite to mention. After that, my parents decided cats were the way to go, and honestly, I have ever since never met a cat I didn’t like.

Kira laughed that laugh that signaled she thought I was being just a wee bit overly-negative. Having grown up around dogs, she didn’t understand that I had a sort of dread fear of them. Anything over the size of a big housecat bothered me greatly. This negative, anti-canine attitude was heavily based on a few bad experiences with larger dogs in my formative years and a real concern by me over being attacked. Mind you, I never had been bitten by any dog but was still afraid. Cats can bite you and you’ll maybe bleed a little; a dog bites you and flesh leaves the body (well, at least that was my perception – hell, they don’t refer to some teeth as ‘canine’ for nothing!).

Besides the inherent fear factor, there was another reason I didn’t like dogs: Thumbelina and Missie. Thumbelina was my step-daughter’s obnoxious Chihuahua; Missie was my step-son’s friendly but overly feisty Pug (more about these two later).

Our home had already filled with three pretty cool cats and these ‘dog clowns’. The cats were fine – they were their own people and knew when they wanted to socialize.

You know what I’m saying about a cat:

Hey, I’m up for some petting and purring...

Sorry, but I’m busy right now.

Okay, no prob. I’ll catch you later...

Dogs, on the other hand:

HEY! I want AND need attention NOW!

Sorry, but I’m busy right now.

HEY--MAN’S BEST FRIEND HERE! Pay attention--NOW!

Sorry, but again, I’m busy right now.

Okay, you asked for it! I’m going to go knock over the kitchen garbage can, wolf down that last bit of left-over rotisserie chicken, ‘cack’ up a bone so you think I’m dying, and then poop it all on the carpet while you’re busy at the Twelve-Plex, catching Hollywood’s latest...

I presume I’ve made my point here. Anyway, Kira wasn’t done; she was only starting.

Jim, this is a sweet and lovely dog. BethAnn knows all about it. She knows the owners. Dazi’s ten years old and the owners don’t want her: they’ve already tried to have a veterinarian put her to sleep but the vet refused because she’s a healthy dog. They’re going to put her in a pound where she’ll be destroyed!

I didn’t give a crap about this dog or any other animal, despite the cold or possibly the death of them. There was a time I would have. In my earlier years, not so long before, I possessed what many told me was a gentle heart. I was known as a good, nice guy with a caring soul. But recent life experiences had hardened me. There was a time only two years before I found a cadre of infant bunnies in our yard and I spent five days and nights trying to nurse them along, with phone help by the local vet. They all died, sadly. I mourned them all, noticing, as I nursed them, distinctive personalities forming, though they were only days old (more about this later).

Dear, I sighed, standing up with the portable to my ear, we’ve already got a full house.

These people don’t want a dog. They got her from the wife’s daughter and son-in-law. They had her for eight years, but then had a baby and didn’t want Dazi. She gets locked in a bathroom 10 hours a day while they’re at work, and Dazi only gets five minutes of exercise a night when out for a ‘poopie’ walk. That’s how BethAnn knows. These people are her neighbors.

Through the windows, I could see the golden amber light of the setting sun. I glanced out the big glass door in my studio that led to out to the back deck, yard, and above-ground pool. Patches of an early winter snow clung to the frozen grass. It was a perfect winter night to come, to rent a video, to cozy up on the couch, and to watch a useless, forgettable movie.

Kira, I really don’t want another pet.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then:

I really think we should try this...

I knew that tone all too well. For very many obvious reasons, the marriage between Kira and me had been going bad for a while. She had always been, throughout

her life, a very non-confrontational person, where as I’d happily argue that red was really green. In retrospect, though she probably would have been better off living a life without arguments, life with me had taught her to argue back and stand her ground. I was now kind of like a Kung Fu Master being challenged by a very apt pupil, one whom I had gained new respect for, because the student knew how to kick the crap out of the Master.

Okay, I answered at last, "how about we try it for a weekend? See how it goes, how she gets along with the other critters and us. If it goes well, good, but if not, she goes back."

I could actually hear the smile in Kira’s voice. Fair enough.

They showed up that Friday night about 6:30 pm, and I have to say I’ve never seen an odder two-person crew. He was very tall, 5 inches above me and I’m 6’0 even. He looked old and gaunt, with streaking gray in his beard and heavy moustache, and he was skinny, like Abe Lincoln – had Honest Abe survived the assassination. She was clearly over 50 years old, but very short (5’3, about Kira’s height). She possessed that sort of ‘robust,’ slightly heavy ‘Hispanic’ aspect to her. They were both bundled for the cold weather.

She led this happily-trotting, smelling-all-in-sight, yanking, thing in – Dazi on the leash. (The dog seemed to act like it was on a fun trip to Disneyworld: ‘HEY! Look at all the cool stuff!’).

‘Abe Lincoln,’ on the other hand, carried a box too heavy for him. I immediately noted that it had everything necessary: THE DOG’S ENTIRE LIFE POSSESSIONS, as well as a great mix of canned and dry dog food. These people weren’t coming back!!!!!!!

Some light chatter occurred. Though my memories are vague as to the actual discussion, I do remember me mentioning about this being just a weekend tryout

somewhere – oh – about 11 million times. (The dog was ALREADY barking at me, raising my fear level to, well, on a scale of 0 – 10, oh, a 14!)

Kira, on the other hand, handled things rather correctly and with the ease, calm, and grace of a then fully-seasoned world-class diplomat at the United Nations.

Abe and wife left quickly, thus fully reinforcing my concerns. I began to wonder if, by Monday, we might find a disconnected phone, an empty abode, and no trace that these two individuals had ever existed. The possibility they might be stopped by the State Police for doing 130 miles an hour in a 55 mph zone could be a way to track them, if acted upon quickly enough.

Kira immediately did what all new pet owners do, and I’ve always found this hysterical: ‘the bowl of water.’ Now, I’m not dismissing that a new creature, unfamiliar with a new environment, needs some establishment of where its domain begins. But ‘that bowl of water’ is ALWAYS so tap-cold (like the iceberg that nailed the Titannic) and ALWAYS so over-flowing (Niagra Falls should be so wet)!

Now, I’m a Jersey City, NJ native and most of my friends growing up were Italian in heritage. One friend’s parents were Italian immigrants, and whenever you entered their house, they presented food to you as a welcome. I don’t dismiss that; I, in fact, think it is a wonderful thing.

But, if welcoming a dog or cat – a huge bowl of cold water? Why not for a cat – a vanilla milkshake? For a dog – beef broth? And even if ‘a bowl of water’, why such a BIG bowl, as if they had just crossed the Sahara? As if the previous owners or shelter had intentionally starved them into a ‘near-mirage-seeing’ state in order to elicit a desire to embrace the new owner.

I guess a BIG bowl is our way, as humans, to say "a full, loved future awaits you here. Welcome."

Dazi lapped up a couple of mouthfuls of the wet stuff, then turned down a bowl filled with her supposedly favorite dog food (by the way, she never ate that crap again (Lesson #1: uncaring owners don’t give a damn. Rough translation: don’t feed anything else until, out of desperation, it’s consumed by the wayward pet)).

Dazi sniffed the kitchen out carefully and then moved around the first floor like Sherlock Holmes seeking out a seriously hidden clue. Missie happily greeted her. Thumbelina, now old, semi-blind, and getting feeble, stayed on the couch and deemed to

let Dazi smell her. (There would never be a friendship here, or even a pack, but acceptances had been forged, and in the style of the times, ‘detente’ had been made).

The cats stayed out-of-sight, like sneaky ex-USSR politicos still expecting a coup that would raise the ‘sickle and hammer’ high again. (Like those stalwart communists, they would soon find they were way out of luck).

Dazi, still aware of me, as I watched off in the distance, began a pattern of barking at me incessantly when she made eye contact with me, which lasted through the weekend and beyond. But for the most part, the next hour and a half was calm and reflective.

Kira was having a great fun with all this, observing Dazi’s ‘Sherlock Holmesian’ efforts also, as she occasionally petted Dazi and directed her around. (While I fully respected Kira as a savvy professional whose job included dealing with foreign sensibilities everyday, maybe receptionist at a future, high-priced Marriott or Ramada chain, dedicated exclusively to dogs, beckoned.) She seemed thrilled already with this new addition and decided to call out for a pizza delivery to celebrate.

About 8:30 pm, the poor kid delivering the pie showed up and rang the doorbell.

That’s when all hell broke loose, at least according to me.

CHAPTER 2

ABOUT THE AMERICAN ESKIMO...

No, they are NOT snow dogs, despite what the name would imply. Till the day of this writing, 98% of people, hearing the breed name, assume these are large canines who draw sleds in yearly Alaskan contests.

The American Eskimo dog has a rich history, having been born off the ‘German Spitz’ breed. Nothing is ‘Eskimo’ or Native-American about them, although they are fully American in origin. The breed has only been recognized by the American Kennel Society recently, in 1995. While they have rich, thick white fur and generally love snow and cold weather, the largest of the breed is only kneecap high to a tall man, weighing between 21 and 25 pounds. Dazi belonged to the largest class.

American Eskimos rank among the most intelligent of dogs. They are serious problem solvers and smart to a level way beyond most others. An American Eskimo is very protective of home and family and a large Eskie