A few weeks ago, while searching for something interesting to
post for Throwback Thursday, I unearthed this smile-inducing photo of my Dad
with our dog, Cookie. A rescue from the Toronto Humane Society, Cookie came home in a big cardboard box in the summer of 1957. I'd been quarantined at
Grandma's house with a miserable case of mumps and the puppy was intended as a
cheer-up present from Mom and Dad. It worked!
Cookie was a sturdy mixed breed, fluffy and white with brown
ears and a feathery, perpetually wagging tail. She quickly became my best
friend. In fact, much more than a friend, Cookie was the sister this only child
had always wanted. Naming her Cookie was a no-brainer – our family name is
Cooke – but the moniker suited her. Cookie was a real sweetie and, as far as
I'm concerned, she will always be the Best
Dog Ever.
This photo of us from September '57 is the only one I've
been able to find of Cookie as a puppy. I'm sure there were lots more but since
Dad was infamous for leaving his photo subjects completely or partially
headless, this one with 'just a little off the top' might be the best of the
lot anyway. (Sorry, Dad, but you know
it's true.) Cookie was mid growth spurt when this picture was taken. She had
doubled in size since the day her tiny puppy-self emerged from that box in
Grandma's kitchen.
One afternoon, when she was still just a wee thing, we were
playing with a ball in the backyard. At the time, the fence between our neighbour's
yard and ours was a rusty metal grid of 4x4 inch squares. When next door's spaniel
ran into their yard, Cookie was so excited to see another dog, she raced to the
fence and stuck her little head right through one of the openings. Doggy kisses
were exchanged, tails were wagged, and the older, wiser neighbour dog wandered
off to do her business. That's when Cookie realized she was well and truly stuck.
Her head and ears fit neatly going in but, once through, those pretty ears of
hers perked up and prevented retreat. I'll never forget her terrified howls –
hard to believe such a tiny pup could make such a big noise! Dad and the
neighbour eventually had to take a hacksaw to the fence to release her. Mom was
apoplectic. I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well,
let's just say it wasn't long before the old fence was replaced with a new,
puppy safe model.
Cookie's misadventures continued inside the house, too.
Mom's prized Singer sewing machine soon had permanent gnaw marks on all four
legs, as did my piano. Even the heirloom sideboard in the dining room wasn't
spared. And speaking of gnawing on wood…
Our sofa sat in front of the living room window. Whenever we
were out, Cookie would climb up onto its back where she could sit comfortably
and watch for her people to return. Mom usually remembered to leave the
venetian blinds pulled halfway up so Cookie's view would be unobstructed. One
day, probably running late for work, Mom left the blinds down. The slats were in
the open position, so a curious dog could see through. But a teething puppy,
presented with lovely, thick wooden slats, did what any teething puppy would do
in the circumstances: she chewed. She watched and she waited and she chewed.
And when the first delicious slat was gnawed all the way through, she started
on the second. Etc., etc., etc. Baaaad
puppy! I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well,
let's just say it wasn't long before the venetian blinds were replaced with
new, puppy approved curtains.
Years later, a fully-grown Cookie was once again implicated
in a domestic disaster: the Terrible
Coffee Table Incident. She and I were home alone one afternoon, having
convinced Mom and Dad that we were perfectly capable of taking care of
ourselves while they went grocery shopping. We read for a while, played ball in
the yard, shared a glass of milk, and then went to the living room to watch TV.
'Somebody' decided to sit on the coffee table. It was all good fun until the
glass top made a loud cracking noise and shattered in a spectacular starburst.
Luckily, 'somebody' jumped off in time and wasn't injured by the shards of broken
glass.
I looked at Cookie. Cookie looked at me. There may have been
tears.
I did all the talking when Mom and Dad got home. "It
wasn't Cookie's fault," I said, trying hard not to cry. "We were playing and she
jumped up on the table. She didn't mean to. It was an accident!"
Cookie stayed by my side the whole time, looking hangdog
sorry and thoroughly ashamed. We were both sent to our room. The coffee table
top was eventually replaced – at considerable expense (being a custom cut oval
piece of glass in a mahogany frame) – and the incident wasn't mentioned again
until, finally, I couldn't stand the guilt and confessed the truth to my
parents.
I was the one who'd thought it might be fun to sit on the
table. Cookie was innocent. It was my
fault. All mine! Mom and Dad listened and nodded. I'd been expecting an
angry reaction and suitable punishment, but all they said was, "We're glad
you finally told us." They'd known who the culprit was all along. And
they'd understood just how badly I'd feel after making poor Cookie take the
blame. My angst was far worse than any punishment they could have doled out. I
was the worst sister ever. And the Best
Dog Ever loved me anyway.
Aside from her family, Cookie had three great joys in her
life: rides in the car, cows, and ice cream cones.
 |
| The Nash Rambler |
Like most dogs, she loved going for drives with her people –
all that lovely wind ruffling her ears and so many strange smells in the air!
On summer Sundays we'd often swing by the house after church, pick up Cookie,
and head out in Dad's metallic green Nash Rambler for an afternoon drive in the
country. Cookie would begin the trip full of excitement, eager to see every
sight and sniff every single scent on every single breeze. But eventually the
rumble of wheels and hum of the engine would lull her to sleep on the back
seat.
In those days, there were still lots of dairy farms in the
countryside around Toronto and Cookie was positively fascinated by cows. We
always knew when to expect cows in the next field because Cookie would twitch
awake and head for the window, ears perked and tongue lolling in a happy grin.
On the rare occasion when her cow early-warning system didn't work, all I had
to do was whisper a quiet, "moo," and she'd spring to attention, nose
at the ready. She never knew the thrill of a face-to-face encounter with a cow in
its field – Mom was afraid the dog would get herself trampled, cause a
stampede, or (more likely) enjoy a good roll in the cow pats. But Cookie didn't
mind. She relished every molecule of cow essence her nose ever encountered. Mom
was probably right about the patty rolling thing.
 |
| Cows in their field. Photo by Bernie Janssen |
Another favourite Sunday destination was the soft-serve ice
cream stand on Kingston Road in Scarborough. Dad would order three medium cones
for the humans and a baby-sized cone for Cookie. We'd sit at a shaded picnic
table to enjoy our treats and Cookie usually drew a crowd of onlookers.
Everyone loved watching her eat her cone. She'd lick politely until the twist
of ice cream was gone. Then, with Mom holding the cone, pup would nibble dainty
circles around the wafer, revealing more of the good stuff deep inside the cone.
Lick and nibble, lick and nibble, all the way to the bottom. Then she'd chomp
the final morsel of cone, give her chops a clean-up swipe with her tongue, and
settle onto her haunches to stare hopefully at anyone not clever enough to have
finished before she did. Thanks to those dewy brown eyes of hers, Cookie could
usually score a second or third 'last morsel' – sweets for the sweet.
 |
| Cookie Cooke - 1957 to 1968 |
Sweet Cookie was my sister, my friend, and my faithful
companion for nearly eleven years. She left us far too soon but she'd lived a good life, her dog days filled with love and smiles and tail-wagging happy
times. I've loved other dogs
since, but there will never be another like Cookie, my one and only Best Dog Ever.
Wondering where you've heard that before? The title of this
post is a quote from Verse For A
Certain Dog, a poem by Dorothy Parker:
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington
Labels: Cheryl Cooke Harrington, Cookie the Dog, dogs, family, family story, humor, memoir, pets, writing
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