There was a deep intelligence in the silence of that Rottweiller's gaze

Meeting Casey

It was late July and the weather was hot and sunny. Being so far north, the daylight lasted until around 9:00 pm, but we were cast in shadow after about 4:00 in the afternoon when the sun drifted behind Teakettle Mountain.

My cabin was an A-frame on three levels: a daylight basement with a door to the garage, a middle level with one bedroom, bath, kitchen and living area; the top floor was unfinished with a roughed in bath. A covered deck spanned the length of my house on the east side and wrapped around to the south and another door. The cabin was built on a slope, so the south side of the house was close to ground level. My front door could be reached from the driveway on the north by climbing a steep flight of stairs to the deck at the middle level. The top half of the door was glass, so I could see who was there.

As I was brewing coffee one morning, someone pounded on my front door. I looked out to see a scrawny man wearing jeans, rumpled shirt, and stained brown jacket. His dark hair hung over his ears and he needed a shave. I opened the door part way and caught a whiff of alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke.

Before I could say anything he snarled, “I am going to kill your dog! I was standing out in your yard at 2:00 in the morning and your dog was barking.  I’m calling the sheriff!”

Stunned, I recovered quickly, anger rising.

“Good!” I said. “Because if you don’t call the sheriff, I will. And what were you were doing in my yard at 2:00 in the morning?”

Gypsy, a 60 pound brindle, was at my side, her hackles up, a low growl rumbling in her throat. The man backed away, looking surprised. He sputtered, staggered a bit and I slammed the door. I watched out the window as he stumbled his way down the stairs and drifted off into the alley. 

“Welcome to Hungry Horse,” I muttered.

I was a little shaken by the incident and thought seriously about buying a shotgun.   I may have moved here from Seattle, but I was still a Texan and I would not let some yahoo threaten my dog.

I filled a coffee mug, took it out to the deck and dropped into the rocker.  My two cats perched on the railing and Gypsy settled onto her blanket.  The neighbors across the alley had a bunch of young kids. They were already outside, screaming and running around. A big rottweiler was tethered to a clothesline that spanned the yard from the house to a large tree at the edge of the property. Off in the back was a small shed filled with six puppies about four weeks old. I watched them struggle to crawl over a barricade and escape the shed. One was unable to make it over and whined as she watched the others waddle around in the grass.

A long-haired skinny young woman in jeans and tank top came out of the house, so I went over and introduced myself. She said her name was Wanda. She looked tired. Four of the six screaming kids and the dogs belonged to her. I commented on the puppies.

“Casey is a purebred Rottweiler. My parents breed them in California,” said Wanda proudly. “She’s from a champion bloodline and you’d think she’d have enough sense to breed with another Rottie, but noooo!” She sighed, looking scornfully at Casey.  “That dog took up with whatever stray came around. Now I have to find homes for those mixed breed pups, because I can’t sell them.”

I kept my mouth shut and wondered how the daughter of a breeder could be so dumb when it came to female dogs in heat being left tied up in the yard.  Smiling, I said I had something on the stove and needed to get back.

A week later I didn’t hear kids playing. There were no cars in the driveway in front of the white house. The next day Casey and the pups were still the only activity. The temperature was above 80 degrees.  I hadn’t seen anyone come to feed the dogs, so I wandered out to my driveway to take a look. There was an empty galvanized water bucket laying on its side by the porch and no sign of any dog food. Casey and I stared at each other. A big-chested muscular dog, she easily weighed over 100 pounds.  There was a deep intelligence in the silence of that Rottweiler’s gaze. I had owned dogs, but knew nothing about this breed, other than their reputation for being mean and dangerous.  

I can’t stand by and watch animals be mistreated or go without food and water, especially in the heat. I drove to the store and bought a 50-pound bag of dog food. Backing my car up to the edge of the lawn, I rolled the bag out of the trunk onto the grass just within Casey’s reach. She watched as I slit it open. I kept my head down in a non-threatening posture and murmured ‘good dog’. Then I stretched the hose from my yard, carefully tipped the bucket upright and filled it with water, always with one eye on the big animal. She did not seem aggressive, standing still while watching my every move. I could feel her eyes on me as I got back into the car and parked in my driveway.

A couple of days later, Gypsy and I returned to our vigil on the deck. Casey had escaped the tether and was nowhere to be seen. I could see the puppies in the shed. A big mongrel trotted across the yard. Before it got very far a grey tabby sprang out of nowhere, hissing and swatting at the dog. It yelped, tucked its tail and scooted off, the cat right behind him.  I couldn’t help laughing. A cat who could bluff a big dog had to be admired.

A couple of weeks later the family returned. People began to come and claim some of the puppies. When only two puppies were left, I went over and asked if I could have one. Wanda was happy to be rid of another pup, so I picked a female that looked like Casey.  The other one was all black with no markings.

Later that week, I heard a noise outside. I looked out and saw Casey making her way up the steep stairs with the last puppy in tow. I went out to meet her. She gave me a long look, then turned to go back down the stairs, leaving the puppy.

“Casey,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t take another puppy. I already have one puppy and Gypsy.” 

Turning, her look pleading, she seemed to understand. She dropped her head and the black pup followed her back down the stairs. I watched as Casey went from door to door trying to find a home for the last puppy. Later that afternoon they were both back in their yard.

The next day, Casey came back with the puppy. Again, I turned her away.  The third time I gave in.

“Ok Casey,” I said.  “You win.  What’s one more.”

Her mouth widened to a grin, then she maneuvered her big frame back down the stairs.

I named the black puppy Raven and the other one Chinook. Raven took to her name, but Chinook ignored me when I called her. She was a prissy thing, dainty for a Rottie cross. She had the markings but not the body or face. After a few days of trying to get her to come, I decided to stand across the room and call out every name that came to mind to see what would happen. She finally responded to Veronica. I tested the name several times and each time she came. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. It was time to do some research and learn more about rottweilers, what they were bred for and how to raise them.

The rest of the summer, Casey would often visit. She loved to lay on the deck with Gypsy, Raven and Veronica. I had made a friend for life when I brought food and water to her and the pups. She also liked my dog biscuits.  Wanda wasn’t happy about it and accused me of trying to steal her dog. I assured her I had no such intention. Casey probably needed a break from screaming kids and wanted to visit her pups.

I learned to respect and admire rottweilers and would never have to worry about prowlers in the night with Casey around. It’s been close to 30 years and Casey has long since passed away, but she will always have a special place in my heart.