Barb and I are dog people. We grew up with dogs and they were part of our lives. During our forty-six years of marriage, we always had dogs. Many of them have their place in the history of Katie’s Cottage.
Rusty
Before the lake, I had Rusty, a Brittany Spaniel who laid the foundation for the dogs to come. A great hunter and companion, she never saw the lake, but she taught me what a good hunting partner could be.
Belle
One hot August day we were driving the countryside when two puppies peeked out of the weeds next to a ditch. Barb said, “Stop, stop!” I kept driving. Barb was relentless. Finally I turned around. Little did I know what was to come.
We got the pups in the car. One was white with butterscotch ears, the other black and white. They were desperate for water, started licking the condensation on pop bottles on the floor. They needed immediate attention.
We stopped at nearby homes. The pups weren’t theirs. Someone had abandoned them. I’m constantly amazed by the cruelty of our race.
We got them home, hydrated them, gave them flea baths. The white one looked covered with pepper as the fleas came off, crawling into her eyes. She whined. Same for the black and white.
We took them to a vet, got them treated, wormed, shots. Then we’d put them up for adoption. Barb asked the vet, “How big will they be?” He remarked, “About the size of your Brittany.” That was the last time he ever gave estimates on size. He added if we hadn’t rescued them, they’d be dead the next day.
We put an ad in the paper: Free puppies, wormed and shots. The black and white was adopted by a family whose little boy had just had heart surgery. He wanted a pet. Good home.
We’d grown attached to the white one, Belle. There was something special about this dog. She grew to one hundred pounds. She had all the markings of a Great Pyrenees and the temperament. Wicked smart. Almost like she understood us.
I needed a hunting dog. I taught her to bird hunt. The first time with live birds at a put-and-take farm, I thought I’d missed a shot. Belle ran after the bird. I called for her for over ten minutes, getting angrier. Then I saw her come out of the weeds, something in her mouth. The pheasant, still alive. She’d tracked it down. I had a hunting dog.
She was also a loyal protector. Good with family and friends, but if a stranger approached unbidden, she’d bear her teeth and give a low growl. Enough to stop someone in their tracks. She never bit anyone, but I’m pretty sure she caused some folks to soil themselves. I always felt Barb and Katie were safe when I was traveling.
Belle was our first dog at the lake. By the time we bought the cottage, Katie had been born and Belle was thirteen years old. She made it to the lake several times, but there are no memorable stories. When she crossed Rainbow Bridge it was a sad day. We’d never have another like her. She was special.
Biscuit
Biscuit falls into the category of a lake ARI—alcohol related incident. She was a Yorkshire Terrier, the first small dog we ever owned. Several more would follow.
I was at the lake with friends ice fishing. We’d eaten and were enjoying drinks, maybe a few too many. Allegedly, Barb called and said, “Katie and I have found an adorable puppy.” I allegedly said, “You should buy it.”
When I got home, there was Biscuit, a three-pound ball of fluff. Not recalling the conversation, I said, “It’s yours, keep it away from me!” Not one of my better moments.
Well, Biscuit had other ideas. Later that month Barb went into a store. Biscuit and I stayed in the Yukon. When she came out, Biscuit was on my lap. I said, “I hate to admit this is a cool little dog.”
She was Barb’s dog. Cute as a button, and she loved Barb. Several times someone would stop and offer to buy her. One lady offered twelve hundred dollars. This dog was not for sale.
Sadly, we later learned the mother had congenital defects which were passed on. We had her six wonderful years. She made it to the cottage for a few years, keeping Barb and Katie company. By that time, she was reduced to being a lap dog.
One funny incident: A neighbor had a yellow Lab named Tess, restricted by invisible fence. Each time we walked Biscuit, Tess would run to the edge of her yard barking and growling. One day Barb opened the front door and Biscuit ran out, turned down the street. Barb was in hot pursuit. Tess was sleeping in her yard. Biscuit ran up, jumped on Tess, and started biting her. Tess woke up, grabbed Biscuit, and tossed her just as Barb arrived. Biscuit turned and ran for home, Barb still chasing.
They say dogs don’t hold a grudge. I’m not so sure.
When Biscuit crossed the Rainbow Bridge it was a sad day. She’d enriched our lives like no other. Barb still misses her. Biscuit introduced us to Yorkies and set the stage for a Little Bass Lake legend. To this day I’m grateful for my drunken approval to buy her.
Sunny
After Biscuit we never had less than two dogs. Our next was Sunny. I’d always wanted a golden retriever—smart, good-tempered, often guide dogs. Good hunters and family dogs.
Sunny turned out to be something entirely different. We bought her Thanksgiving weekend from a family with a litter of pups. As she grew, she didn’t have the bulky golden physique. She was built more like a setter. High-strung and one of the most athletic dogs we’ve owned.
She was the best hunting dog I’ve owned. Great in the field, loved to hunt. My close companion for years. When I was at the cottage in my chair by the fireplace, she was at my feet.
She was my fishing partner. We hunted grouse on federal lands a few miles from the cottage. If not for the terrible fear of storms and loud noises—which resulted from the lightning bolt that hit our dock—she was a good girl.
She was not good at coming when called. Neighbors often heard yells of “SUNNY COME, SUNNY COME.” Cuff’s son-in-law Tom joked he thought that was her name: Sunnycome.
Katie and Sunny would play in the snow at the lake or go out on the ice to check tip-ups. One time I decided to try something. I attached a plastic toboggan to a rope and looped it through Sunny’s collar. I thought it would be fun for Katie to have a sled dog. A major surprise followed.
I took Katie, Sunny, and the toboggan to our side road and got Katie situated. Then I urged Sunny on. She took off like a shot, racing down the road reaching speeds of fifteen to twenty miles per hour. Katie was howling with delight. I was scared witless. Where the hell was this dog going? I was chasing behind and losing ground, fearful a neighbor might be coming down the road and meet an uncontrollable dog pulling Katie.
Finally, Sunny stopped at the bottom of the road’s hill. Katie had a thrilling two-hundred-fifty-yard ride. I wondered if Sunny was channeling a sled dog. This was the last time we tried Sled Dog Sunny.
I asked Katie what she thought of her runaway sled ride. She said, “It was great except Sunny’s claws kept kicking up ice chunks into my face.”
Mark this up to another Sunny story.
Miffy: The Gentle Maltese
Barb had been going through a rough patch. Her father had passed, she’d had rotator cuff surgery, and Katie was in Ireland on foreign study. I was spending a lot of time at work. She was struggling.
One day I came home and Barb said, “I stopped at the pet shop and saw the cutest puppy. Let’s go look at it.”
I believe when you stop to look at a puppy there’s a fifty percent chance you leave with it. I believe the odds increase to eighty percent if you go back a second time. In our case, I placed the odds at one hundred percent.
At the time we had two dogs. Sunny, who was fourteen years old—she and I were both retired from chasing birds in the field. Her time with us was coming to an end. A year earlier we’d added Trixie to the family. She decided she was my dog. Barb wanted her own. I knew we’d be leaving the pet shop with the puppy and be a three-dog family. I was okay with this.
When we arrived at the shop, they had one puppy. A tiny white Maltese. She looked too small to be separated from her mother. The salesperson placed her in a fenced area and Barb played with the pup. It was so small it could only hop. It was adorable. Barb loved it. We left with it.
Once home, the little pup immediately snuggled in with Sunny. She became her foster mom. The puppy would pester Sunny. She was tolerant and played gently with the little dog.
A couple days later I tried to get the pup’s attention. I called it. No response. I clapped loudly behind its head. No response. I told Barb, “They sold us a deaf dog!”
I insisted she call the pet shop. She relented and made the call. After she hung up, she glared at me. I said, “What?” She replied, “The pet shop said that dog isn’t deaf, lady, it’s just ignoring you!”
It was true. She wasn’t deaf. She had selective hearing.
When Barb and Katie spoke on the long-distance call from Ireland, Barb told her we had a new puppy. Her response: “What? You bought a puppy without me?” Not a happy girl.
Returning from Ireland a few weeks later, we met Katie at O’Hare Airport. We brought the puppy. Katie was lovestruck. We were absolved.
We had yet to name her. We wanted Katie’s input. She said, “It looks just like Miffy.” Miffy is a Dutch cartoon character, a white rabbit similar in appearance to Hello Kitty. Katie once had a Spanish language comic book featuring Miffy. She loved it. The name stuck. She was to be Miffy.
Maltese are the classic lap dogs, bred to sit on the laps of royalty. They’re well-tempered, calm, extremely soft, and loyal. The perfect girl dog. Barb and Katie now had their dog. We were now a three-dog family: Sunny, Trixie, and Miffy. Everyone was happy.
To say Katie and Barb doted on Miffy is an understatement. Miffy went everywhere with them and was always on their laps. We introduced her to the lake. Unlike Trixie, Miffy was content to be in the cottage with the girls. Of course, everyone who visited made a fuss over her.
One of the cutest stories involves a neighbor’s grandchild. He’d picked Miffy up and was carrying her around. Miffy was tolerant. The child came over to Barb and me and said with newfound discovery, “Miffy is so soft. And you know what? She has a tongue!” From the mouths of babes.
Miffy didn’t have adventures at the lake like Trixie. One day, however, we had a panic. We were in town twenty miles away. A windstorm had kicked up. We got a call from a neighbor saying they had Trixie. Barb was frantic. She was sure Miffy was lost, too young to survive. We raced home. Barb was in tears.
When we arrived, I saw Trixie cruising the lake with my neighbors on their pontoon boat. Sunny was laying on the deck. Our porch door was wide open. There was Miffy, laying on the couch. I’m sure she was thinking, “No way am I going out in that storm.”
She was the ultimate chill dog. A regular companion to Barb and Katie, Miffy had an eventful life. She spent one summer with Katie while she was doing a summer project banding hummingbirds in southern Arizona. The people leading the project had wolf-dogs. Miffy blended right in.
She also spent a summer with Katie at Grandpa Rocky’s just before Katie started grad school. One time several years earlier, we were at Grandpa Rocky’s for the Fourth of July weekend. Barb and Katie dressed Miffy up wearing a red, white, and blue starred top hat and a vest. We went into the resort town of Harbor Springs to attend the best small-town parade in the state. While walking down the street, Miffy in full costume, a man stopped and asked, “What’s your dog’s name?” Katie answered, “Miffy.” He said, “How fitting!”
One year I was in California in the hospital. It was Thanksgiving time. Barb had flown out to care for me. Katie was in her PhD program at MSU. That year she came to the lake with Miffy and spent Thanksgiving there. A lake friend invited her for Thanksgiving dinner. She and Miffy had their special holiday together at Katie’s Cottage.
Miffy never matched Trixie’s exploits at the cottage, but her disposition and charm endeared her to our friends at the lake. Most important, Miffy filled a hole in Barb and Katie’s hearts left when Biscuit passed. She was the only pet shop dog we ever owned.
Trixie: The Amazing
Every dog owner will have that special dog—a companion, a soulmate, an integral part of your life. Trixie was mine.
Biscuit was in failing health. We knew she’d be crossing the bridge. This would be an emotional loss for us all, especially Barb. To help ease the pain we knew was coming, we started the search for a new puppy. Biscuit would have a little friend, and the transition would be less painful when she passed. Our new puppy would be a Yorkie. I was sold on the breed thanks to Biscuit.
Barb and Katie began a search and found a breeder in a neighboring town. They did the initial visit and told me they’d found our girl. We always had female dogs—better temperament, more family-oriented.
When we got to the breeder’s, I saw they raised Rottweilers and Yorkies. A strange combination. Though Yorkies are said to be big dogs in little dog bodies. This was the case with our new puppy.
I saw her and it was love at first sight. Yorkie puppies are adorable. She was no exception. We closed the deal, wrapped her in a blanket. She rested in Katie’s lap and we began the drive home.
On the way back we discussed names. We settled on Trixie. It was a variation of Tricki-Woo, a dog featured in James Herriot’s “Dog Stories.” Tricki-Woo was special. Trixie would be too. How special, we had no idea.
Trixie was to be Barb and Katie’s dog. She had other ideas. People don’t choose dogs. Dogs choose people. Trixie chose me.
Early on Trixie displayed intelligence and athleticism. She learned many tricks easily. Her athletic ability amazed people. At dog parks she’d easily navigate the big dog agility course, leaping over high bars. She was only six pounds and stood eight inches at the shoulder. We’d throw a racket ball that would bounce several feet in the air and she’d leap high to catch it on the bounce. People would stop and stare.
We still had Sunny at that time. The two got along well, but Trixie was the boss. She was now part of the family. Katie and Barb had hours of fun playing with her, dressing her up, taking her for walks. She helped ease the pain of Biscuit’s passing.
But she was my dog. If I left the house, Barb would find her in the closet curled up in one of my boots, or a sweater in the laundry basket. Barb wanted a dog of her own. Trixie was mine. She would later become legendary at the lake.
Trixie: The Fisher Dog
When we took Trixie to Katie’s Cottage the first time, it revealed her strong hunting instincts. She was in her element. Yorkies were bred to hunt rats in English textile mills. Trixie was the consummate hunter. The chipmunks and squirrels had better be on high alert when she was in the yard. She’d spend hours chasing them if we let her.
One day we were on the dock together and I was fishing. I caught a bluegill. When I unhooked it, it fell to the dock. Trixie was on it in an instant. This was the start of a fifteen-year fishing partnership. Apparently she transferred her rat-hunting instincts to fish. This partnership would be long, with many rich experiences and a source of amusement to the lake people. Sometimes an annoyance, I suspect.
Each time I’d walk down to the boat, rod in hand, she’d race down with me barking wildly and leaping at my rod. Once in the boat she sat on the bow, yipping at nearly every cast. Then she’d watch intently as I retrieved my lure. She knew when I hooked a bass. The yipping would stop. Once it was landed, she’d attack it furiously until I released it. When we were circling the lake fishing, the neighbors knew we were on the lake.
It became a bit of a joke but also a routine. People knew when we were at the cottage thanks to Trixie. One time she jumped in the lake after a fish. This prompted me to buy her a life vest. In the years to come I’d say, “Trixie, get your vest, let’s go fishing.” She’d race to the porch and come back with it, eager to be fitted. It got to the point I couldn’t leave her behind. When I tried, she’d throw herself at the door until Barb let her out.
Once she displayed intelligence that stunned me. We’d just returned to the dock. I laid my rod down while I unloaded the boat. Trixie went over, grabbed the reel handle in her mouth, and started turning the crank. She’d related turning the reel handle to catching a fish. This sounds like a tale. Her tooth marks on my reel handle are proof this is not a fish story.
Another of her antics involved bluegills. I finally brought my sixteen-foot fishing boat to the lake. It’s there to this day. This boat had an aerated live well. This was a great advantage—I could put my catch in the live well and choose to release them.
When Trixie saw the bluegills in the live well, she jumped in and grabbed one, came out and put it on the floor saying, “See what I caught?” I’d return the fish to the live well. If I didn’t close it, she’d jump back in to catch another.
One time she developed a cough that necessitated a visit to the vet. He said she’d aspirated some water. I explained her live well antics—it was from her dunking her head to catch a bluegill. He just shook his head. He’d never heard of such a thing.
We caught thousands of fish together over the years. But this is only part of Trixie’s story.
Trixie: The Hunter
Trixie loved to fish. She also loved to hunt. It became a challenge to contain her. She’d see a chipmunk or squirrel and the chase would be on. Many times she’d run off and I’d search for her. I was worried. She’d be easy pickings for the eagles or coyotes. She might also get lost in the woods. But she always made it home, sometimes an hour or so later.
When she returned, I was both angry and relieved. Of course, she was known to our lake crowd, and on a few occasions I’d get a call from a neighbor across the lake. “We have Trixie!” I had our phone number on her collar.
I never saw her catch anything, but that didn’t deter her. One time she did experience catching a red squirrel. They can be a pest. We were being overrun and they were causing problems, chewing wires and holes in our sauna room. I could no longer catch and release.
I got a pellet gun. The hunt commenced. On one occasion, Trixie and I were on the deck. A red squirrel was on a tree limb over the bird feeder. I took aim and made a clean kill. By the time it hit the ground, Trixie was on it, grabbing it by the neck and showing the thrashing technique that broke the necks of the textile mill rats.
Years later, after we sold Katie’s cottage, there was a going-away party. We’d be missed. Trixie too. She was known to all at the lake from her fishing and hunting exploits. In fact, they probably knew her name better from all the years of my calling, “Trixie, Trixie!”
She’d always make her first stop when we got to the lake at Cuff’s slider, announcing our arrival. The lake people awarded Trixie and me a lifetime pass giving us fishing access to the lake. We made good use of it together, and I still use it
to this day. Boy, was she a winner.
In her fifteenth year she experienced kidney failure. I nursed her, giving subcutaneous injections weekly. We were in Arizona at the time. My goal was to get her on the lake one more time. She made it home that spring. I took her to the lake for one last trip. But I knew the end was near. She was happy to be in the boat with me, but her normal excitement wasn’t there.
Sadly, later that summer Trixie crossed the Rainbow Bridge. She and our other girls—Rusty, Belle, Sunny, Biscuit, and Miffy—are waiting for us at the base of the bridge for the time when we’re all rejoined.
Growing Up All Over Again 