The moving story of the author's adopted Rottweiler mix, Lou, a free-thinking heroic dog who changed his life forever
Born of guard dogs on a secret marijuana farm in Mendicino County, Lou truly was one dog in a million. On the winter day that the ailing, tick-infested feral pup was rescued by Steve Duno, neither dog nor man had a clue as to what they were getting into, or where the relationship would lead.
Last Dog on the Hill tells the story of an indigent young Rottweiler mix who, after abandoning his pack and the hills of his birth, went on to change the lives of hundreds of people and dogs, including the author's, whose career as a behaviorist and writer was made possible through Lou's extraordinary intelligence and heart. Lou won the respect of gang members, foiled an armed robbery, caught a rapist, fought coyotes and kidnappers, comforted elderly war veterans and Alzheimer patients in their final days, taught ASL to kids, learned scores of unique behaviors and tricks, amassed a vocabulary of nearly 200 words, helped rehabilitate hundreds of aggressive dogs and saved them from euthanasia. He was also a clown, consummate performer and Steve's best friend for sixteen years. His story will make readers laugh and cry in equal measures.
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Last Dog on the Hill is veteran pet behaviorist STEVE DUNO's eighteenth book. He has trained thousands of dogs, and a good number of cats. He lives in Seattle with his family and an ever-changing assortment of rescued pets.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Rotties, Roadkill, and the Canine Cartel
Black topcoat hairs and tufts of downy undercoat lay in the corners of our home, in the periphery, like ghosts. The black hairs were odorless but his undercoat still held scent, and I’d lift some of him up to my nose and be back in the mountains with him, listening to coyotes or owls, or to mice nibbling on the tent fly. In death he had spoken to me in a way he knew I would best appreciate. His smell, still there in the carpet, sidestepped my brain and went straight for the heart, where the memories are.
The essential crime committed against all dog owners is born of the love we hold for them, which, like the love of a child, runs deep. No parent should have to bury a child, they say, but that is what we dog owners must do, not once but time after time, throughout our lives. While we remain unchangeable to their sweet eyes, they run from birth to the grave in an instant of our own mea sure. They burn like kindling, and though we know we can never replace one dog with another, we keep trying, in hopes of reviving hints of some great dog gone by. No; they are not children we bury. But dogs like Lou come close. They come very, very close.
Highway 101 sweeps north into the small Mendocino County town of Willits, California, gateway to redwood country, home to vineyards and fast rivers, and to the resting place of Seabiscuit, the great race horse. And it is where I found Lou, the greatest dog I have ever known.
In 1986, teaching degree in hand, I packed my Civic and left the grit of Queens for the glitz of Los Angeles. Upon arriving, I renewed an old fascination with dogs, one I’d first nurtured in childhood. Living in a one-bedroom New York tenement with my parents and brother, I’d asked for a dog but had gotten only a pale blue parakeet named Chipper, a bitter bird who’d bend apart the bars of his cage and escape, to strafe our heads and scream his discontent.
In Los Angeles I read scores of books about breeding, training manuals, and pet magazines until I fancied myself a bookish “authority.” I thought I was ready for a dog of my choosing. Then chance changed the course of my life, and the lives of so many others.
My girlfriend Nancy and I took a few December days off, packed the car, and drove up Highway 101 toward Northern California. The entire West Coast had fine weather; we took our time, often detouring over to the coast in places to enjoy the scenery.
North of Ukiah, in Mendocino County, the highway snaked through the countryside. Halfway through a long, right sweeper, we spotted furry shapes porpoising up a steep grassy hill, toward the tree line above.
“Puppies!” said Nancy. We pulled over onto the wide shoulder and got out.
On the crest of the hill a half-dozen dogs scampered for the cover of trees; midsized, dark-coated mutts with shepherd looks, tongues flagging, teeth bright in the sun.
“Five, six months old,” I said, suddenly aware of a much larger creature lying by the shoulder ahead, half hidden in the grass. An enormous Rottweiler, he basked in the sun like a Dakota buffalo, his black-and-tan coat dusted with dirt. And in his mouth rested the tawny snout of a limp, road-killed deer.
“Don’t go near him,” I said, the deer’s snout crunching like a carrot stick in his jaws.
“Not a chance,” Nancy said, more interested in the puppies, who had a lithe, black, shepherd mix with them, perhaps their mother.
The Rottweiler gnawed away thoughtfully and watched us.
Following their skittish mother up into the tree line, the pups were nearly out of sight. I gave a quick whistle just to see what would happen; all but one scampered off. But the last dog on the hill stopped, gazed down at the road, then made a mad downhill dash toward us, as if recognizing someone.
Black and tan, it looked more like a diminutive Rottweiler than did the others. Like a Looney Tunes character, the quick little mutt skidded to a stop right in front of us, dropped into a perfect soldier-sit, then stared up at me like I was Simon Cowell. It was Lou.
Those lucky enough to meet Lou were struck by his soulful eyes, riveting good looks and brotherly charm. People simply couldn’t get enough of him. But the dog sitting politely in front of me that day was anything but debonair. At most six months old, he had an infected tear on his throat, and ticks peppering his face and body. The bloated bugs hung like Christmas ornaments, even from the corners of his eyes and mouth and inside his ears and nose.
“He’s infested,” I said. “And look at that gash.”
“Look at his eyes,” Nancy said, grinning. “He’s gorgeous.”
Lou looked up at me and let out an interrogative, “Rower?”
“That gash is infected. And who knows anything about him.”
“But look at him,” she repeated. “Look at those eyes.”
I felt Lou’s warm breath on my hand. The sound of his dad crunching deer snout punctuated the swish of cars passing by.
I petted him. He looked at me like I was Mother Teresa. Fleas popped off his head like seltzer bubbles and ricocheted off the palm of my hand.
As I stood there wondering what to do, a pug-nosed Freight-liner pulling a load of timber hit its air brakes and snorted to a stop across the road, onto the shoulder. Out popped a gritty little guy in Levi’s and a dirty white T-shirt. He shuffled across 101 as if wearing leg irons.
“The biggun yours?” he asked, pointing to the Rottweiler with a shaky cigarette, looking like he’d been up for a week.
“Biggun?” I asked.
“The biggun chawin’ on doe face,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The deer’s snout secure in his mouth, the Rottweiler eyed the little trucker. The big dog was thoughtful and calm, a first clue, perhaps, to what his son would become. I remember thinking at the time that this dog could kill us all without much fanfare, then go back to his venison sashimi. He didn’t, of course; he simply took the mea sure of the trucker for a moment, then kept chewing.
“He’s part of a pack of strays that just ran up the slope,” I said.
“Bitchin’ truck dog.”
“I don’t know,” I said, picturing the jumpy little guy sideways in the big dog’s mouth.
“I think I’ll take him.”
“Oh I wouldn’t,” said Nancy.
“I got a way with dogs.”
Before the trucker could commit suicide by Rottweiler, a park-ranger pickup pulled over and a boyish-faced fellow got out, plugged on his ranger hat, and came over.
“Howdy, folks,” he said, eyes on the Rottweiler and doe.
“Gonna shoot him?” asked the trucker.
The Rottie dropped the doe and shook drool from his rubbery black lips.
“No. If he’d downed this deer on his own, we’d have to deal with him, but this was roadkill from last night. I saw it at sunrise on the side of the road.”
“Rower,” said Lou.
“You’d kill a dog if it hunted down a deer?” I asked.
“Stray dogs that hunt deer get euthanized.” He seemed too nice of a guy to shoot a dog.
“Who owns him?” asked the trucker, scuffling his cowboy boots in the dirt, moving closer to the Rottie.
“This big boy and the shepherd bitch up the hill are guard dogs from a marijuana grow over on the other side of this ridge. This time of year there’s not much to protect, so they just wander about, looking for food.”
“Marijuana grow?” asked Nancy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Patches of pot grow all through here, mostly on national forest land. Big cash crop. Not much else to do around these parts.”
Lou scratched himself, then looked up at me sweetly, calm but impatient, as if he’d made up his mind about us and expected the same.
“I’m guessing this one and the pups up on the hill are his,” said the ranger. “Dad and Junior here seem sociable, but the rest are wild. A local rescue group tried to catch them last week, but they’re too cagey.”
“I like that biggun,” said the trucker, rubbing his furrowed neck and snickering like a kid.
“I’d think twice about him,” said the ranger. “There’s a reason why he hasn’t spooked yet.”
“What about him?” I asked, petting Lou on his head, the fleas flying.
“Tame, isn’t he? I bet he’d go with you. Lean and cut up, though. Might have gotten caught up on some barbed wire.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Nancy, already deep in Lou’s camp.
“We’re four hundred miles from home,” I said. “He needs a vet and he’s infested.”
I had imagined it this way: find a caring breeder, choose the perfect, healthy pup, frame the pedigree, and live happily ever after. I hadn’t planned on making a snap decision beside the road with giant dogs and dead deer and caffeinated truckers and ganja fields and boyish rangers and sweet gypsy eyes looking up at me, wondering when we’d be going home.
“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” said the trucker, laughing oddly, as if he’d decided to slow-roast Lou at the next rest area.
Nancy giggled. She knew what pushed my buttons.
The big Rottie let go a thick stream of pee onto the asphalt, then stretched his back legs out one at a time. I wondered if Lou would get that big.
“There’s a vet in Willits as you come into town,” said the ranger. He had a slow, bearish quality. I imagined him quietly tending to his own secreted pot patch. “It’s Sunday morning, though; you might have to wake him up.”
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Book Description St. Martin's Griffin, 2011. Paperback. Book Condition: New. Never used!. Bookseller Inventory # P110312569394
Book Description St. Martin's Griffin. PAPERBACK. Book Condition: New. 0312569394 New Condition. Bookseller Inventory # NEW7.0091407
Book Description St. Martin's Griffin, 2011. Paperback. Book Condition: New. 1. Bookseller Inventory # DADAX0312569394