MIDNIGHT, JUNE 1991-MAY 25, 2009: A REMEMBRANCE, PART I. When he finally slipped away from us on Memorial Day, he was possibly the oldest dog in Dane County.
The first time I saw Midnight, back in the late fall of 2001, I was on a routine pickup trip for the local German Shepherd rescue. I'd had a call late in the day at my office asking if I could drop by the Dane County Humane Society and pick up a "Shepherd mix" who was in "pretty bad shape." He was to be euthanized the next day, so we had to move.
I thought Midnight was the saddest-looking, most pathetic creature I'd ever seen in my life.
Crouched against the far wall of the evaluation room, the dog (obviously at least as much coyote as German Shepherd) eyed me warily. My heart sank for two reasons: Wild dog crosses are notoriously unstable and no one had mentioned that this was part of the "mix"... and it was obvious that this dog was probably dying. He was nothing but skin and bones and watering eyes and dull yellowish fur.
"What's the matter with him?" I asked the Humane Society caseworker kid.
"He doesn't eat."
"Are you sure he doesn't have cancer?"
"The vets checked him out. Other than being malnourished, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with him. Oh, except that he failed his temperament test."
"How so?"
"Well, look at him. He doesn't want anything to do with anyone."
I harrumphed. The Humane Society was famous for botching temperament tests. "It looks like he's been through a hell of an ordeal. Did you pick him up in the wild?"
"No, a lady from up north brought him in. I guess he lived on her farm, and she had to move to town. That was three weeks ago."
"Listen, leave me alone with him for awhile, okay?" I was already crouching down; the kid's standing and looming over Midnight seemed to make him uncomfortable.
I sat on the floor and minimized the eye contact, acting bored and distracted. After a few minutes, Midnight wandered over and sniffed at me and allowed me to scratch under his collar. Apparently deciding that I was an okay sort, he then proceeded to lay down across my lap. A lap dog.
I couldn't really see how this dog could be adopted out, at least not in his present condition, but my heart went out to him. He seemed to look at me imploringly, and I had the sense that I was the first person he'd seen in three weeks who had given him any real attention.
"Alright, let's get the paperwork done," I told the caseworker. "Maybe we can at least get him into hospice care or something. How old is he?"
"Just turned ten."
"Yeah, this is going to be an easy adoption. Ten-year-old half-starved wild dog. Oh well. He seems like a friendly enough boy, though."
"Listen, you can just leave him here and we'll euthanize him. We just thought you guys would want to take a look."
"Never mind, I'll take him."
The suburban couples with their whining children gaped at me in amazement as I filled out the forms with this pathetic shell of a dog by my side. "Surely," their slack jaws told me, "you could have found a better dog than this."
I felt like Charlie Brown with his spindly, half-dead Christmas tree.
I was literally turning the doorknob to leave the Humane Society when the caseworker kid called out, "Hey, we have his little buddy here too. Don't suppose you'd want to take a look at her?"
"Little buddy?" I rasped.

Midnight (background) off thinking Midnight thoughts. Winter 2003-2004 on the Stoughton farm.
TO BE CONTINUED
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