Noah beats all ~ March 1, 1984

David Heiller

The flu knocked me out for most of last week. I missed three days of work, as I sat delirious and fevered in the big chair by the woodstove at home.

Cindy, my wife, gave the flu to me (not intentionally—no one hates me that much). We suffered together, while Noah had his run of the house. Noah is our eight and a half month old son.

Noah setting Binti straight.

Ask Binti, our 70 pound dog, about Noah’s supremacy. She’ll swallow and try to crawl under the woodstove. Noah wrestled Binti into a black mop last week, while Cindy and I watched helplessly, calling encouragement to the faithful dog from our perches on the furniture.

Noah rolled on Binti, climbed on Binti, rode Binti, and hung onto Binti’s ears as if they were reins. Binti grunted, groaned, licked, and eventually struggled to her feet and went outside.

Noah had his turn at us too. He woke up in the middle of the night several nights, and cried till we brought him into bed with us. Is there anything more like heaven for an eight and a half month old? You could have sworn it was 10 in the morning by how happy Noah was to be with Mom and Dad in bed. He sat up and laughed. Turn to face him, and he played with your face like putty. Turn away from him, and your back was a giant drum, to be pounded till you rolled over and the process began anew.

David, Noah, Binti and Miss Emma. Noah is about to 
begin drumming one of those expensive toys.

Drumming, I learned last week as I suffered and watched, is Noah’s calling. He pounds everything. All those expensive Fisher-Price toys, that click and ring and cost a lot of money, are reduced to nothing more than elaborate drums. That expensive electronic scale that I bought Cindy for Valentine’s Day, it’s nothing more than a perfect drum for Noah. The highchair tray, the cat, the stereo cabinet, all are perfect drums. There is nothing our house that is drum proof, including us.

Noah may also be a wrestler, I decided last week. I first got the idea after watching him rake Binti over the coals. Then I learned the hard way, as he showed me his latest moves in diaper changing.

I wrestled in high school, so I know a bit about the sport. In fact, I was a fairly good wrestler. But despite my 160 pound advantage, Noah can beat me, when it comes changing time. 

His strongest move (actually his only move) is escaping. As I get the diaper under him, he rolls to his left, and grabs the edge of the changing table, and pulls himself upright, sitting and grinning. As I try to bulldog him back onto his back, the diaper gets twisted up. As I straighten the diaper, Noah rolls to his left and grabs the edge of the changing table. It’s a no-win situation, for me, till I move Noah onto the floor, where there is no edge grab. Then my chances are at least 50-50.

Well, maybe I was just weak from the flu last week—maybe that’s why Noah won. But I have a feeling it’s not.

Editor's note: I remember this so clearly. I was stricken with influenza first, and spent two days alone with Noah while barely functional. I have to admit it: I was relieved when David got it too, and had to stay home.

Saying goodbye to a best friend ~ November 21, 1991

David Heiller

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1991: It’s 8:15 a.m. My back is sore from digging Binti’s grave. It’s funny how soft the earth is under 18 inches of snow.

Binti is resting on the rug in front of the refrigerator. She likes that spot, and won’t move, even though it’s hard for us to get things. Back in the old days, we would have made her move, but not lately. She’s had royal treatment lately. After 12½ years, she’s earned it.

Binti and the family the day before we said good bye.

I could write a book about Binti. Most people who have grown old with a dog could. Now it’s the final page. She can’t shake hands anymore, like before when she would almost bowl you over with her big left paw. She can’t hear a sound. She won’t eat, not even canned dog food. I never thought I would buy a dog canned food, but we did for Binti about a month ago, when she started looking so gaunt. Now she won’t even finish a can. About all she can do is wag her tail, and even that is weak, not the old rap-rap-rap that used to echo through the house when we’d stoop to pet her.

Last night, she asked to go outside, and didn’t come back for half an hour. Cindy went looking for her. Ida, our three-year-old collie, acted just like Lassie and took Cindy down the road a piece. Binti was stuck in the ditch, in snow up to her neck. She couldn’t move. Cindy had to haul her out and bring her home. We sat her in front of the woodstove and covered her with two old towels. She still wouldn’t stop shivering.

Binti must be thinking the same thing we are. A snowbank, a veterinarian. Same difference. Her time has come.

WEDNESDAY, NOV. 13, 7 p.m. Doctor Frank Skalko found a tumor in Binti’s liver when we brought her in this afternoon. He felt her abdomen on the stainless steel table in his office, with Cindy and I watching, and said, “You’re making the right decision.”

We said our goodbyes then, Binti resting on the table, trusting in us like she had always done, Cindy and I crying on top of her. “You’ve known her a long time,” Frank said. Neither one of us could answer. Then he shaved a patch on her right leg and gave her an injection, and Binti rolled over on her side and closed her eyes, as if she were falling asleep.

We took her home and buried her in the waiting grave, between two apple trees. Noah wouldn’t come with. Mollie did, but ran home crying when I laid Binti on the snow. We didn’t force them.

Ida sniffed her old mentor up and down. She wagged her tail at first, as if asking Binti to play. Then she sensed that Binti was dead, and her tail stopped wagging, and she watched us lay her friend into the hole and cover her with an old blanket, then with dirt, then with sod.

After supper, we took out all our old photo albums, and found several pictures with Binti. The kids want to bring them to school tomorrow, to show and tell. It’s a good idea.

Binti's first day with us in 1979.

CINDY AND I GOT Binti as a puppy when we first were together, back in August of 1979. She was half Irish setter, half roving farm dog. I had just returned from Morocco, so we named her Binti, which means “my daughter” in Arabic.

She was like a daughter too. We took her everywhere, played with her, took daily walks, brushed her so that her fur shone. People would remark at how beautiful she was. That made us proud.

But she was more than pretty. She had good sense even as a puppy. When the kids came along, she accepted them instantly. She knew she had no choice, but it was more than mere tolerance. She let them scoot after her in their super coups, or pull themselves up using her long ears as handles. She never snapped or growled. When she’d had enough, she would stand up and go to the door, or move to another room. She was so patient and gentle, it always amazed me.

Ever since we moved to the Denham area in 1981, we never tied Binti up. She stayed close to home. Once she got into trouble by going into a neighbor’s yard. He threatened to shoot her. I said I would teach her not to do that. For the next two weeks, we took walks past his place, and I held her collar and told her “No!”

I stopped to see this neighbor a couple weeks later. “You must be chaining your dog,” he said a bit smugly. “I haven’t seen her around.”

“Nope, I just taught her to stay home,” I answered with an inward smile.

We seemed to communicate, Binti and me. When the sun would set and silence lay on the land, we would sit on the deck and gaze together over the field. Once a coyote howled from the woods so loud that we both looked at each other at the same time, with a mixture of fear and wonder.

Binti exploring in the snow.

Every winter, a day would come when I would toss a snowball or two at Binti. She would never run away. Instead, she would sit still and give me a look that said, “How could you throw that snowball at me? ME, YOUR DOG?!?” That would always stop me, and I would pet her and apologize.

It sounds like I’m giving Binti more human qualities than she deserves. Some people do that. I remember a lady when I was a kid who dressed her poodle in a vest in the winter, and would take him to the A&W every noon and buy him a hotdog. Someone ran him over one day, and a hush fell over the town like a person had died.

So I’ll admit to you skeptics that Binti definitely didn’t compare to a person. She was far superior. How many people do you know who trust you and obey you and forgive you, no matter what? Name one.

Is that why they call dog a man’s best friend? I think so.

If I could order a dog, like you order Christmas presents from a catalogue, I would order another Binti. No hesitation. She had a good life. She was a lucky dog. And we were too.

Teaching an old dog new tricks ~ October 6, 1988

 David Heiller

Before Cindy and I had children, we decided to get a puppy. We joked that it would be a good child-rearing test for us. (There’s a lot of truth to that joke.) We even named the dog Binti, which means “my daughter” in Arabic, which I spoke from my Peace Corps experience.

Our first day with Binti.

Binti was part of our family back then, nine years ago. She slept on the couch, or in our bed. When we visited relatives for holidays or weekends, she came along. We took her for walks every day, and played many games.

One of the best games we played was on the big round bales of hay in the field near our rented farm house. Cindy and I would climb onto a bale, with Binti leaping to join us. Then we would race to the next bale, trying to keep ahead of the imaginary alligator. At first, Binti couldn’t catch us, but as the autumn progressed, we became alligator casserole nearly every night.

When our real children started arriving, Binti’s life changed. She was booted outside. We also kicked her off the couch and bed. She stayed home when we went to visit relatives. Our games were replaced more with walks, as our kids rode on our backs and Binti went exploring the fields along the roads of Birch Creek Township on her own.

Malika and Binti

Binti accepted the change with little fuss. Like most pets, she sensed these four-legged humans were special. She let the babies pull themselves up by using her dangling ears as handles. When they confused her with a horse and tried to ride her through the house, she let them. Of course, this was made easier by the increase in table scraps which she would find under the high chair every morning, noon, and night. Even now, Binti’s first stop in the house is beneath the kitchen table, nose to the floor.

But lately Binti has been showing signs of her age. She doesn’t hear me call her in the early morning, when she is still sound asleep. She struggles and groans to her feet when she wakes, and her walk is a little stiff. The vet says she has cataracts forming.

So we thought now might be a good time for a puppy. Binti could help raise it, we thought, and it might add a little zest to her life too.

Noah coaxing out the new puppy, Queen Ida.

Connie Overland, Sturgeon Lake, had a litter of collie-Labrador puppies to give away, so we picked a female. She had a slender collie face, and ears that stuck half-up before folding over like envelope flaps. Her fur was brown with black tips. We named her Queen Ida, and meant no offense to the musician by that same name. In fact, it was a compliment.

Binti didn’t exactly break out the Alpo when Queen Ida moved in. She hardly wagged her tail when they met. Queen Ida hid under the porch. But soon the two made peace. Queen Ida literally threw herself on Binti, chewing at Binti’s ears and wagging tail. They are now inseparable. When Binti roams the field on a smelling expedition, Queen Ida follows. When Binti comes into the house to make her kitchen table run, Queen Ida is sniffing right behind. Sometimes when they eat, Queen Ida stands directly underneath the 75-pound Binti, so that they look like one animal with two heads, a big black one and a little tan one. When Binti curls up in front of the wood stove on these cool fall nights, Queen Ida nestles next to her.

A week ago, I took the two kids and the dogs across the road to check out the hay-making activity of our neighbors. As we climbed onto a big round bale of hay, that old game popped into my head. I called across the field, where Binti and Queen Ida were tracing some animal scent.

“Queen Ida!” The puppy turned her head and looked our way.

Noah and Queen Ida

“Come on,” I said to the kids, “let’s see if we can get to that bale over there.”

We took off running toward the nearest bale. Queen Ida glanced at Binti, hesitated just a second, then galloped after us.

“Hurry Noah, an alligator’s coming!” I called, feeling my heart pound with real excitement. “Hurry Mollie, don’t let him get you.” Both kids screamed and laughed and ran harder to the next bale, while Queen Ida closed the gap.

Noah reached the bale first, but he couldn’t get his five-year-old frame up. I grabbed Mollie from behind, and threw her on the bale as I ran past. Queen Ida followed me, Noah still scrambling and laughing, unable to get a foothold.

I finally had to boost him up too, just as Queen Ida caught my pants’ leg. “Ah, the alligator got me,” I cried, falling to the licking puppy.

“That’s a tiger, Dad,’’ Noah corrected me with a huge smile.

Our game continued to the next bale, and the next, until the kids had all been consumed by the tiger several times and both hunter and hunted had had their fill.

As we headed home, I thought about that old game that I had played with Binti so many years ago. Back then, I never would have dreamed that Cindy and I would have two children who would play the same game with their puppy, while Binti and I grinned from the sideline. And I never thought such a silly game would make me so happy once again.

Two-dog nights and days ~ December 14, 1989

David Heiller

Sunday night, Dec. 10, 7:30 p.m. Binti, our 10½-year-old dog, is having a nightmare. She’s lying by the Christmas tree, whining and yipping and quite soundly asleep.

Queen Ida lifts her head up from the rug in the kitchen where she is sleeping, and looks at me. It’s the same blank stare I must be giving her. “What the heck is Binti dreaming about?”

Maybe it’s those Christmas cookies that they were fighting over earlier in the evening. Cindy had the kitchen table covered with them, sugar cookies shaped like pine trees and Santas, moons and stars, lions, and bells, all frosted white with glitter stuck on top. Every time Queen Ida came too close to the table, Binti would snap and growl, making us all jump. Binti knew she couldn’t have any of the cookies, but she was making darn sure that Queen Ida had none either.

The muffin syndrome in action:
Queen Ida is pretending to eat while Binti
looks on coldly.

That’s the Muffin Syndrome in my dictionary, named after my mother-in-law’s late poodle. When Binti was a puppy, we would bring her on our visits there. Muffin would rest her chin on her dog dish, not eating a bite, just growling at her rival. Binti learned the lesson well. Too well.

People learn it too. Our kids especially. If Noah has a book on his bookshelf and Mollie wants to borrow it, he’ll often say no. “Don’t be a Muffin,” I’ll tell him, and he knows exactly what I mean.

8:00 p.m. Binti’s nightmare is over now. She just rose up and looked at me. Must have been a rough one. Maybe about the cold weather. No wagging tail. I call to her, eight feet away, but she doesn’t move. “You’re a good girl,” I say. Α few years ago her tail would have rapped the floor loudly at this. She loved to be complimented. Still does. Only now she is almost totally deaf. You have to shout your praises to her like a sports announcer.

Old age has spoiled Binti. She sleeps in the house most nights now. I used to let her stay in only if it was zero or colder outside. But Cindy challenged that this winter. She wanted her in every night, and during the day too when it was really cold. She soon had the kids on her side

Noah visiting with Binti

One morning as we were going to work, Noah asked me, “Why do you hate Binti?” The question stopped me in my shoes. Hate Binti? Α dog we’ve had for 10 years, since puppyhood? Α dog who was to us then what our children are to us now? Hate her?

“I don’t hate her,” I answered. “She’s a dog, Noah, not a person. Dogs don’t belong in the house. That’s why she has a house of her own.”

“Can she sleep in at night at least?” Cindy asked, looking for the compromise, as usual.

I caved in on that, and Binti sleeps in at night now, even when it’s above zero.

In the morning we’ll find her on the recliner next to the woodstove. It’s a wicked place to sit, reaching Finlayson-sauna temperatures when the stove is roaring. That’s just right for Binti. She can’t get too close to the woodstove. Sometimes she sleeps with her head under the stove. Sometimes her black fur gets singed and stinks up the living room. We call her the Heat Sponge. North Pine Electric could market her as a heat storage unit if she had puppies.

Yesterday morning I woke up in early morning darkness. Listen: Cindy was breathing on my right, and Noah cuddled on my other side. I could hear Mollie in her room, sighing in her sleep, with an occasional grinding of teeth. Then I heard another deep breath, in and out. It sounded like α huge man, barrel chested and weary as weary can be. At first it startled me, until I realized it was Binti on the floor. She had struggled up the 13 steps to join us. No nightmares even.

Malika supervising Binti drinking out of a dishpan.

I called her name in the darkness. I wanted to hear her tail thump against the hardwood floor. But no thumping, just that heavy breathing.

Tuesday morning, Dec. 11, 7:30 a.m. The thermometer says 20 degrees below zero. We’re headed for a high of about 10 below. Cindy asks again if Binti can stay in. “How about if I plug in the light in her dog house?” I answer. Pastor Sjoblom from our church gave this new house to me, complete with a light fixture inside. I’m not sure if it’s intended to keep the dog warm or help her read Scripture.

Binti and Queen Ida bend over their dog dishes to eat breakfast. A tree in the woods cracks with cold. Sounds like a Kent Hrbek shot to the upper deck in right field. Then Binti heads around the corner of the house for her clean, well-lighted place of rest. Soon Ida will join her. It’s a two-dog day, weather-wise.

Inside my car heading to Askov, the radio announces that Will Steger has reached the South Pole, and will celebrate by staying there for a couple days.

He’s celebrating at the South Pole. Back here he’d probably be sunbathing. That’s what Einstein really meant with his theory of relativity. I bet his dogs are warm too, and having peaceful dreams.