CREEK ROAD GANG
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Susie-Dog
Cindy Schwartz-De Volcopyright 2010
The refrain went, “Can I get a puppy? Pleasepleasepleaseplease? Can I get a puppy? Everyone else is getting one, and they’ll be gone! Pleeeeez!” My older sister, Michelle, age four, had been repeatedly begging my parents. It was early January, 1970, five months before I was born, when the new addition was brought into our family.
The next-door neighbor’s female mutt with shaggy white hair and black spots had been knocked up by a roving pure white poodle, who had searched the Presidio neighborhood to sate his lust. Michelle had heard rumors the puppies were going fast, and thus, her pleas intensified. My parents, Allan and Barbara, reluctantly acquiesced to Michelle’s pestering.
Both native Philadelphians, my parents were stationed on the Presidio in 1968, for my dad’s two-year stint as a volunteer physician in the Army. He joined the staff of Letterman General Hospital, the medical hospital on the army post, fresh off his nephrology fellowship and ecstatic to be part of the progressive staff. After having my sister, who was six weeks premature, my mom had lost two babies and declared she never wanted to go through another pregnancy. When they departed for California, they were relieved to put the haunting memories associated with their Philadelphia apartment behind them.
In San Francisco, Barbara and Allan decided to venture to an adoption agency. Plans were set in motion, and they were scheduled to adopt a baby, due to arrive in January 1970. But when Dr. Charles Cochran, an obstetrician and colleague of my dad’s, offered his use of a special suture technique to help with my mom’s ‘incompetent cervix,’ they chanced becoming pregnant.
After I was conceived, the adoption agency basically told my parents, ‘Sorry. We don’t give babies to expecting parents.’ With my mom just two months pregnant, and both of my parents nervous as hell, they adopted a puppy instead, and made Michelle’s dreams come true.
From the adorable litter next-door, Michelle picked out a female who shared her father’s curly poodle-hair; however, instead of pure white she was jet black with small white spots on her nose, chin, and chest. Michelle named her Susie and she was embraced as a new Schwartz. My mother briefly thought about making her change the name, since she had a niece named Susan, but the name stuck. My father affectionately called her Susie-Dog.
While my mom learned, trial by fire, how to raise a puppy, her pregnancy progressed. She laid newspaper throughout their small townhome and taught Susie proper toileting habits. My mom saved Susie from a neighborhood beagle bully, as well as from a twig that got caught in her developing underbite.
I arrived six weeks early on May 12, 1970. My first month was spent in the incubator in the neonatal intensive care unit. My parents wore gloves and held and bottle-fed me every day through an opening in the incubator. Finally, I joined my parents, Michelle, and my other big sister, Susie, on the Presidio, only to fly back to the east coast a couple weeks later.
The whole Schwartz clan bade good-bye to San Francisco and headed back to the Philadelphia area, as my dad had completed his two-year duty in the Army. We settled in Lafayette Hill, in a split-level suburban home with a quarter-acre backyard that would become our constant playground.
Of course, I don’t remember those first couple years growing up with Susie, but the veterinarian told my mom, when we were both about one-year old, that I would continue to evolve past Susie, and she would stay the same. That might be true, but she sure seemed smart to me.
As a toddler, I couldn’t wait to be big enough to dance with our black “moodle” (poodle plus mutt) the way my mom and Michelle did. Enchanted, I watched them hold her front paws, as Susie walked around on her hind legs. By age six, I was big enough to waltz with Susie and to join Michelle and Susie in fun games, like playing tug-of-war with towels and socks. As Susie excitedly gripped that towel with all her twenty-pound might, she wagged her tail and growled simultaneously. Sometimes the towel would snag on the front tooth that stuck out, and we’d rescue her. She patiently put up with our dressing her in birthday t-shirts, on which we drew pictures of yummy Milkbone dog biscuits, making her pose for pictures with us. When I was three, I hid in the living room and tried a few biscuits, much to my mom’s dismay, because Susie made them look so delicious.
Susie would eat anything, except fruits and vegetables. One day, while we all ate grapes in the kitchen, Susie, surprisingly, seemed interested. My dad experimentally dropped a grape on the floor, and she took it gently in her mouth and trotted into the living room, only to return for another a minute later. After four trips back and forth, we curiously followed Susie into the living room, just in time to see her line up the fourth grape with the other three, all in a neat row under her favorite chair. Susie wagged her tail proudly.
On her frequent treks up and down MacNiff Drive, Susie satisfied her voracious appetite. Tinfoil from neighbor’s trashcans filled with last night’s leftovers was her favorite treasure to bring home. When she was gone for extended periods of time, we would use the special call, “Susie want a bisCUIT?” to get her to return home. The inflection had to be on the last syllable to be effective. Years later, when she wasn’t allowed biscuits because of her stomach problems, we would call “Susie want a craCKER?” and she would come running.
One mailman was not fond of Susie, who was all bark, no bite. One time, he ran across our yard and all the way across the street- backwards, afraid of our little twenty-pound Susie. Another time, he sprayed her, unprovoked, and my mom witnessed the whole thing. Furious and scared, all five-foot two inches of her sprinted out into the front yard, swooped Susie up in her arms and gave that postman hell. Susie rubbed her poor eyes all night, and my mom always made sure that she was inside at mail time. The next mailman openly loved dogs and was always happy to pet Susie. She never barked at him.
Susie was always at my mom’s heels, wherever she went. But when my parents went on vacation, and we had a babysitter, Susie slept in my bedroom, much to Michelle’s chagrin. Michelle tried to lure Susie to her bedroom upstairs, but Susie always came back and curled up with me on my bed.
I figured Susie knew how much I loved her, since I talked to her all the time. As I rubbed her belly or lay next to her, I would tell her about my day at school and problems with my friends or Michelle. “Susie, Allison was so mean to me today. She laughed at me when I ran slow in gym class.” “Can you believe Michelle ignored me like that when her friend was here?” She was the best listener and nuzzled or licked me in response. Then again, Susie was extremely affectionate, always ready to give a kiss. I never minded, except I would move my face from side to side, to avoid direct tongue-to-mouth contact. Once in a while I didn’t move quickly enough, and Michelle would say “Gross! Don’t let her lick your mouth!” but secretly I didn’t care.
When I was 8, we had the biggest scare ever. While on Thanksgiving vacation in Florida, Susie was boarding with a woman named Bella in Roxborough. Due to Susie previously contracting stress colitis from staying in a kennel, my parents decided to go a more personal route, and they were referred to Bella. However, Thanksgiving morning, Susie escaped when Bella opened the door to pick up her newspaper.
My Aunt Marilyn, my father’s older sister was the emergency contact, and she frantically called my father, while we were relaxing at our favorite tennis resort. He bravely kept the horrific news to himself for three days and claimed he was tired when my mother asked why he was moping around.
When we arrived at the Philadelphia airport, my dad broke the news to the three of us, and we promptly burst into tears. I cried for hours. After my parents confronted Bella, we searched the Roxborough neighborhood in the snow for two hours that night, even wandering through a cemetery, calling “Susie!” and peeking behind tombstones. My mom was spooked, so she waited on the sidewalk. The next day, we chose a picture of black-poodle-haired Susie with her white chin, cozily curled up in her doggie bed, to put on a poster reading: “REWARD $25!! For lost dog, Susie.” For a week, my parents alternated responding to calls we received, many of which were for the same black, scraggly male mutt. As they unsuccessfully combed the Roxborough streets and the days passed, we all became forlorn. Every time there was another sighting, we fretted that it would be that same pooch, and it was.
Hope was dim when my parents received another call from a gentleman who swore he saw a dog that looked exactly like Susie on the Walnut Lane golf course, near a small shed. He was retired and played cards with his friends at the golf course clubhouse. My dad trekked out there first thing the next morning but had no luck. He urged my mom to take one last look. She went begrudgingly, because she was tired of disappointment and sobbing. After a half hour of wandering around and yelling “Susie!” at the top of her lungs, my mom dejectedly walked back to her car. Just as she placed her hand on the door handle, she realized that she had not been calling Susie in the proper manner. She ran back to the golf course, stopped 100 yards away from the shed the gentleman had mentioned, and began to shout, “Susie want a bisCUIT!”
After just three times, my mom froze when a black critter darted out from under that shed. The animal started to run towards the right, and for a moment, my mom thought she must be mistaken. But then, the mass of black fur ran in a huge arc and came straight for my mom, leapt into her arms, and licked her furiously!
In utter disbelief, my mom started bawling. Holding wet, matted Susie tight in her arms, she ran into the golf clubhouse searching for the man who had called. He wasn’t there but his friends were, and they had heard about Susie. “I found her! I found Susie!” my mom cried to them. They promptly got Susie a bowl of water and a raw hotdog, which she gobbled up.
My mom called my dad from the clubhouse, and got hold of him while he was in the middle of a meeting with other physicians. “Allan, I found her on the golf course!”
“Everyone, Barbara found Susie!” he joyously told the other doctors.
Walking home from the bus stop that day, I had the strange thought that I couldn’t wait to see Susie, even though no one had called to tell me the good news. ‘What are you thinking?’ I reminded myself. Just after I rang the doorbell, I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard barking! Susie was home! Somehow I had felt her presence. That was the happiest day of my life to that date.
Susie continued to bring us joy for another 9 years. Family walks along the Wissahickon, where she would chase the ducks into the water. Playing in the snow with us, snuffling her nose until her face and body were full of white clumps. Tail wags that shook her whole body when she greeted us at the door.
During high school, when my sister was already out of the house and my parents were arguing frequently, I was especially grateful to have her companionship. Sometimes, I would lie with Susie in bed to distract me from the yelling, and I wondered if I wasn’t providing her with comfort as well.
Susie was a survivor. She suffered through various ailments over the years. From colitis to seizures, and finally heart problems. At different times, we thought she wouldn’t make it, and she always bounced back, not ready to leave us.
When she was nearly seventeen-and-a-half, her heart was enlarged, and her seizures were getting worse. She could barely walk any longer and she could not control her bodily functions. There was little that could be done for her at that point, and it was time to say good-bye. My dad, the strong physician, couldn’t make the decision. It was my mom, her caretaker, who had the resolve to bring Susie’s suffering to an end.
Before my dad carried her out the front door on her favorite blanket, I kissed her, softly pet her head, and told her I loved her. She looked at me, flicked her tongue, and weakly wagged her tail. I knew she understood.
Later that day, the three of us lay on my parents’ bedroom floor and hugged. It was only the second time I had ever seen my dad cry. I was in such shock, the lump got stuck in my throat and my own tears wouldn’t come out.
It took years for me to grieve Susie’s loss. She was my confidant and my surrogate big sister, when Michelle wasn’t there for me. Actually, she was more my Jewish San Franciscan ‘Irish doggie twin’.
I often dream about Susie. Sometimes, she is protecting me; other times, I am protecting her. I always know that she is no longer with us, but the love I feel during her nocturnal visits stays with me when I wake in the morning.
The next-door neighbor’s female mutt with shaggy white hair and black spots had been knocked up by a roving pure white poodle, who had searched the Presidio neighborhood to sate his lust. Michelle had heard rumors the puppies were going fast, and thus, her pleas intensified. My parents, Allan and Barbara, reluctantly acquiesced to Michelle’s pestering.
Both native Philadelphians, my parents were stationed on the Presidio in 1968, for my dad’s two-year stint as a volunteer physician in the Army. He joined the staff of Letterman General Hospital, the medical hospital on the army post, fresh off his nephrology fellowship and ecstatic to be part of the progressive staff. After having my sister, who was six weeks premature, my mom had lost two babies and declared she never wanted to go through another pregnancy. When they departed for California, they were relieved to put the haunting memories associated with their Philadelphia apartment behind them.
In San Francisco, Barbara and Allan decided to venture to an adoption agency. Plans were set in motion, and they were scheduled to adopt a baby, due to arrive in January 1970. But when Dr. Charles Cochran, an obstetrician and colleague of my dad’s, offered his use of a special suture technique to help with my mom’s ‘incompetent cervix,’ they chanced becoming pregnant.
After I was conceived, the adoption agency basically told my parents, ‘Sorry. We don’t give babies to expecting parents.’ With my mom just two months pregnant, and both of my parents nervous as hell, they adopted a puppy instead, and made Michelle’s dreams come true.
From the adorable litter next-door, Michelle picked out a female who shared her father’s curly poodle-hair; however, instead of pure white she was jet black with small white spots on her nose, chin, and chest. Michelle named her Susie and she was embraced as a new Schwartz. My mother briefly thought about making her change the name, since she had a niece named Susan, but the name stuck. My father affectionately called her Susie-Dog.
While my mom learned, trial by fire, how to raise a puppy, her pregnancy progressed. She laid newspaper throughout their small townhome and taught Susie proper toileting habits. My mom saved Susie from a neighborhood beagle bully, as well as from a twig that got caught in her developing underbite.
I arrived six weeks early on May 12, 1970. My first month was spent in the incubator in the neonatal intensive care unit. My parents wore gloves and held and bottle-fed me every day through an opening in the incubator. Finally, I joined my parents, Michelle, and my other big sister, Susie, on the Presidio, only to fly back to the east coast a couple weeks later.
The whole Schwartz clan bade good-bye to San Francisco and headed back to the Philadelphia area, as my dad had completed his two-year duty in the Army. We settled in Lafayette Hill, in a split-level suburban home with a quarter-acre backyard that would become our constant playground.
Of course, I don’t remember those first couple years growing up with Susie, but the veterinarian told my mom, when we were both about one-year old, that I would continue to evolve past Susie, and she would stay the same. That might be true, but she sure seemed smart to me.
As a toddler, I couldn’t wait to be big enough to dance with our black “moodle” (poodle plus mutt) the way my mom and Michelle did. Enchanted, I watched them hold her front paws, as Susie walked around on her hind legs. By age six, I was big enough to waltz with Susie and to join Michelle and Susie in fun games, like playing tug-of-war with towels and socks. As Susie excitedly gripped that towel with all her twenty-pound might, she wagged her tail and growled simultaneously. Sometimes the towel would snag on the front tooth that stuck out, and we’d rescue her. She patiently put up with our dressing her in birthday t-shirts, on which we drew pictures of yummy Milkbone dog biscuits, making her pose for pictures with us. When I was three, I hid in the living room and tried a few biscuits, much to my mom’s dismay, because Susie made them look so delicious.
Susie would eat anything, except fruits and vegetables. One day, while we all ate grapes in the kitchen, Susie, surprisingly, seemed interested. My dad experimentally dropped a grape on the floor, and she took it gently in her mouth and trotted into the living room, only to return for another a minute later. After four trips back and forth, we curiously followed Susie into the living room, just in time to see her line up the fourth grape with the other three, all in a neat row under her favorite chair. Susie wagged her tail proudly.
On her frequent treks up and down MacNiff Drive, Susie satisfied her voracious appetite. Tinfoil from neighbor’s trashcans filled with last night’s leftovers was her favorite treasure to bring home. When she was gone for extended periods of time, we would use the special call, “Susie want a bisCUIT?” to get her to return home. The inflection had to be on the last syllable to be effective. Years later, when she wasn’t allowed biscuits because of her stomach problems, we would call “Susie want a craCKER?” and she would come running.
One mailman was not fond of Susie, who was all bark, no bite. One time, he ran across our yard and all the way across the street- backwards, afraid of our little twenty-pound Susie. Another time, he sprayed her, unprovoked, and my mom witnessed the whole thing. Furious and scared, all five-foot two inches of her sprinted out into the front yard, swooped Susie up in her arms and gave that postman hell. Susie rubbed her poor eyes all night, and my mom always made sure that she was inside at mail time. The next mailman openly loved dogs and was always happy to pet Susie. She never barked at him.
Susie was always at my mom’s heels, wherever she went. But when my parents went on vacation, and we had a babysitter, Susie slept in my bedroom, much to Michelle’s chagrin. Michelle tried to lure Susie to her bedroom upstairs, but Susie always came back and curled up with me on my bed.
I figured Susie knew how much I loved her, since I talked to her all the time. As I rubbed her belly or lay next to her, I would tell her about my day at school and problems with my friends or Michelle. “Susie, Allison was so mean to me today. She laughed at me when I ran slow in gym class.” “Can you believe Michelle ignored me like that when her friend was here?” She was the best listener and nuzzled or licked me in response. Then again, Susie was extremely affectionate, always ready to give a kiss. I never minded, except I would move my face from side to side, to avoid direct tongue-to-mouth contact. Once in a while I didn’t move quickly enough, and Michelle would say “Gross! Don’t let her lick your mouth!” but secretly I didn’t care.
When I was 8, we had the biggest scare ever. While on Thanksgiving vacation in Florida, Susie was boarding with a woman named Bella in Roxborough. Due to Susie previously contracting stress colitis from staying in a kennel, my parents decided to go a more personal route, and they were referred to Bella. However, Thanksgiving morning, Susie escaped when Bella opened the door to pick up her newspaper.
My Aunt Marilyn, my father’s older sister was the emergency contact, and she frantically called my father, while we were relaxing at our favorite tennis resort. He bravely kept the horrific news to himself for three days and claimed he was tired when my mother asked why he was moping around.
When we arrived at the Philadelphia airport, my dad broke the news to the three of us, and we promptly burst into tears. I cried for hours. After my parents confronted Bella, we searched the Roxborough neighborhood in the snow for two hours that night, even wandering through a cemetery, calling “Susie!” and peeking behind tombstones. My mom was spooked, so she waited on the sidewalk. The next day, we chose a picture of black-poodle-haired Susie with her white chin, cozily curled up in her doggie bed, to put on a poster reading: “REWARD $25!! For lost dog, Susie.” For a week, my parents alternated responding to calls we received, many of which were for the same black, scraggly male mutt. As they unsuccessfully combed the Roxborough streets and the days passed, we all became forlorn. Every time there was another sighting, we fretted that it would be that same pooch, and it was.
Hope was dim when my parents received another call from a gentleman who swore he saw a dog that looked exactly like Susie on the Walnut Lane golf course, near a small shed. He was retired and played cards with his friends at the golf course clubhouse. My dad trekked out there first thing the next morning but had no luck. He urged my mom to take one last look. She went begrudgingly, because she was tired of disappointment and sobbing. After a half hour of wandering around and yelling “Susie!” at the top of her lungs, my mom dejectedly walked back to her car. Just as she placed her hand on the door handle, she realized that she had not been calling Susie in the proper manner. She ran back to the golf course, stopped 100 yards away from the shed the gentleman had mentioned, and began to shout, “Susie want a bisCUIT!”
After just three times, my mom froze when a black critter darted out from under that shed. The animal started to run towards the right, and for a moment, my mom thought she must be mistaken. But then, the mass of black fur ran in a huge arc and came straight for my mom, leapt into her arms, and licked her furiously!
In utter disbelief, my mom started bawling. Holding wet, matted Susie tight in her arms, she ran into the golf clubhouse searching for the man who had called. He wasn’t there but his friends were, and they had heard about Susie. “I found her! I found Susie!” my mom cried to them. They promptly got Susie a bowl of water and a raw hotdog, which she gobbled up.
My mom called my dad from the clubhouse, and got hold of him while he was in the middle of a meeting with other physicians. “Allan, I found her on the golf course!”
“Everyone, Barbara found Susie!” he joyously told the other doctors.
Walking home from the bus stop that day, I had the strange thought that I couldn’t wait to see Susie, even though no one had called to tell me the good news. ‘What are you thinking?’ I reminded myself. Just after I rang the doorbell, I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard barking! Susie was home! Somehow I had felt her presence. That was the happiest day of my life to that date.
Susie continued to bring us joy for another 9 years. Family walks along the Wissahickon, where she would chase the ducks into the water. Playing in the snow with us, snuffling her nose until her face and body were full of white clumps. Tail wags that shook her whole body when she greeted us at the door.
During high school, when my sister was already out of the house and my parents were arguing frequently, I was especially grateful to have her companionship. Sometimes, I would lie with Susie in bed to distract me from the yelling, and I wondered if I wasn’t providing her with comfort as well.
Susie was a survivor. She suffered through various ailments over the years. From colitis to seizures, and finally heart problems. At different times, we thought she wouldn’t make it, and she always bounced back, not ready to leave us.
When she was nearly seventeen-and-a-half, her heart was enlarged, and her seizures were getting worse. She could barely walk any longer and she could not control her bodily functions. There was little that could be done for her at that point, and it was time to say good-bye. My dad, the strong physician, couldn’t make the decision. It was my mom, her caretaker, who had the resolve to bring Susie’s suffering to an end.
Before my dad carried her out the front door on her favorite blanket, I kissed her, softly pet her head, and told her I loved her. She looked at me, flicked her tongue, and weakly wagged her tail. I knew she understood.
Later that day, the three of us lay on my parents’ bedroom floor and hugged. It was only the second time I had ever seen my dad cry. I was in such shock, the lump got stuck in my throat and my own tears wouldn’t come out.
It took years for me to grieve Susie’s loss. She was my confidant and my surrogate big sister, when Michelle wasn’t there for me. Actually, she was more my Jewish San Franciscan ‘Irish doggie twin’.
I often dream about Susie. Sometimes, she is protecting me; other times, I am protecting her. I always know that she is no longer with us, but the love I feel during her nocturnal visits stays with me when I wake in the morning.
* * *
Biography for Cindy Schwartz-DeVol: I grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where I still reside with my
husband and Sussex Spaniel. I love my work as a psychologist in private
practice. My passions are tennis and golf. Balance is key! After many
years of wanting to write, I finally signed up for an autobiographical
writing class in September 2008. I love having this creative outlet. Cindy's story "Seeing Star Trek with Dad" appeared in our October 2009 issue.
