Darby the Doodle, RIP

Remembering the life of a dog who loved people

“You talkin’ to me?”

We lost someone very special today. Some might call him a dog. But he was much more than that.

Darby Yarrow shuffled off this mortal coil just a few weeks shy of his 15th birthday. Darby was a Labradoodle, but when people asked what kind of dog he was, I always replied “Half Poodle, half Labrador and half human.” He did dog things, of course, like barking, fetching, and eating the occasional bird carcass. But his human qualities — listening, empathy, patience — were abundant. He rarely socialized with other dogs — dog parks were pointless to him — preferring always to keep a human in sight. He was almost obsessed with pleasing humans, allowing himself, for instance, to be dressed up as everything from a mail carrier to a Cleveland Browns fan just because it made people happy.

We adopted Darby from a breeder in Davis, CA following the passing of our dog at the time, a Standard Poodle named Peabody. The idea of a Labradoodle seemed perfect — the loyalty and temperament of a Lab crossed with the intelligence and non-shedding characteristic of the Poodle. When we visited the breeder, we had the pick of the litter. Being in the pen with eight two-month-old doodle pups was a romp. I immediately picked out a lively female who seemed to have her run of the place. But while I was preoccupied with her, a small quiet male walked up to my wife and climbed into her lap. The deal was done.

The name was kismet. My wife had a childhood friend who had a dog named Darby, while I had been charmed as a kid by a movie about leprechauns called “Darby O’Gill and the Little People.” Plus, the alliteration — letting Darby the doodle roll off the tongue is just fun.

Darby couldn’t have been more different than his predecessor. Where Peabody was headstrong, Darby was cooperative. Where Peabody would chase a bird a quarter mile out onto the mud flats of the San Francisco Bay, Darby would never leave your side. To us, a leash was not much more than a legal requirement or a social expectation; it had nothing to do with control, because none was needed with Darby.

Not to say that Darby was perfect. He had epilepsy, which we chose to work through without drugs; his seizures, which were mild and endured with stoicism, eventually waned over time. He had a bad habit of barking and charging the TV whenever a dog — or any four-legged mammal — appeared on the screen. That was a head-scratcher; in real life, he could care less about other dogs. When no one was looking, he’d use a white sofa in the living room as a napkin after he ate. Oh, and his eating habits! Breakfast was fairly normal, but dinner had to be served in a plush pumpkin, into which we would stuff the food and out of which he would vacuum it after sticking his snout into the pumpkin’s eyes.

And, it shall be told here, Darby did have a criminal record (albeit a misdemeanor). On an afternoon walk one day up the San Bruno Mountain just south of San Francisco, Darby and his owner were cited by a park ranger. Apparently, Darby had neglected to tell me that dogs and other pets are not allowed in California state parks. When we got home, Darby decided he liked the gangster life and helped put this commemoration together.

Because Darby was so anthropomorphic, and also so easy to please, he was also easy to spoil, which pretty much happened all the time. I recall walking Darby one day on the streets of the small Southern town where we now live. A family stopped me to ask about Darby — “She’s such a cute pup,” was a typical comment, despite the fact that he was an elderly male — and I responded with the usual spiel about the “half-human” part.

The grandpa in the family, who had a deep backwoods North Carolina accent, looked at me and said, “That sure is a pretty dog. Do you ever let him in the house?” To which I replied, “Yeah, I do” without the added detail that he lives in the house and sleeps on the bed every night.

So, yeah, he was a little spoiled. But he gave as good as he got. For a period of several years, whenever we were out of town, he would stay with a wonderful couple who lived nearby and loved dogs. The wife, Bunny, suffered from Alzheimer’s, which progressed over time, and absolutely adored having Darby around, so much so that they sat on the couch together for six hours a day or more, which is not something he’d do on his own; up until the end, Darby had some zip in him. I don’t know if Bunny’s relationship with Darby helped to slow the progress of her condition, but it certainly helped her endure it.

Bunny caring for Darby; or was it the other way around?

Here at home, one of his favorite activities was retrieving the newspapers every morning from the end of the driveway and bringing them into the house. I calculated that over his life he probably delivered more than 5,000 papers to me, with alacrity. When I brought a new woman into his life, who I would eventually marry, he could not have been more gracious about welcoming her into the family. He was a service dog, in the truest sense of the word.

In the end, he was not the dog he wanted to be. He developed dementia and often got confused, whimpering and yelping at night. Activity was replaced by lethargy. Finally, a neurological short-circuit prevented him from standing up. It was time. We had family who helped us talk through the emotional dimension of crossing the rainbow bridge, and a fantastic vet who objectively and methodically walked us through the medical issues. In the end, everyone agreed it was time. I think Darby did too.