There is a water bowl that has been sitting on the front porch of my cabin in the Catskill Mountains for the past year. It’s beige earthenware and has D-O-G crudely stenciled on its side. I bought it at a Mom and Pop store in Hell’s Kitchen after returning from the National Tour of the show 42nd Street. No dog drinks from this bowl, even though it was meant for one: Dan, a cute little terrier mutt I adopted from an actress friend of mine.

Dan had a pretty sketchy history by the time he came to live with me. He appears to be a mix of (mostly) Chihuahua and Border terrier; picture Toto if he had fallen in with the Bowery Boys and you’ve got Dan. As a puppy, he was discovered in a prison yard in Hartford, Connecticut by a work-release prisoner named Dan. Dan (the prisoner, not the dog) knew of a woman in town who rescued abandoned animals and placed them with new owners.

This woman put an ad in the local paper to find Dan (the dog, not the prisoner) a home. The accompanying picture showed a dog with a face and body language that said, “Adopt me… don’t adopt me… makes no difference,” while his eyes pleaded, “Please, please, please take me home!”

My friend Cass succumbed and kept him for 6 of his 7 years. When she gave him to me--because she was traveling too much--she reminded me that Dan “has issues”. Don’t wear boots around him or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to pick him up the wrong way or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to scratch his back or… Well, you get the idea.

But, bring out his rope toy and he’s as playful as a pup. Scratch his tummy when he runs into the room and rolls over on his back and he’s sweet as taffy. And, first thing in the morning, whisper in his ear that it’s time to get up and he’ll sigh and stretch just as far as he can, sometimes letting out a little squeak as he reaches across the bed to touch your nose with his paw.

Dan and I lived like country squires in my cabin in the woods. He’d lie contentedly in the sun on the front porch, or show his utter disdain for squirrels with a condescending bark. I was going to miss this little fellow being away for a year with the show. But, I knew he’d be okay. I was leaving him in the city with my boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?

Three months into the tour he (the boyfriend, not the dog) broke up with me. Let’s say I carried 50% of the blame and leave it at that.

For the remainder of my time on the road I maintained a mostly one-sided correspondence with the boys back home. Dan and he received Christmas presents and Easter goodies at the fifth-floor walkup on 10th Avenue. I sent money to pay for a year’s worth of dog food and always reiterated my intention to have Dan back with me at the cabin when the tour was finished.

Toward the end of the year I got an e-mail from Cass that said, “I don’t want to sound paranoid, but he wrote me asking about the idea of implanting an I.D. chip under Dan’s skin.” She talked him out of it, but I had to assume my address was not intended to be on that chip.

It was starting to feel like a Hitchcock thriller starring My Dog.

I refused to believe it. It wasn’t a thriller; it was a romantic comedy. Boy meets dog, boy loses dog... Returning home from the tour at the end of summer would be the part where boy gets dog back again. Dan and I would walk up the hill to the cabin, stealing affectionate glances at one another, as the sun set and the credits rolled.

But things didn’t play out like they do in the movies. I attempted, without success, to get in touch with him through e-mail and phone messages. After several weeks of no response I began losing sleep; at the end of a month I was having recurring nightmares. As the leaves on the oaks and maples around the cabin announced the onset of autumn, I found myself at my wit's end.

My friend Debby, always a source of solid practical advice, said without hesitation: “He must be in a bad place to be doing this. You have to think about him and do what’s best for him, and, in doing so it will also be what’s best for you. You have to give Dan to him ” My heart sank. Then I remembered a proverb I once heard: “The things you keep for yourself are lost for good; the things you give away are yours forever.”

The course of action seemed clear. I wrote him:

“After much soul-searching I have decided I need to do what is best for you. And if that means making a gift to you of Dan then that is what I will do. I hope you will allow me to come and say goodbye to him.”

I never heard from him, and I never saw Dan again.

I tried to feel good and angry about it all, but couldn’t seem to. Frustrated? Sure. Helpless? You bet. But, one has to be in a deep, dark place to keep someone from bidding farewell to his own dog. I might as well have gotten mad at him because his eyes are brown and not blue.

The other day I took a load of rubbish to the town dump. Along with a broken lamp and leaky garden hose—other things I don’t need anymore—I left a water bowl with D-O-G stenciled on the side.

The bowl may be gone, but as the proverb says, Dan is mine forever.

©2005