. . . this one’s for Biddy
Issue 8 : Sept/Oct 1999
Way back before Noah, when Someone was first organizing His thoughts on putting together the universe, it seems obvious He was striving for the sweet perfection of balance. Men and women, land and water, darkness and light, good and evil, chocolate and liver. That kind of Balance.
But there was some essential part missing, a sort of universal filler to smooth life’s rough spots, to provide a sense of continuity and stability from one day to the next. And I think that dogs were created for this very special purpose. This story is about mine.
Her name was Bandit, later changed to Biddy by kids struggling to pronounce their first words. She was with me for 14 years of ups and downs and all the waypoints in between. We shared steak and beer in Colorado and — at one particularly low point — a small batch of oatmeal for supper in Idaho; hers with beef bullion in it, mine with sugar.
Bandit was born in the Colorado Rockies in a little town called Frisco between Breckenridge and Vail. Her mother was a German shepherd, and her dad was a true junkyard dog: a husky/malamute that lived in the junkyard on the outskirts of town. A week after we got her, while she was still less than two months old, Bandit developed distemper and rapidly went downhill. The vet could tell us only to keep her eating and cross our fingers. For about two weeks, she got hamburger and beef shortribs while we ate cereal. She survived, but she remained stunted, looking for all the world like a miniature German shepherd.
I’d like to think that Bandit had a rich and full life with me, but I know it’s the other way around. She actually gave me the rich and full life. Sensitivity, trust, perspective, and loyalty — ideals that I admire and strive for today — their values are retained quite possibly because of one small dog. We swam, hunted, ate, worked, sailed, hiked, and fished together. But what I remember most clearly was the strength and encouragement she gave my projects, especially the sailing ones. When my third application attempt at overhead fabric fell in a sticky impossible mess, when the replacement paddlewheel for the knotmeter refused to turn, or the new Y-valve for the holding tank broke in my clumsy hands, Biddy was always there, with a wagging tail when I looked up and made eye contact. She had absolute faith in my ability to put our world right again. She knew, and because she knew, we always worked it out somehow.
She crewed on my old Venture and Westerly sailboats, living aboard and preferring to be wherever I was, as long as it wasn’t forward. Her tolerance of all God’s creatures, large or small, from neighboring pier cats to gulls and cranes, was amazing. She liked warm beer and sardines, tomato sandwiches and the rare landfall ice cream cone. Shipboard meals always included a Biddy-portion.
Bandit died in 1991, and I still miss her mentorship. A small candle of pure devotion shining steadily in my sometimes chaotic life, she helped me see — through her eyes — the beauty of new horizons, of life and lives shared. God bless you, Biddy.
Bob Wood learned to sail on small O’Days more than 30 years ago. He has owned an odd assortment of sailboats and sailed them in waters from the Florida Keys to British Columbia’s Gulf Islands and beyond.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
