For some odd reason, my mom always called Warlock, "Walnut." Warlock was born 26 years ago yesterday. Bred by Rosemarie Davis, he came into our lives at 10 weeks of age and never left. The photo above was taken when he was almost 13 years old.
Warlock was an interesting dog and, by far, one of the most intelligent dogs I have ever known. He had a memory like the proverbial steel trap and was always thinking, sometimes in ways that weren't terribly appreciated. Warlock was not only bright, he was clever. And vocal. And strong. The funny thing about this boy was that he really wasn't any trouble as a pup. He was obedient and easy to live with, learned the ropes of the show ring in short order and had a temperament that was as close to perfect as they come. Then he grew up.
The first of Warlock's disasters was when he bred and tied a wire crate. Yes, there was a bitch in season in the crate but, when his efforts to get to her began, there was also a closed solid wood door and a bed between him and the crate. I'm not sure how he got through the door; when we came home, it was splintered and off its hinges. Then there was that bed. Like all beds, it had a mattress and one of my lovely old quilts. The mattress died ... well, actually, Warlock killed it. (He also killed my Raggedy Ann but that's another story.) How he managed to get every last bit of stuffing out of the mattress and spread throughout the entire room was and remains a mystery. It looked like a blizzard had hit. There was our Warlock, mounted upon and tied to the crate; the bitch inside looked partially disgusted and mostly amused. It took a pair of heavy duty pliers and the strength of 2 adults to free him and his penis. He was none the worse for wear. We were.
Warlock and my dear friend, Paula, had a very special relationship; it began when he pulled her over the top of two high-backed chairs and a table and broke her ribs. She adored that boy and brought him gifts yearly. I swear that he looked forward to her visits. Paula wrote a beautiful short story about Warlock and I will treasure it always.
When Fish was almost 6 weeks in whelp to Conan, Warlock opened a brand new jar of Filaribits. He didn't break it open; he held the bottle with his paws while he unscrewed the top with his mouth. As I said, Warlock was very bright. There were 4 other dogs in the room with him at the time, including the pregnant Fish. When I discovered the open jar and counted the remaining pills, I knew there were approximately 70 missing. With Warlock involved, he could have eaten them all himself or divided them evenly among the five of them. I spent quite a bit of time on the telephone, at 2:00 AM, with the vet on call at the manufacturer to find out what devastation was about to befall my dogs. Apparently, the only problem with the amount potentially ingested by one to five dogs was temporary liver damage. I was told to watch the color of their urine; if it turned orange, we needed veterinary help. Well, it was most interesting to stand outside at 3:00 AM, armed with a flashlight, and try to determine what shade of pee was what. Everyone was fine and Fish delivered 5 healthy babies 3 weeks later.
Warlock was relentless ... if he wanted to play, you played. If you walked away, he played alone. Besides being an excellent catcher, he excelled at both tether ball and soccer. And, he could throw. Near the end of his life, Warlock lost the function of his rear end. BUT, that didn't stop him from playing Frisbee. You could sit 10-15 feet from him and toss the disk ... he would catch it and toss it back.
Warlock was an amazing soul. I still miss his wit and his constant "banter." Can't wait to see you again, Buddy!
