"WRYDER" -- WHEN A BELOVED DOG LEAVES HOME

It was written long ago that we were given dominion over the animals. We know better. It´s impossible to control something by the tail that has ahold of you by the heart.

"Wryder" was a throwback: a crossbred, ten-dollar dog plucked from a discarded litter of puppies. No papers, no championship lineage, no canine credentials other than he and his siblings, rescued from a cardboard box someone had found abandoned on the roadside and mercifully delivered to the Humane Society.

He was a pure mutt, arriving with half-mast ears, the head & tail markings of half a dozen pedigrees, and an in-your-face, puppylick charm that could´ve softened the heart of an arctic gravedigger.

"Wryder."

So-dubbed and spelled after he emptied his stomach contents into the back seat on the ride home. We´re Harley Touring bikers, and the idea of saying, "Easy, Wryder!" was irresistible.

It was also that wry smile.

Pet owners know this. Animals DO smile. Now, I´ve never personally seen a grinning fish, but if you write to me and swear that your pet guppy Gilligan smirks at you whenever you drop the fish flakes in the aquarium, I´ll believe it.

Wryder was not a "Come, Sit, Stay" kind of dog. A leash didn´t work, and was ultimately abandoned. It was like trying to walk a square yo-yo. He´d wind up all wound up in the chain, gasping and tantrumming and flat on his belly. It was right about there, as the supposed masters of an animal kindred spirit, that we began humanizing the negotiations:

"Wryder! If you don´t come in here right now, you won´t get your treat, and you´ll just have to go scratch behind your own ears. Are you listening? Okay, if you take another step, I hope you can use those teeth for a can opener, because that´s the only way you´re getting Alpo tonight!"

Once you begin talking to your pet like this, there´s no going back to simple commands.

He was a leader, scout, explorer and guardian. Nature-walks in our country setting with Wryder were the height of reconnaissance and reportage. Always going up ahead of us, he´d run his five miles for every one of ours, always returning to tell us all the details of the flushed-out chipmunks, new fallen trees, undiscovered rock formations, and the hollowed-out hiding places we could expect if we followed his trail.

He talked to US, too, and we understood every whimper, growl and arf, but he was not above doing those base duties one expects of a country dog:

He´d drag home and then roll around in stinky dead things. This behavior was tolerated, though discouraged. We took it as his sovereign message to any wild animal kingdom intruders to tend their own castles.

On the other hand, he ate Charlie, our pet cockatiel. Charlie had somehow pushed open his cage door on a day Wryder was home alone. When we returned, we followed a trail of shredded feathers leading to the kitchen, where the aviaricide had taken place.

Wryder was duly repentant, attempting to retreat under the refrigerator. When we demanded an explanation, he begged for mercy: "Oh, please, it wasn´t my fault ... he ... he landed on my nose when I was half-asleep! ... I ... I thought it was a rabid bat! ... I had to defend myself! ... I don´t know what came over me! … Okay, okay, I know, no Milk-Bone tonight .... "

He was so smart he fetched rocks underwater, nudged us awake five minutes before the alarm clock sounded, and always jumped off the toboggan before the puckerbrush impact.

He was so dumb he thought the stuffed bear in the bedroom was alive, and never passed by it without a "Just try it, buddy," glance and grrr.

Toward the end, we were dumb enough to think he´d find some comfort in having the television left on whenever he was alone in the house, but smart enough to set it to the Animal Channel.

He was devoted to us, and best pal to anyone he met. He was the kind of dog that prompted a friend or neighbor to say: "Hi! How´s Wryder?" before they´d ask about us.

Twice in his life he rode lying down in the car: on his first woozy trip home with us thirteen years ago, and today, when his legs could no longer take the strain -- his last ride to the animal hospital.

Eyesight failing, bones riddled with cancer, unable to assume his unfailing role as sentry, companion and keeper of the bedroom bear, this time he went up ahead and did not return, leaving us to discover the rest of the walk for ourselves.

But, he´s left his markers along the trail of our lives, and when we come to them, we´ll know where to look.

Servant to our hearth and master of our hearts. Good-bye, old friend.

Go easy, Wryder, and keep smiling.

Syndicated humor columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from upstate NH. Copyright 2009 B. Elwin Sherman. All rights reserved. Used here with permission. Excerpted from "Go Easy, Wryder, Heavy Petting Ahead", from B. Elwin Sherman's book: "TOOLKIT IN PARADISE." This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Electronic or print reproduction, adaptation, or distribution without permission is prohibited. Ordinary internet links to this column at his Humorist-On-Loan blog may be distributed without written permission.