A Big Little Life
Dean Koontz’s first ever nonfiction book, the deeply moving story of his life with his good dog TrixieDean Koontz is known for exploring the dark side of human nature in his fiction. But his softer, playful side comes out when he talks about his beloved dog, Trixie, a golden retriever.Trixie had a special place in Dean's heart. And now, in this, his first non-fiction book, Dean opens his heart to his readers to give us memories of Trixie, of the glorious dog who changed him and changed his life.There's everything in this memoir: adventure, mischief, emotion, and sadness too. Dean will talk with joy about the many gifts Trixie gave him – and the lessons she taught – and he'll talk with sadness at losing his beloved pet.The loss of a dog is a heartbreak that's been experienced by a great many people, and Dean's delving into that loss is a powerful part of this book, and a cathartic experience for those of us who have loved and lost an animal companion.Trixie had a big little life and lives for ever in Dean’s heart … and in these pages.
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a big little life
a memoir of a joyful dog
DEAN KOONTZ
To Gerda, who shared the wonder and the loss, who knows that the pain was so great because the joy before it was even greater, and who had the courage to do it all again. Bliss to you.
Dogs live most of life in Quiet Heart.
Humans live mostly next door in Desperate Heart.
Now and then will do you good to live in our zip code.
—TRIXIE KOONTZ, Bliss to You
Table of Contents
I a spooky moment around which the entire story revolves
III anticipation, adventure, and anal glands
IV “if this dog does something wrong, the fault will be yours, not hers”
V if she could talk, she’d do stand-up comedy
VI she poops on command, but not just anywhere
VIII i screw up, dog takes the rap
X please don’t send my sweet dog to jail
XII things that go bump in the night
XVIII elbow surgery and meatballs
XIX “may i tell you a wonderful truth about your dog?”
XXI critic, author, dog entrepreneur
XXII endings always come too fast
THE SPOOKY MOMENT central to this story comes on an evening more than ten years ago.
Trixie, a three-year-old golden retriever of singular beauty and splendid form, adopted the previous September, is in her fourth month with my wife, Gerda, and me.
She is joyful, affectionate, comical, intelligent, remarkably well behaved. She is also more self-possessed and dignified than I had ever realized a dog could be.
Already and unexpectedly, she has changed me as a person and as a writer. I am only beginning to understand the nature of those changes and where they will lead me.
January 1999:
Our first house in Newport Beach, in the neighborhood known as Harbor Ridge, had an exceptionally long up-stairs hallway, actually a gallery open to the foyer below. Because this hall was carpeted and thus provided good traction for paws and because nothing breakable stood along its walls, I often played there with Trixie on days when the weather turned foul and on cool winter evenings when the sun set early.
Initially, I tossed a ball and sometimes a Kong toy down the hall. The Kong was about six inches long, made of hard rubber with an inch-wide hole through the middle. You could stuff a mixture of peanut butter and kibble in the hole, to keep your dog occupied for an hour or longer. I tried this twice, but Trixie managed to extract the tasty mixture from the Kong in five minutes, which was less time than I took to prepare it.
One evening the rubber Kong bounced wildly and smashed into a small oil painting, splitting the canvas. The painting was very old, and it was one of Gerda’s favorites.
When she noticed the damage a few days later, I fessed up at once: “The dog did it.”
“Even standing on her hind feet,” Gerda said, “the dog isn’t tall enough to do it.”
Confident that my logic was unassailable, I said, “The dog was here in the hall when the damage occurred. The Kong toy was here. The Kong belongs to the dog. The dog wanted to play. If the dog wasn’t so cute, I wouldn’t have wanted to play with her. Hall, dog, Kong, cute, play—the damage to the painting was inevitable.”
“So you’re saying the dog is responsible because she’s cute.”
I refused to allow my well-reasoned position to be nit-picked. I resorted to my backup explanation: “Besides, maybe she isn’t tall enough, but she knows where we keep the stepstool.”
So, because the dog had damaged the painting, in sub-sequent play sessions in the hall, we could not use the rubber Kong. Furthermore, I would not throw the tennis ball anymore, but would only roll it.
I explained the new rules to Trixie, whose expression was somber. “This is a valuable teaching moment,” I concluded. “You see, I’m sure, that if you had gone to your mother immediately after you damaged the painting and had taken responsibility, you would not now have this blemish on your reputation.”
Following the new rules, I always released the tennis ball with a snap of the wrist that gave it the velocity to roll the length of the hall. Trixie thundered after the ball, either snaring it near the end of its journey or snatching it out of the air if it ricocheted off the leg of a console and took flight. She returned it to me with dispatch, and at once I fired it off again. After twenty minutes, her flanks heaved, her tongue lolled, and though she still considered the tennis ball to be a priceless treasure, she was prepared to entrust it to me for a while.
Lying on the floor, facing each other, Trixie panted and I stroked her luxurious golden coat as she caught her breath.
From the week she came into our lives, Trixie and I had spent some time most days lying on the floor together. I found it relaxing for the obvious reason that a cuddle with a loving dog is always calming. I also found it strange, because she would stare into my eyes as long as I wanted to meet hers—ten minutes, twenty, thirty—and she would rarely be the first to look away.
