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thurber

On Wednesday, July 5, at 5:07pm,Thurber died peacefully in the arms of the SlackMistress.



I met Thurber (aka Little Thurber akaThe Noodle aka Mooshface aka Buttmonkey aka Poohbear aka Thurber-Durber aka Thurbaloni ) at the Santa Barbara County Animal Shelter. He was skinny and bald and worm-infested, with a mooshed-in face and ears that seemed permanently flattened to his skull. He was scared and nervous and timid and all of those things that signal a dog who has been horribly abused. There was something about him that made me come back, day after day, to walk him, to hold him, to rub that funny dent and tell him over and over that he was a good boy. People always seemed to gravitate toward Thurber. At the end of his life, I had a list of people I could call to look after him, visit with him, or help me carry him up and down the stairs.

Friends. Relatives. Total strangers.

Everyone wanted to take care of him. At the vet, the office staff would gather 'round him, scratching an ear or patting his rump, and whispering to me that he was their favorite.

He was just that kind of dog.



waiting for the ball with Big Thurber and Darwin.

When I met Thurber six years ago, I didn't have a job. I was living with an Aunt and Uncle who were less-than-supportive of my Hollywood job search. Eventually they invited me to leave their house. The head of the volunteer program, S., invited me to come live with her in Montecito. My friend B. volunteered to foster Thurber until I got on my feet.

S.'s daughter was a TV Producer who lined up my first Hollywood job, and in turn gave me my first writing gig. B. became a close friend and surrogate mother to Thurber.

All because of this dog.

People would ask me how to find a dog like Thurber. I don't know. How he was, who he was, had nothing to do with me. Thurber always made my job easy. He found me.



Running on Pismo Beach, January 2000.

For six years I've been working toward finding a writing job. After a successful first day, my brother and I returned home and Thurber was waiting on his pillow and wagging his tail. I fed him a pig ear and went to take a nap. Two hours later he died in my arms. I kissed his dented face and buried my face in his skull, inhaling his smoky burning-leaves smell one last time. I told him I loved him, and that he was a good boy.

He was the best.

For a long time I've been looking for The One. I think maybe Thurber was it.

I know that I'll have another dog.




But I will never have another Thurber.

I love you, Thurber-Dog.



all photos copyright B. Baker, foster mom and great friend.