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Cooder, part 1

Cooder (part 1)

By Bill Stork, DVM

Early in the summer of 2004, Cooder struggled to his feet for what would turn out to be the last time. Down two short steps into the garage, the Dodge caravan he used for a backstop was gone for groceries. Like Bambi on ice, all four feet sprawled.

Too sore to raise his head, all I could see was the whites of his big, sad, brown eyes. He exhaled long and slow, “It’s ok.”

The last act of a legend, letting me know it was ok for him to go.

Cooder and young CalvinBorn and orphaned in a hollowed log on the banks of the Sangamon River, he was fortunate that a kind soul in a kayak alerted the Champaign County Humane Society. Presented to the University of Illinois Veterinary School for neuter and vaccines turned out to be a one-way trip to Winfield (Vet) Village. Fourteen years, two states and a six-pack of Budweiser later, he made his mark.

Apropos, as I write this story on Easter Sunday, Cooder requires no embellishment. Today, artistic license takes a break.

Cooder was always right where you needed him, never in the way. He could operate in overdrive, granny low, or comatose, as dictated by the day and time. As a 12-month-old, card-carrying Labrador Retriever puppy, whose dad was studying for National Board exams (obsessed, to say the least, with future and career riding on the outcome), Cooder slept.

During study breaks, I would pull out the .38 caliber dummy launcher. The sound of the pin would set off a thundering herd, including my roommate's Golden Retrievers and a mutt named Herschel. Like Rambo eluding the militia, you would never see Cooder leave. What circuitous route he must have taken is a mystery to this day. When the canvas landed 100 yards into the corn stubble across a muddy creek, there was Cooder. He’d wait until Abby or one of the other goldens reached for it, and take off, turning the retrieval into a game of keep away.

Near graduation, we gathered to reflect. There was surely loud music and possibly beverage and tens of people talking about the future. At what cue we have no clue, Cooder commenced “hot laps” across the backs of four couches on the walls of the living room.

Normally polite to a fault, of little concern to him were the people sitting on the couches - all of whom were weeks away from being veterinarians, and thankfully amused. Like a marble in a velodrome, he circled faster and higher. Every couple laps he would back off the throttle so Tony, the year old pitbull struggling to stay in his vapor trail, wouldn’t break chase.

To be continued…

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