CelebratingALife

Celebrating A Life

The Life and Times of Windsor King MacArthur

Windsor and I met by coincidence on a sunny Sunday afternoon at the kennels of a local Boxer Rescue. Returning from a trip to the Mojave Desert, I had stopped there to confirm my belief that rescue groups really do not get to rescue purebred dogs.

A big rescue woman in somewhat dingy sweats took it upon herself to feel me out like a car salesman sizes up his prey. “What kind of dog are you looking for, male or female? Fawn or brindle? Old or young? What color? Does it have to match your favorite color?”
I am not looking for a dog. I am just curious about what kind of Boxers you have, I thought to myself.

At that moment a scruffy looking, skinny, smallish Boxer on an urgent mission to somewhere propelled a young woman past us. She was hanging on to his the leash for dear life.

“That's Windsor”, the big woman said.
“He has been with us for almost one year. Last night in a dream I saw him in a new home. He is a very sweet dog and desperately needs a home for his old days.
“Me too, me too. I had a very similar dream”, another rescue woman chimed in.

Yeah, yeah, yeah; sales talk, I thought to myself.

Would you like to walk him?” the rescue person in grimy sweats asked.
Windsor in his worst hour. Captured by animal Control

No, not really I thought. But I said: “Alright, but only for a few minutes. I did not come here to walk dogs.”

With that I grabbed the leash from the exhausted dog walker and took charge of Windsor. He responded immediately. No more pulling.

About a minute into our walk we passed by my truck, a big old, ugly, dirty 4x4 truck. Windsor started sniffing around the truck, drew ever closer and finally concentrated on the passenger door. I was amused.

“Do you like the truck? Would you like to check out the inside?”, I asked opening a door.

Windsor jumped right in, climbed on the front seat, checked it out carefully, then hopped on the backseat. He sat down right in the middle of the seat. His eyes lit up like two bright stars and, I swear, he had a smile on his face.

“Sorry, you cannot stay there or go with me”, I said motioning him to come out. The lights in his eyes went out and he obeyed.

With that I returned him to the dreamer and said my thank you.
“But aren't you going to adopt him?”, the big woman asked.
“No, but I will let you know if I change my mind.”
Several collective jaws dropped and disappointment was thick in the air. I left.
The Royal Carriage to be.

I picked him up the following Saturday. He still looked scrappy, scruffy, small for a male Boxer. But again he just jumped right into my car, confidently sat down and turned on the stars in his eyes. Several miles into our trip home, someone from behind me gently touched my neck with a soft muzzle and gave me three quick flicks with his tongue.

That is how we sealed the deal and Windsor became part of my life.

He stayed for seven happy, good years through thick and thin, for better and for worse. An insidious, incurable disease took him from me at a documented age of at least fourteen.

***

Deemed 'shy' at first, because he would not approach unless asked to, not enter the house, the kitchen or hop on furniture unless invited to, stay at least 10 feet away from people eating, wait patiently at a distance for his food, eat neatly and quietly, then clean up his bowl and the floor, it turned out that Windsor in fact had been trained superbly beyond standard obedience.

In fact, Windsor was by birth, character and training a noble dog, a highborn gentleman in a sea of unsophisticated canines.

He loved people. One of his great passions was to go on walks and meet as many as possible from all walks of life. As a matter of fact, he never refused to greet even a grimy homeless person in a wheel chair and to lavish exuberant Boxer greetings on him. Thus, Windsor gave of his happiness to many who were in dire need of encouragement.
He was a superb judge of character and not mislead by outward appearances.
In all my years with him, he found only very few he did not like. People liked him right back.

Windsor's first 'friend', Milo. It was hard to get them to coexist. But they eventually did.

Windsor's love for women eclipsed everything else. Windsor would spot a woman from far away and there was little in the world that could prevent him from greeting her. Men, including myself, would cease to exist for him. He would fall into his happy Boxer mode and goose-step all the way up to her. Windsor adored women and they showered him with their affection. Many became his best friends for the term of his life.

***

How many dogs do you know who quarantine themselves outside in cold winter weather on a wet and drafty dock because of a severe bronchitis that produces copious volumes of sputum? Windsor did.
Try as I might, Windsor would not stay inside. He would settle down with me for the night, wait till I fell asleep and over and over again stealthily escape to the outside dock. There I would find him sitting on the dock shivering in the cold, surrounded by evidence of his severe bronchitis, watching time and cough go by.

It soon became apparent that Windsor was seriously ill. He suffered from very bad arthritis of the lower back. X-rays revealed in addition ruptured cruciate ligaments in his stifle joints. Though they had healed multiple times, he had only a limited range of motion in his hind legs.

Did it prevent him from enjoying life? Did he sit around moping and suffering? No, he loved to run and jump. He lived on a large boat. Getting in and out of it afforded him plenty of opportunity to jump; five feet up boarding steps, followed by a two foot free jump up from a small ledge, six feet down into the salon and more than two feet down to the master stateroom. And the same in reverse order to get out. Day after day.

Windsor King MacArthur on his Throne

Soon after his arrival, we had discovered an old abandoned fort overlooking Los Angeles Harbor. There, among an empty parade field, a swimming pool that had not seen water in decades, decaying barracks, bunkers and gun emplacements,
Windsor celebrated his freedom and happiness by running wide circles around me like a wound up mouse. He exercised his muscles this way almost every day. He became stronger.

Then, he anointed himself Lord of the Castle.
That is how he got his Name: Windsor King MacArthur.

  Parading Boxer style

The Royal Well

***

Eventually, all this jumping and running wore out the joints and ligaments in his hind legs again. He underwent very painful surgery at UC Davis. After that, he was right back to running and enjoying life. For maybe two or three years, that is.

Incision and scar from surgery

Pain Patch

During his recovery period, during which he suffered the occasional bad hair day when walking was just too difficult or painful,

there was always a dock cart available for temporary use as a means of transportation. Windsor soon became an expert in riding a dock cart on shaky docks. Because of his affection for people, there never was a shortage of volunteer carriage operators.

Then the real disaster struck. It started slowly, almost imperceptibly but soon became more obvious. Something other then arthritis was affecting his hind legs. We visited an old-time horse doctor with a low-tech practice and an X-Ray machine that could have predated Roentgen. His verdict was devastating. When it was rendered I did not comprehend the full extent of the doctor's findings. He pointed at spondylosis on Windsors' lower spine and said: “This will kill Windsor. And it will be painful.”

***

We did not pay too much attention to the dire predictions. After all, life was good, it was summertime and the living was easy. Windsor enjoyed life on the boat and his many visitors and friends.

The parade of his friends was seemingly endless. First, there was Windsor surveying his watery kingdom from the bridge of the boat.

Then a sea lion pup spotted him and decided to live in our dinghy.

Next in line: The 'Chicken', a wild gray heron, that was bold enough to descend into the bowels of the boat to collect his daily hot dog. He first appeared on the dock, then gingerly lingered on the boat, proceeded to enter the wheel house and, finally, became bold enough to descend into the bowels of the boat.

The 'chicken' knew our daily routine. He would be gone all day but appear on cue right around 3:30 in the afternoon. We found him asleep, head tucked under his wing, more than once on the enclosed bridge or even in the salon.

Checking For Pirates

What about the mess? Did he not mess up your boat, the bridge and the inside, you might ask. No, during his almost 2 years of tenure, he never soiled his boat nor my neighbor's who also had made friends with him.
Amazing, isn't it?

Eventually the 'Chicken' became not only Windsor's friend but also the mascot of the entire marina. He was living the good life among people who would have converted him to adorn the hat a woman less then 90 years ago.

Then he disappeared. When he returned many weeks later, he introduced his friends to a full compliment of brand new herons. Six of them. The marina was awash in great gray herons for a while.

I guess the 'Chicken' was a she chicken and not a he as we all had thought.

Behold the 'Chicken'

"Hot dog, hot dog. Spare a hot dog, please?"

While the King is guarding his bench against interlopers, the 'Chicken' is riding shotgun on the dinghy. It is secured in its davits right behind the bench. The two had settled on a bench sharing agreement: It is Windsor's bench while he is present and the 'Chicken's' when he is gone.

Worked for both.

***

While in limbo at the rescue kennel, Windsor came to know a great number of old, aggressive dogs that had languished there for years. He wanted to go back there to demonstrate how to have a better life by becoming a better dog. You can see a very few of them right here.

Beth was one of them.

She had languished in the kennel for five years because she was known as the meat grinder on four paws. Beth became his best friend. In fact, she desperately wanted to move in with us. You can read their love story here: http://cbears.net/WindsorWeb/BethPlea.html
She spent many weekends with Windsor on the boat. Eventually, she would sit at the door of her run ready to go whenever we came. We even parked the car away from the kennel and stealthily walked in to surprise her. It did not work. She knew we were near. It all culminated one Sunday
morning when, upon approaching the kennels, I noticed a movement on the roof of the kennel runs. It was a large creature. Before I could determine what kind, it had disappeared. Jumped

Beth, the Meat Grinder

down from the roof, I thought. We found Beth's kennel empty. She was nowhere to be seen. A frantic search resulted. She was eventually found in a kennel run close to her own together with two other 'aggressive' Boxers. She had scaled an 8 foot fence, squeezed through a small gap between the fence and the wire roof of her run and then proceeded to the side of the runs in order to jump to freedom. In the process, she had fallen through the roof. Beth was one determined lady.

***

New friends kept floating in and out of Windsor's life; too many to show. Of course, he also had other duties. Such as guarding the flying bridge of his neighbor's boat on a cruise through Alamitos Bay.

Sunday cruise through Alamitos Bay.

Lazy days of relaxation on the boat followed active times.

Resting to prepare for active times.

On water . . .

and on land . . .

Beth, the reformed meat grinder, loves Windsor.

When Beth moved into her new home in Oregon, Windsor suffered intense grief and sadness over the loss of his dearest friend.

Here he is singing the "Song of Windsor".
You can read it here in full length, including the flippant ending as King Windsor decided that he had done enough mourning for the day.

Lamentations of a King over the loss of a friend.

***

Full of joie de vivre, in everlasting pursuit of fun and happiness, Windsor even befriended the rogue alligator in the local pond.

While everyone ran away, he braved the beast, first sitting down for a talk with him and then demonstrating what he thought of him. Look closely at the last alligator picture.

What, me afraid?

Let me talk some sense into you.

Don't want to listen? Here, take this!

After a full day of fun in the sun and especially after a thrilling day like this, Windsor loved to snuggle up in the lap of our neighbor sipping occasionally on his beer. Windsor's beer, that is. He loved to drink beer. He also would not turn down a glass of good wine.

***

Windsor always welcomed dogs in need into his home. Many came and went. Big and small, sick and healthy, depressed, scared, enraged about injustice in life, young and old, full of life or ready to throw theirs away. They all found an open mind and a safe haven in Windsor's home. Windsor's noble character and his calm, collected, powerful personality had miraculous effects on all of them. There never was a fight under his roof. They all accepted his authority. They all proved grateful to him. They all found new homes and a better life.

Some have passed on before him. Others survive him. But the magic touch of the King changed the life of every one of them for the better.

Besides Milo, Beth, Reggie, the 'Chicken', Theo and many, many others, the King developed relationships with Agnes, BoBo the Cat, Manchester and Dina.

Agnes the Beast

                                             BoBo the Coon Cat

BoBo's owner dumped him on us.
After an initial brief, wild cat chase, the two worked out an amazingly simple and effective method of coexistence. BoBo agreed not to move and flee when Windsor had to enter the back room with me to avoid triggering Windsor's prey drive. Windsor in return committed to ignoring the cat when BoBo entered our living quarters for his nightly visits. The cat would walk around purring loudly, rubbing on me and walking on Windsor. The King would not notice the purring cat nor feel his weight on him. He would sleep through all of it. Huh? Dog not hearing or smelling the cat on top of him?
It was a perfect treaty. No fights, no chases, not trouble. Just harmony.

Chase

Manchester Chase: "Windsor, over there! Girls!"

Sir Henry is one of Windsors more memorable rescues. Henry, an American Bulldog, was on death row in a local shelter. A family wanted to adopt him but was denied adoption because Henry was listed as having 'people aggression'.
Windsor agreed to talk to him. He vouched for him and Henry was saved. He spent the night with us. The next morning we drove to the home of the family that originally wanted to adopt him. They had tracked down the whereabouts of Henry and asked to adopt him.
Windsor and I went there to check out the family since there were small children and their numerous cousins. there as also a small dog!

A friendly welcoming committee.
Even the small dog is looking happy.
And he just met big Henry.

The boy in the picture on the right and Henry took to each other right away. This picture says everything. No, Henry has not lost one eye. He has both of them - and working. They are half closed, half rolled up in an expression of bliss. That's all.

                                       Sir Henry and his best friend.

Sir Henry and his adoptive family are a match made in heaven.

Oh, of course we cannot move on without speaking about Leila. She was on death row as well. Windsor took her in for a few precious weeks. When she arrived at his home, complete with bed, warm blankets and food, Windsor immediately confiscated her brand new bed. She moved on the floor.

Here she is wistfully looking at her bed that is now occupied by King Windsor.

After long days on probation, the persistent smart girl finally managed to rest her head on the bed.

This happens when you give the devil the tip of your small finger. He will take the whole hand.

End of story?
No.

Behold the powers of a determined Bulldog girl!

Wait! It gets even better. This lady is determined to repossess her bed despite the occupant. Her mission in life is reconquista of the bed.

Success!
She finally wormed herself onto her own bed as an equal partner.
Two kindred souls, one shared bed.
Blessed are those who find peace and affection on a shared bed.

From the world of Hip Hop to a wet, dirty concrete floor in an animal shelter, to a soft, warm bed in a home this Bulldog Lady has come a long way.
A little celebratory embrace is justified. Don't you think so?
Honi soit qui mal y pense!

***

A couple of years later, Windsor at times staggered along walls like a drunken sailor. He looked confused and worried. We went to see veterinarians. The diagnosis was degenerative myelopathy. Go to the link to read about this dreadful disease.

Why do the best always get punished for their accomplishments with debilitating afflictions?
I will not attempt to answer this age old question.

Windsor did not ask the question either. He just kept on enjoying his life to the fullest. He pushed back against his infirmity with all his strength and with noble determination.

Even in his royal bedtime vestments.

Only when his hind legs could no longer support his weight and he lost his ability to walk on his own did he show signs of despair and resignation. He stopped eating and began to shut down his system. Mange was only one of the bad consequences. Good medicine healed the body. Affectionate consideration helped the spirit.

I talked to him and promised to get him back on his feet, even if it took a cart to wheel him around. By that time, kind souls in a Humane Societies where Windsor assisted in the rescue of many dogs, heard of his problem and donated a wheelchair.

I strapped Windsor in. He took of running, literally.

All four legs moved. His eyes gleamed with joy and anticipation every time I strapped him into his chariot. Windsor was the old happy Windsor again – going out to meet women. Running in the park with his new companion, the Lord Protector Tys, and a young pit bull girl.

He almost managed to keep up with them at full speed. When his first chair proved too weak for my lively Windsor, a manufacturer of wheels for dogs lent him a brand new chair for life.

Nothing good ever lasts in life. And neither did Windsor's newfound freedom of motion. His physical condition slowly but steadily diminished. Yet, he never missed even one of our daily walks. True, he became slower and had trouble going uphill. But he always caught up with us, his muzzle ever so gently touching my hand to let me know that he was on duty right behind me.

Then Windsor lost control over his front legs. He began to walk like a drunken sailor again. He fell more and more often even when in his wheelchair.

Days later, on a beautiful Friday morning he walked with my support to his bowl to have breakfast. Then, strapped into his wheelchair, he joyfully as always greeted the young woman who walks Windsor's Lord Protector. Before leaving us, she spent precious minutes with Windsor who had retired to his bed, playing with him and caressing him. I had not seen Windsor as happy and active as this in a long time. He played with her, rolled around on his bed for her and made loud and happy Boxer noises in celebration of this priceless moment. The smile on his face was one of the biggest and happiest I have ever seen him produce.

During the night I awoke from Windsor's mournful whining and sad cries. Windsor would only stop when I touched him. Whenever I let go, he cried again. My heart told me to go and rest with him on his bed. I did not. Until today I deeply regret that I let him down when he most wanted and needed me.

Finally, gathering all his strength, he lifted himself up as high as he could and placed his head on the edge of my mattress. I held him tight and comforted him. Twice he raised his head up to me. The second time he gave me three quick, gentle licks with his tongue. Then Windsor went back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Three gentle flicks of his tongue started our journey together. Three fast, gentle flicks of his tongue signaled the approaching end.

"The Chick Magnet"

***

The next morning he walked on wobbly front legs to have his breakfast, then walked himself dutifully to our car, falling from side to side, from wall to wall and flat on his face in between. I lifted him in as always. There he stretched out on the backseat, closed his eyes and drove off to work with me.

In his final hours he was still on duty holding his position in our car while I was evaluating two huge dogs that had been abandoned in a backyard. We could clearly hear his wailing cries for what he perceived was his failure to be right on my side.

On that day, June 18, 2008, at 16:10 Windsor slipped from a day long deep, peaceful sleep into his well deserved eternal rest.

***

That's the end, you think?
No, not for King Windsor.

Even from the grave Windsor worked his magic.
First, the veterinarian (a woman) performed her services for Windsor without billing us.
Then Windsor convinced the mortuary to offer him a well deserved discount as a service dog. Not the clicker trained sit and stay kind. Far beyond flipping light switches, he was a thinking, independent Boxer who could and would determine the correct action on his own and execute it. A companion who spent much of his life helping other dogs move from shelters to safe homes, regain self-confidence and learn, maybe for the first time in life, the skills essential to living with a human family. He shared with them his car, allowed many of them into his house and opened his heart to their needs. Selflessly he served the hopeless, the outcast, the unwanted, the psychotic, the exotic, the desperate, the depressed and the occasional bad guy. He never ever lost his composure, his calm assertiveness and strong, commanding presence. Their was no fighting or acting up in the presence of the King.
Windsor was a true, unique service dog - one of a kind.

Windsor and I often visited an animal shelter to evaluate dogs for rescue. The employees there allowed him to come in and wait for me inside one of their offices while I was working with their dogs. Aware of Windsor's outstanding service, they graciously offered to receive Windsor one last time and to perform cremation services free of charge in recognition of his outstanding, selfless service to their dogs in need of rescue.

Windsor would have loved the attention, respect and honors his kind and generous friends at the shelter bestowed upon him when he arrived for his last visit. I know he would have happily goose stepped up to each one of them to express his gratitude.

Who knows, maybe he did in spirit. I would not be surprised.

A final picture will be emblazoned on my soul for as long as I am. It is that of many, many strangers who knew Windsor only from fleeting encounters on a sidewalk or in a park struggling mightily to hold back tears when learning of Windsor's passing.

I always thought King Windsor would be remembered for his love of women. But these strangers taught me better.

They remember him as “The Happy Dog”.

The happy dog is gone.

His voice silenced.

His presence but a fading memory in a box on my desk.

Yet, as the sun of life is slowly setting, his happiness remains a warm, lasting afterglow in my heart.

Windsor was a gift to ALL he blessed with his presence and happiness.

In their happiness and joy he shall live.