Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou [NOOK Book]

Overview

The moving story of the author’s adopted Rottweiler mix, Lou, a free-thinking heroic dog who changed his life forever

Born of guard dogs on a secret marijuana farm in Mendicino County, Lou truly was one dog in a million. On the winter day that the ailing, tick-infested feral pup was rescued by Steve Duno, neither dog nor man had a clue as to what they were getting into, or where the relationship would lead.

Last Dog on the Hill tells the story ...

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Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou

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Overview

The moving story of the author’s adopted Rottweiler mix, Lou, a free-thinking heroic dog who changed his life forever

Born of guard dogs on a secret marijuana farm in Mendicino County, Lou truly was one dog in a million. On the winter day that the ailing, tick-infested feral pup was rescued by Steve Duno, neither dog nor man had a clue as to what they were getting into, or where the relationship would lead.

Last Dog on the Hill tells the story of an indigent young Rottweiler mix who, after abandoning his pack and the hills of his birth, went on to change the lives of hundreds of people and dogs, including the author’s, whose career as a behaviorist and writer was made possible through Lou’s extraordinary intelligence and heart. Lou won the respect of gang members, foiled an armed robbery, caught a rapist, fought coyotes and kidnappers, comforted elderly war veterans and Alzheimer patients in their final days, taught ASL to kids, learned scores of unique behaviors and tricks, amassed a vocabulary of nearly 200 words, helped rehabilitate hundreds of aggressive dogs and saved them from euthanasia. He was also a clown, consummate performer and Steve’s best friend for sixteen years. His story will make readers laugh and cry in equal measures.


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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Lou’s story is an emotional and deeply felt tribute to the powerful bond between dogs and humans. Last Dog on the Hill will make you long for that one special super-dog that can truly change your life. We should all be so lucky to have a dog like Lou in our world.”—Garth Stein, author of The Art of Racing in the Rain

“Last Dog on the Hill is a wonderful mixture of humor, heartbreak, and high jinks. I couldn't put it down. Lou will steal your heart.”—Janet Evanovich, New York Times bestselling author of the Stephanie Plum series

"When making your pile of 'best dog stories ever,' make space for another one.  This book is great!  Lou is a real  working dog, not just a pile of emotive fluff.  His exploits and accomplishments are nothing short of heroic.  You will cheer for this dog and the fullness of his life. The relationship between Steve Duno and Lou is remarkable.  We all want to know a dog like Lou.  Here’s your chance. There is a tear or two, but they are tears of joy for lives well-shared."—Greg Kincaid, author of A Dog Named Christmas

"There's nothing whispery or mysterious about the connection between Steve Duno and his remarkable Rottweiler mix Lou.  It's a full-voiced love story, a vigorous tale of rescue and mutual redemption, and an eloquent human-canine conversation that grows richer and deeper through the years.  Last Dog on the Hill reminds us not only how much dogs can learn, but more importantly, how much they can teach us about the things that really matter — loyalty, honor, hard work, and plenty of sheer delight."— Steven Winn, Author of Come Back, Como: Winning the Heart of a Reluctant Do

“Everyone needs to experience a dog like Lou; and every dog needs a person like Steve Duno. Last Dog on the Hill is one of those rare animal memoirs that isn't sentimental, yet moves the reader to tears as easily as laughter.  It also makes me wonder how many vocabulary words my dog knows.”—Susan Wilson, author of One Good Dog

 

“If Jack Reacher had a dog, he’d be Lou. If Jack Reacher were a dog, he’d be Lou.”— Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series

 

“There are so many accounts and testaments that verify beyond doubt that a dog is man's best friend. What makes this story special is that Lou, in terms of fate, was destined for a rough and unspectacular life. Lou and Steve found each other by sheer chance. Lou's life was richer for being Steve's dog, but the real twist of fate is how Steve’s life and the lives of all those who knew Lou, were enriched forever.”—Nuala Gardner, author of A Friend Like Henry: The Remarkable True Story of an Autistic Boy and the Dog That Unlocked His World

 

“Anyone who has ever loved or lost a dog, or both, will be touched by this spellbinding story about two beings who crossed the human-dog divide and met on the other side.”—Stefan Bechtel, author of Dogtown: Tales of Rescue, Rehabilitation and Redemption

 

“Steve Duno describes Lou and himself as ‘neither dog nor human but family, just family.’  Anyone who has ever loved with their heart wide open will want to come along for this ride.  Unpredictable, heroic and funny…just like Lou.”—Monica Holloway, author of Cowboy & Wills: A Love Story

Library Journal
This memoir about a wonderful dog begins in 1989 as Duno and his girlfriend spot feral rottweiler-mix puppies, the offspring of marijuana farm guard dogs, on a hill ridge in California. One makes a beeline toward them, and the puppy soon to be named Lou becomes the catalyst for Duno's new career as a pet behaviorist and well-known author of 18 books (e.g., Be the Dog: Secrets of the Natural Dog Owner). Clearly, Lou was one of a kind; brilliant and brave, he not only saved Duno's life twice but also helped train (and so save the lives of) last-chance dogs. VERDICT Although somewhat marred by repeated foreshadowing, this will be greatly enjoyed by lovers of animal memoirs like John Grogan's Marley and Me and Vicki Myron's Dewey as well as other books exploring the human-canine connection. Equally humorous and serious, the book portrays the duo's heartwarming bond of love. [For more dog memoirs, see also "Short Takes: Pet Memoirs," LJ 2/1/10, p. 88.—Ed.]—Susan Riley, Mt. Kisco P.L., NY
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781429950459
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 6/22/2010
  • Sold by: Macmillan
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 100,500
  • File size: 731 KB

Meet the Author

Steve Duno

Last Dog on the Hill is veteran pet behaviorist STEVE DUNO’s eighteenth book. He has trained thousands of dogs, and a good number of cats. He lives in Seattle with his family and an ever-changing assortment of rescued pets.

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Read an Excerpt


1
Rotties, Roadkill, and the Canine Cartel
Black topcoat hairs and tufts of downy undercoat lay in the corners of our home, in the periphery, like ghosts. The black hairs were odorless but his undercoat still held scent, and I’d lift some of him up to my nose and be back in the mountains with him, listening to coyotes or owls, or to mice nibbling on the tent fly. In death he had spoken to me in a way he knew I would best appreciate. His smell, still there in the carpet, sidestepped my brain and went straight for the heart, where the memories are.
The essential crime committed against all dog owners is born of the love we hold for them, which, like the love of a child, runs deep. No parent should have to bury a child, they say, but that is what we dog owners must do, not once but time after time, throughout our lives. While we remain unchangeable to their sweet eyes, they run from birth to the grave in an instant of our own mea sure. They burn like kindling, and though we know we can never replace one dog with another, we keep trying, in hopes of reviving hints of some great dog gone by. No; they are not children we bury. But dogs like Lou come close. They come very, very close.
Highway 101 sweeps north into the small Mendocino County town of Willits, California, gateway to redwood country, home to vineyards and fast rivers, and to the resting place of Seabiscuit, the great race horse. And it is where I found Lou, the greatest dog I have ever known.
In 1986, teaching degree in hand, I packed my Civic and left the grit of Queens for the glitz of Los Angeles. Upon arriving, I renewed an old fascination with dogs, one I’d first nurtured in childhood. Living in a one-bedroom New York tenement with my parents and brother, I’d asked for a dog but had gotten only a pale blue parakeet named Chipper, a bitter bird who’d bend apart the bars of his cage and escape, to strafe our heads and scream his discontent.
In Los Angeles I read scores of books about breeding, training manuals, and pet magazines until I fancied myself a bookish “authority.” I thought I was ready for a dog of my choosing. Then chance changed the course of my life, and the lives of so many others.
My girlfriend Nancy and I took a few December days off, packed the car, and drove up Highway 101 toward Northern California. The entire West Coast had fine weather; we took our time, often detouring over to the coast in places to enjoy the scenery.
North of Ukiah, in Mendocino County, the highway snaked through the countryside. Halfway through a long, right sweeper, we spotted furry shapes porpoising up a steep grassy hill, toward the tree line above.
“Puppies!” said Nancy. We pulled over onto the wide shoulder and got out.
On the crest of the hill a half-dozen dogs scampered for the cover of trees; midsized, dark-coated mutts with shepherd looks, tongues flagging, teeth bright in the sun.
“Five, six months old,” I said, suddenly aware of a much larger creature lying by the shoulder ahead, half hidden in the grass. An enormous Rottweiler, he basked in the sun like a Dakota buffalo, his black-and-tan coat dusted with dirt. And in his mouth rested the tawny snout of a limp, road-killed deer.
“Don’t go near him,” I said, the deer’s snout crunching like a carrot stick in his jaws.
“Not a chance,” Nancy said, more interested in the puppies, who had a lithe, black, shepherd mix with them, perhaps their mother.
The Rottweiler gnawed away thoughtfully and watched us.
Following their skittish mother up into the tree line, the pups were nearly out of sight. I gave a quick whistle just to see what would happen; all but one scampered off. But the last dog on the hill stopped, gazed down at the road, then made a mad downhill dash toward us, as if recognizing someone.
Black and tan, it looked more like a diminutive Rottweiler than did the others. Like a Looney Tunes character, the quick little mutt skidded to a stop right in front of us, dropped into a perfect soldier-sit, then stared up at me like I was Simon Cowell. It was Lou.
Those lucky enough to meet Lou were struck by his soulful eyes, riveting good looks and brotherly charm. People simply couldn’t get enough of him. But the dog sitting politely in front of me that day was anything but debonair. At most six months old, he had an infected tear on his throat, and ticks peppering his face and body. The bloated bugs hung like Christmas ornaments, even from the corners of his eyes and mouth and inside his ears and nose.
“He’s infested,” I said. “And look at that gash.”
“Look at his eyes,” Nancy said, grinning. “He’s gorgeous.”
Lou looked up at me and let out an interrogative, “Rower?”
“That gash is infected. And who knows anything about him.”
“But look at him,” she repeated. “Look at those eyes.”
I felt Lou’s warm breath on my hand. The sound of his dad crunching deer snout punctuated the swish of cars passing by.
I petted him. He looked at me like I was Mother Teresa. Fleas popped off his head like seltzer bubbles and ricocheted off the palm of my hand.
As I stood there wondering what to do, a pug-nosed Freight-liner pulling a load of timber hit its air brakes and snorted to a stop across the road, onto the shoulder. Out popped a gritty little guy in Levi’s and a dirty white T-shirt. He shuffled across 101 as if wearing leg irons.
“The biggun yours?” he asked, pointing to the Rottweiler with a shaky cigarette, looking like he’d been up for a week.
“Biggun?” I asked.
“The biggun chawin’ on doe face,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The deer’s snout secure in his mouth, the Rottweiler eyed the little trucker. The big dog was thoughtful and calm, a first clue, perhaps, to what his son would become. I remember thinking at the time that this dog could kill us all without much fanfare, then go back to his venison sashimi. He didn’t, of course; he simply took the mea sure of the trucker for a moment, then kept chewing.
“He’s part of a pack of strays that just ran up the slope,” I said.
“Bitchin’ truck dog.”
“I don’t know,” I said, picturing the jumpy little guy sideways in the big dog’s mouth.
“I think I’ll take him.”
“Oh I wouldn’t,” said Nancy.
“I got a way with dogs.”
Before the trucker could commit suicide by Rottweiler, a park-ranger pickup pulled over and a boyish-faced fellow got out, plugged on his ranger hat, and came over.
“Howdy, folks,” he said, eyes on the Rottweiler and doe.
“Gonna shoot him?” asked the trucker.
The Rottie dropped the doe and shook drool from his rubbery black lips.
“No. If he’d downed this deer on his own, we’d have to deal with him, but this was roadkill from last night. I saw it at sunrise on the side of the road.”
“Rower,” said Lou.
“You’d kill a dog if it hunted down a deer?” I asked.
“Stray dogs that hunt deer get euthanized.” He seemed too nice of a guy to shoot a dog.
“Who owns him?” asked the trucker, scuffling his cowboy boots in the dirt, moving closer to the Rottie.
“This big boy and the shepherd bitch up the hill are guard dogs from a marijuana grow over on the other side of this ridge. This time of year there’s not much to protect, so they just wander about, looking for food.”
“Marijuana grow?” asked Nancy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Patches of pot grow all through here, mostly on national forest land. Big cash crop. Not much else to do around these parts.”
Lou scratched himself, then looked up at me sweetly, calm but impatient, as if he’d made up his mind about us and expected the same.
“I’m guessing this one and the pups up on the hill are his,” said the ranger. “Dad and Junior here seem sociable, but the rest are wild. A local rescue group tried to catch them last week, but they’re too cagey.”
“I like that biggun,” said the trucker, rubbing his furrowed neck and snickering like a kid.
“I’d think twice about him,” said the ranger. “There’s a reason why he hasn’t spooked yet.”
“What about him?” I asked, petting Lou on his head, the fleas flying.
“Tame, isn’t he? I bet he’d go with you. Lean and cut up, though. Might have gotten caught up on some barbed wire.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Nancy, already deep in Lou’s camp.
“We’re four hundred miles from home,” I said. “He needs a vet and he’s infested.”
I had imagined it this way: find a caring breeder, choose the perfect, healthy pup, frame the pedigree, and live happily ever after. I hadn’t planned on making a snap decision beside the road with giant dogs and dead deer and caffeinated truckers and ganja fields and boyish rangers and sweet gypsy eyes looking up at me, wondering when we’d be going home.
“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” said the trucker, laughing oddly, as if he’d decided to slow-roast Lou at the next rest area.
Nancy giggled. She knew what pushed my buttons.
The big Rottie let go a thick stream of pee onto the asphalt, then stretched his back legs out one at a time. I wondered if Lou would get that big.
“There’s a vet in Willits as you come into town,” said the ranger. He had a slow, bearish quality. I imagined him quietly tending to his own secreted pot patch. “It’s Sunday morning, though; you might have to wake him up.”
The Rottie grabbed his meal by the neck and dragged her up the hill into a grove of pines, cords of muscle flexing beneath his shiny black coat. Lou watched his father go.
“Dang.”
“He would have killed you,” I said.
“You want the youngun or not?”
“You said you wanted a dog,” said Nancy, poking me. “Trust me, this is the dog.”
I felt like I was on the phone with a telemarketer, about to buy a time-share in the Bronx. “Let’s clear out the back of the car,” I said, surrendering. “We can put down the tent tarp.”
“Yes!” she said, jumping up and down. “Let’s go find the vet.”
“He’s on the right side of the road as you come into town,” said the ranger. “Big sign by the side of the road—Willits Animal Hospital, or something like that.”
The trucker stomped out his cigarette and walked over to Lou. “Good little feller,” he said softly, waving off a flea and caressing Lou’s ears. For an instant he seemed almost normal, almost somber. “Make sure you feed him chicken livers!” he blurted, back to his old self. Then he checked the traffic and shuffled back across the highway to his idling semi.
I’ve thought about that trucker a lot over the years. We’d both been searching for a friend; he wanted a copilot, and I wanted an Old Yeller who’d fight the wild hogs and make me laugh—someone I could count on, like a truck dog, like a sentinel. The trucker would keep looking, but, thanks to Nancy, my search was over.
Providence, timing, pure luck—whatever one chooses to callit—graced me for the first time in my life, in the form of a flea-ridden Mendocino mutt. His dignified father, wiser and more kindhearted than I’d realized at the time, watched from the pines as I lifted his mangy son and placed him into my hatch-back, fleas leaping off him like shooting stars. I’d found my Old Yeller.
Fleas suck. Our car became a traveling flea circus, a condition that would last until we got back to Los Angeles, where I’d unleash an aerosol bug bomb inside the confines of my Civic, killing the vermin, shorting out the interior lights, and leaving the car with a cancerous stench for the next year or so. I learned a lot about fleas on that trip—how alien, how invulnerable, how prolific and incredibly annoying and evil. And how it helps to have fingernails long enough to slice the armored bastards in half.
Lou got comfy in the back of the car among the now-infested camping gear and clothes. He gave Nancy a lick, then gazed out at the scenery passing by, the outdoor kindergarten he’d never see again.
“He likes your socks,” said Nancy.
I looked at Lou in the mirror. He had his nose deep into one of my wool hiking socks.
“Cheese connoisseur,” I said.
Lou was inquisitive but oddly calm for a stray. He’d be that way always: serene, involved, intense. From eating garbage and dodging cars in the wild to living in an inner-city apartment and eyeing derelicts shimmying down drainpipes, Lou would take it all in stride. In the wild he’d learned to think, adapt, and get by, like a wolf. It would remain one of the keys to his success later on.
A tall, gray-haired man in a bathrobe opened the door. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sized us up, the scent of coffee wafting out of the old house. Using a bungee cord for a leash, I let Lou stretch out toward the big man, who gave him a pet and me a look.
“Found him down the road, I’d guess,” he said.
“About three miles south.”
“I’m Dr. Smith. Bring him into the exam room. I’ll be right back.”
He came back wearing a white lab coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck. Lou walked around the room, scenting out whatever pets had been in there recently.
“Get a weight on him, then put him up on the table,” he said, pointing to the scale in the corner. He was considerate but all business, and probably wanted to get back to his coffee.
He wouldn’t be the last Dr. Smith in Lou’s life. A year later, Lou would befriend Jonathan Harris, the actor who played Dr. Smith on the television show Lost in Space. I would leave Lou tethered outside my health club while I played racquetball, and Harris would fawn all over Lou, by then fully grown and Hollywood handsome.
“Thirty-four pounds even,” I said, lifting him off the scale and placing him atop the slippery steel examination table. Lou tap-danced around as I kept him steady.
“He’s about six months old,” he said, looking into Lou’s mouth, his teeth white as cream. “Some sort of string in here.”
“He ate a sock,” I said.
“A park ranger said his parents were guard dogs on a marijuana grow,” Nancy said, proud of Lou’s criminal pedigree.
Dr. Smith listened to Lou’s heart and lungs. “Bigger than logging around here. He’s got a slight heart murmur.”
“Is that bad?” asked Nancy, picking at a tick that had burrowed into Lou’s ear.
“The marijuana?”
“No—the murmur.”
“Most dogs with murmurs live normal lives. He’s crawling with ticks and fleas, though, and this wound is infected.”
He squeezed yellowish pus from the gash, then wiped it clean with gauze.
“Gross,” I said, looking at Nancy, who smiled. Pus always pleased her.
He irrigated the wound with Betadine solution, then administered a local anesthetic to numb Lou up for suturing. He worked like a watchmaker, examining the wound, removing dead skin, and cleaning it up a bit. Lou wiggled but didn’t seem to mind; his tail wagged as I fed him tears of string cheese, which he took gently.
Lou had a “soft” mouth, like a Lab: he always took treats tenderly. It made him great with kids and helped him learn to pick objects up off the floor without damaging them. I once taught him to fetch a chicken egg as a prelude to my training service dogs, whose mouths had to be soft enough to pick up dropped eyeglasses or medication bottles, or retrieve food from a cupboard or refrigerator. Practicing these things on Lou helped me prepare for the real thing. Of course, I always let him eat the egg afterward.
“Before I suture him up, he needs a flea-and-tick bath,” said Dr. Smith. “No sense in letting vermin get into the wound before I close him up.”
“Can we help?” I asked, watching him pack the wound with what looked like petroleum jelly. Lou let out a soft “rower,” his way of asking, “Is this necessary?”
“Take him over to the tub and run the water. I’ll bring you the shampoo. Don’t get the wound too wet.”
The water ran dark with so much flea dirt and dying fleas that it nearly clogged the drain. Lou wasn’t at all fond of water, a trait that would stay with him his whole life.
Excerpted from Last Dog on The Hill by Steve Duno.
Copyright © 2010 by Steve Duno.
Published in 2010 by St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.
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First Chapter

Last Dog on the Hill

The Extraordinary Life of Lou
By Steve Duno

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2010 Steve Duno
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780312600495

1
Rotties, Roadkill, and the Canine Cartel
Black topcoat hairs and tufts of downy undercoat lay in the corners of our home, in the periphery, like ghosts. The black hairs were odorless but his undercoat still held scent, and I’d lift some of him up to my nose and be back in the mountains with him, listening to coyotes or owls, or to mice nibbling on the tent fly. In death he had spoken to me in a way he knew I would best appreciate. His smell, still there in the carpet, sidestepped my brain and went straight for the heart, where the memories are.
The essential crime committed against all dog owners is born of the love we hold for them, which, like the love of a child, runs deep. No parent should have to bury a child, they say, but that is what we dog owners must do, not once but time after time, throughout our lives. While we remain unchangeable to their sweet eyes, they run from birth to the grave in an instant of our own mea sure. They burn like kindling, and though we know we can never replace one dog with another, we keep trying, in hopes of reviving hints of some great dog gone by. No; they are not children we bury. But dogs like Lou come close. They come very, very close.
Highway 101 sweeps north into the small Mendocino County town of Willits, California, gateway to redwood country, home to vineyards and fast rivers, and to the resting place of Seabiscuit, the great race horse. And it is where I found Lou, the greatest dog I have ever known.
In 1986, teaching degree in hand, I packed my Civic and left the grit of Queens for the glitz of Los Angeles. Upon arriving, I renewed an old fascination with dogs, one I’d first nurtured in childhood. Living in a one-bedroom New York tenement with my parents and brother, I’d asked for a dog but had gotten only a pale blue parakeet named Chipper, a bitter bird who’d bend apart the bars of his cage and escape, to strafe our heads and scream his discontent.
In Los Angeles I read scores of books about breeding, training manuals, and pet magazines until I fancied myself a bookish “authority.” I thought I was ready for a dog of my choosing. Then chance changed the course of my life, and the lives of so many others.
My girlfriend Nancy and I took a few December days off, packed the car, and drove up Highway 101 toward Northern California. The entire West Coast had fine weather; we took our time, often detouring over to the coast in places to enjoy the scenery.
North of Ukiah, in Mendocino County, the highway snaked through the countryside. Halfway through a long, right sweeper, we spotted furry shapes porpoising up a steep grassy hill, toward the tree line above.
“Puppies!” said Nancy. We pulled over onto the wide shoulder and got out.
On the crest of the hill a half-dozen dogs scampered for the cover of trees; midsized, dark-coated mutts with shepherd looks, tongues flagging, teeth bright in the sun.
“Five, six months old,” I said, suddenly aware of a much larger creature lying by the shoulder ahead, half hidden in the grass. An enormous Rottweiler, he basked in the sun like a Dakota buffalo, his black-and-tan coat dusted with dirt. And in his mouth rested the tawny snout of a limp, road-killed deer.
“Don’t go near him,” I said, the deer’s snout crunching like a carrot stick in his jaws.
“Not a chance,” Nancy said, more interested in the puppies, who had a lithe, black, shepherd mix with them, perhaps their mother.
The Rottweiler gnawed away thoughtfully and watched us.
Following their skittish mother up into the tree line, the pups were nearly out of sight. I gave a quick whistle just to see what would happen; all but one scampered off. But the last dog on the hill stopped, gazed down at the road, then made a mad downhill dash toward us, as if recognizing someone.
Black and tan, it looked more like a diminutive Rottweiler than did the others. Like a Looney Tunes character, the quick little mutt skidded to a stop right in front of us, dropped into a perfect soldier-sit, then stared up at me like I was Simon Cowell. It was Lou.
Those lucky enough to meet Lou were struck by his soulful eyes, riveting good looks and brotherly charm. People simply couldn’t get enough of him. But the dog sitting politely in front of me that day was anything but debonair. At most six months old, he had an infected tear on his throat, and ticks peppering his face and body. The bloated bugs hung like Christmas ornaments, even from the corners of his eyes and mouth and inside his ears and nose.
“He’s infested,” I said. “And look at that gash.”
“Look at his eyes,” Nancy said, grinning. “He’s gorgeous.”
Lou looked up at me and let out an interrogative, “Rower?”
“That gash is infected. And who knows anything about him.”
“But look at him,” she repeated. “Look at those eyes.”
I felt Lou’s warm breath on my hand. The sound of his dad crunching deer snout punctuated the swish of cars passing by.
I petted him. He looked at me like I was Mother Teresa. Fleas popped off his head like seltzer bubbles and ricocheted off the palm of my hand.
As I stood there wondering what to do, a pug-nosed Freight-liner pulling a load of timber hit its air brakes and snorted to a stop across the road, onto the shoulder. Out popped a gritty little guy in Levi’s and a dirty white T-shirt. He shuffled across 101 as if wearing leg irons.
“The biggun yours?” he asked, pointing to the Rottweiler with a shaky cigarette, looking like he’d been up for a week.
“Biggun?” I asked.
“The biggun chawin’ on doe face,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
The deer’s snout secure in his mouth, the Rottweiler eyed the little trucker. The big dog was thoughtful and calm, a first clue, perhaps, to what his son would become. I remember thinking at the time that this dog could kill us all without much fanfare, then go back to his venison sashimi. He didn’t, of course; he simply took the mea sure of the trucker for a moment, then kept chewing.
“He’s part of a pack of strays that just ran up the slope,” I said.
“Bitchin’ truck dog.”
“I don’t know,” I said, picturing the jumpy little guy sideways in the big dog’s mouth.
“I think I’ll take him.”
“Oh I wouldn’t,” said Nancy.
“I got a way with dogs.”
Before the trucker could commit suicide by Rottweiler, a park-ranger pickup pulled over and a boyish-faced fellow got out, plugged on his ranger hat, and came over.
“Howdy, folks,” he said, eyes on the Rottweiler and doe.
“Gonna shoot him?” asked the trucker.
The Rottie dropped the doe and shook drool from his rubbery black lips.
“No. If he’d downed this deer on his own, we’d have to deal with him, but this was roadkill from last night. I saw it at sunrise on the side of the road.”
“Rower,” said Lou.
“You’d kill a dog if it hunted down a deer?” I asked.
“Stray dogs that hunt deer get euthanized.” He seemed too nice of a guy to shoot a dog.
“Who owns him?” asked the trucker, scuffling his cowboy boots in the dirt, moving closer to the Rottie.
“This big boy and the shepherd bitch up the hill are guard dogs from a marijuana grow over on the other side of this ridge. This time of year there’s not much to protect, so they just wander about, looking for food.”
“Marijuana grow?” asked Nancy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Patches of pot grow all through here, mostly on national forest land. Big cash crop. Not much else to do around these parts.”
Lou scratched himself, then looked up at me sweetly, calm but impatient, as if he’d made up his mind about us and expected the same.
“I’m guessing this one and the pups up on the hill are his,” said the ranger. “Dad and Junior here seem sociable, but the rest are wild. A local rescue group tried to catch them last week, but they’re too cagey.”
“I like that biggun,” said the trucker, rubbing his furrowed neck and snickering like a kid.
“I’d think twice about him,” said the ranger. “There’s a reason why he hasn’t spooked yet.”
“What about him?” I asked, petting Lou on his head, the fleas flying.
“Tame, isn’t he? I bet he’d go with you. Lean and cut up, though. Might have gotten caught up on some barbed wire.”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” said Nancy, already deep in Lou’s camp.
“We’re four hundred miles from home,” I said. “He needs a vet and he’s infested.”
I had imagined it this way: find a caring breeder, choose the perfect, healthy pup, frame the pedigree, and live happily ever after. I hadn’t planned on making a snap decision beside the road with giant dogs and dead deer and caffeinated truckers and ganja fields and boyish rangers and sweet gypsy eyes looking up at me, wondering when we’d be going home.
“If you don’t want him, I’ll take him,” said the trucker, laughing oddly, as if he’d decided to slow-roast Lou at the next rest area.
Nancy giggled. She knew what pushed my buttons.
The big Rottie let go a thick stream of pee onto the asphalt, then stretched his back legs out one at a time. I wondered if Lou would get that big.
“There’s a vet in Willits as you come into town,” said the ranger. He had a slow, bearish quality. I imagined him quietly tending to his own secreted pot patch. “It’s Sunday morning, though; you might have to wake him up.”
The Rottie grabbed his meal by the neck and dragged her up the hill into a grove of pines, cords of muscle flexing beneath his shiny black coat. Lou watched his father go.
“Dang.”
“He would have killed you,” I said.
“You want the youngun or not?”
“You said you wanted a dog,” said Nancy, poking me. “Trust me, this is the dog.”
I felt like I was on the phone with a telemarketer, about to buy a time-share in the Bronx. “Let’s clear out the back of the car,” I said, surrendering. “We can put down the tent tarp.”
“Yes!” she said, jumping up and down. “Let’s go find the vet.”
“He’s on the right side of the road as you come into town,” said the ranger. “Big sign by the side of the road—Willits Animal Hospital, or something like that.”
The trucker stomped out his cigarette and walked over to Lou. “Good little feller,” he said softly, waving off a flea and caressing Lou’s ears. For an instant he seemed almost normal, almost somber. “Make sure you feed him chicken livers!” he blurted, back to his old self. Then he checked the traffic and shuffled back across the highway to his idling semi.
I’ve thought about that trucker a lot over the years. We’d both been searching for a friend; he wanted a copilot, and I wanted an Old Yeller who’d fight the wild hogs and make me laugh—someone I could count on, like a truck dog, like a sentinel. The trucker would keep looking, but, thanks to Nancy, my search was over.
Providence, timing, pure luck—whatever one chooses to callit—graced me for the first time in my life, in the form of a flea-ridden Mendocino mutt. His dignified father, wiser and more kindhearted than I’d realized at the time, watched from the pines as I lifted his mangy son and placed him into my hatch-back, fleas leaping off him like shooting stars. I’d found my Old Yeller.
Fleas suck. Our car became a traveling flea circus, a condition that would last until we got back to Los Angeles, where I’d unleash an aerosol bug bomb inside the confines of my Civic, killing the vermin, shorting out the interior lights, and leaving the car with a cancerous stench for the next year or so. I learned a lot about fleas on that trip—how alien, how invulnerable, how prolific and incredibly annoying and evil. And how it helps to have fingernails long enough to slice the armored bastards in half.
Lou got comfy in the back of the car among the now-infested camping gear and clothes. He gave Nancy a lick, then gazed out at the scenery passing by, the outdoor kindergarten he’d never see again.
“He likes your socks,” said Nancy.
I looked at Lou in the mirror. He had his nose deep into one of my wool hiking socks.
“Cheese connoisseur,” I said.
Lou was inquisitive but oddly calm for a stray. He’d be that way always: serene, involved, intense. From eating garbage and dodging cars in the wild to living in an inner-city apartment and eyeing derelicts shimmying down drainpipes, Lou would take it all in stride. In the wild he’d learned to think, adapt, and get by, like a wolf. It would remain one of the keys to his success later on.
A tall, gray-haired man in a bathrobe opened the door. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sized us up, the scent of coffee wafting out of the old house. Using a bungee cord for a leash, I let Lou stretch out toward the big man, who gave him a pet and me a look.
“Found him down the road, I’d guess,” he said.
“About three miles south.”
“I’m Dr. Smith. Bring him into the exam room. I’ll be right back.”
He came back wearing a white lab coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck. Lou walked around the room, scenting out whatever pets had been in there recently.
“Get a weight on him, then put him up on the table,” he said, pointing to the scale in the corner. He was considerate but all business, and probably wanted to get back to his coffee.
He wouldn’t be the last Dr. Smith in Lou’s life. A year later, Lou would befriend Jonathan Harris, the actor who played Dr. Smith on the television show Lost in Space. I would leave Lou tethered outside my health club while I played racquetball, and Harris would fawn all over Lou, by then fully grown and Hollywood handsome.
“Thirty-four pounds even,” I said, lifting him off the scale and placing him atop the slippery steel examination table. Lou tap-danced around as I kept him steady.
“He’s about six months old,” he said, looking into Lou’s mouth, his teeth white as cream. “Some sort of string in here.”
“He ate a sock,” I said.
“A park ranger said his parents were guard dogs on a marijuana grow,” Nancy said, proud of Lou’s criminal pedigree.
Dr. Smith listened to Lou’s heart and lungs. “Bigger than logging around here. He’s got a slight heart murmur.”
“Is that bad?” asked Nancy, picking at a tick that had burrowed into Lou’s ear.
“The marijuana?”
“No—the murmur.”
“Most dogs with murmurs live normal lives. He’s crawling with ticks and fleas, though, and this wound is infected.”
He squeezed yellowish pus from the gash, then wiped it clean with gauze.
“Gross,” I said, looking at Nancy, who smiled. Pus always pleased her.
He irrigated the wound with Betadine solution, then administered a local anesthetic to numb Lou up for suturing. He worked like a watchmaker, examining the wound, removing dead skin, and cleaning it up a bit. Lou wiggled but didn’t seem to mind; his tail wagged as I fed him tears of string cheese, which he took gently.
Lou had a “soft” mouth, like a Lab: he always took treats tenderly. It made him great with kids and helped him learn to pick objects up off the floor without damaging them. I once taught him to fetch a chicken egg as a prelude to my training service dogs, whose mouths had to be soft enough to pick up dropped eyeglasses or medication bottles, or retrieve food from a cupboard or refrigerator. Practicing these things on Lou helped me prepare for the real thing. Of course, I always let him eat the egg afterward.
“Before I suture him up, he needs a flea-and-tick bath,” said Dr. Smith. “No sense in letting vermin get into the wound before I close him up.”
“Can we help?” I asked, watching him pack the wound with what looked like petroleum jelly. Lou let out a soft “rower,” his way of asking, “Is this necessary?”
“Take him over to the tub and run the water. I’ll bring you the shampoo. Don’t get the wound too wet.”
The water ran dark with so much flea dirt and dying fleas that it nearly clogged the drain. Lou wasn’t at all fond of water, a trait that would stay with him his whole life.
Excerpted from Last Dog on The Hill by Steve Duno.
Copyright © 2010 by Steve Duno.
Published in 2010 by St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.


Continues...

Excerpted from Last Dog on the Hill by Steve Duno Copyright © 2010 by Steve Duno. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 29 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 29 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 16, 2010

    A Perfect "Tail"

    Emotion, suspense, good cast of characters, wit and precision writing. These are the elements of a good story. And each of those elements is vividly present in Last Dog on the Hill. Steve Duno had a special relationship with a very special dog, Lou. His loss of his beloved pet is our gain as he chose to honor this amazing animal by immortalizing him with this beautifully written memoir. A must read for anyone because it transcends the "dog person" story and touches on the bonds between people as well as the bonds between humans and their pets and is filled with remarkable insight. A story that will bring its reader smiles, a few out-loud laughs, thought provoking moments and yes, more than a couple of tears. Who could ask for more in a book?

    6 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 15, 2010

    True Blue Lou

    Last Dog on the Hill was a joy to read on many fronts. Foremost is Steve Duno's ability to lead the reader into a visceral connection with Lou, his beloved rescued feral Rottweiler mix. We wander through savory descriptions of the urban and wilderness landscapes he and Lou roamed together. We sweat through hair-raising incidents in which Lou shows his heroic nature. And we admire his dedication to work, helping owner/dog behaviorist reform dogs with serious behavior problems.

    This book is a refreshing and genuine exploration of the bonds of loyalty and love between a man and his dog. More than that, it manages to convey truths about what we all need to thrive (love, adventure, discipline, freedom, work, fellowship), regardless of how many legs we have.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 14, 2010

    I Loved this Book!

    Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou

    What a wonderful story about the relationship between Lou, a very special dog, and his master, brother, and best friend, Steve Duno. Steve's memoir of his adventures with Lou is a humorous and very touching tribute that you will not be able to put down.

    The love that Steve and Lou shared for sixteen years is palpable, with so many stories showing how they truly brought out the best in each other. This is an extremely well written book that you will just savor. You'll wish that you had known Lou too.

    I look forward to reading more from this very talented writer. Steve, you've surely made Lou proud!

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 12, 2011

    Amazing story - well-written

    This might be one of the two best "animal" books I have ever read, "Merle's Door" being the other. It was interesting and informative, funny, sad, inspiring. I can only hope I someday find a dog like Lou.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 7, 2011

    SECOND BEST BEST BOOK IVE EVER READ!

    If you read Marley and Me and loved it, and your looking for another book with the humor and heart felt words, this is the book for you. Honestly it had me crying at some points, which is what happens when a book im reading is really good, and im a guy. If youve ever loved a dog or wanted to know what its like to have a dog as wonderful as lou, read this book. Thank gog Steve Duno wrote this book. Absolutely incredible.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted December 8, 2012

    I read this book two years ago and still cannot get it out of my

    I read this book two years ago and still cannot get it out of my head. It's an exceptional story about an exceptional dog.

    The author has a great wit and an ear for dialogue. He walks us through one adventure after another and shows us how his partnership with his calm, brilliant mutt changed his life. He's also a dog trainer, and some of this book is informative and offers comfort to first-time dog owners who don't know where to start with their big, rambuctious puppies. But the reason the heart of this book is Lou, who is that one dog in a million that we all wish we had. It's a beautiful story. Read it.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 1, 2012

    Great reading

    Wonderful story. Hard to put down. A must read, especially for animal lovers.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 25, 2012

    For all dog lovers

    A wonderful story about a remarkable dog and the man who had the good fortune of sharing his life.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 26, 2012

    Great story

    Could not put it down

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 22, 2012

    This is a great book about a great dog loved it


    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 29, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Well written and filled with pathos and humor

    In 1989 in Mendocino County, California, Steve Duno and Nancy Banks saw the wild Rottweiler puppies who were obviously the offspring of marijuana farm guard dogs. Out of the pack of feral canines came one dog who decided to change his life. Steve was prepared to leave the pup at the side of the road, but Nancy interceded. They took Lou as they named him with them. However, on that day in 1989 Steve was unprepared for how much Lou changed his life and that of so many others, dogs and humans alike. Starting with the Alzheimer's elderly woman and next the yarn of the thread, Lou quickly won over the senior citizens. For sixteen years Steve and Lou were BFFs. With a nod to John Grogan's Marley and Me, Last Dog on the Hill: The Extraordinary Life of Lou is a fascinating memoir that explores the special bond between a dog and their owner. Well written and filled with pathos and humor, as Steve understands he was Indian Jones' sidekick; who leaves animal lovers musing that Lou's writing his memoir First Human Chosen: The Extraordinary Life of My Pet Steve.

    Harriet Klausner

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2014

    The BEST,

    All dog lovers, trainers, pet owners ....
    THIS IS A MUST READ. wonderfully enjoyable.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 13, 2013

    Dog Lovers Book

    This is probably the best dog book I have ever read. I loved it from cover to cover. Great true story. Merele's Door was my favorite dog book before this one, and it was also excellent but I think Last Dog topped it.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 5, 2013

    ()()()()( L.l Ghfkvbjheefdevfbevehdjwvfhdvdhfjevfjdhrhfjevfjdjrvfkebdjdbdhfjdhdhdjdhwvdjebdhdbejwvejdrjedeehhhjjnrdrjddessaddeehrhdkxjehfhfgfhrhehehfuehegdjwhehehcidkdlsjakqekfpgjfbxnzmskfjfjsajfjdjwjfjdhdjwhejebejeiehqhdjfjffjebdifwrffgrtrhgtyhcdrtr

    I love dogs. Does any one want to be my nook friend

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 11, 2013

    more from this reviewer

    Entertaining Testimonial to a Dog

    This book is an easy read, and for the most part entertaining, as the author offers several vignettes about his favorite dog, a Rottweiler mix named Lou. Not having met his dog, I believe there are some overused superlatives about Lou, but it makes for an interesting read nevertheless. Duno offers some insightful wisdom about dogs in the beginning, and his recounting of the last days of Lou is a touching remembrance that any of us who have lost favorite pets can relate to. I do not think this is of the same caliber as "Marley and Me", but I do recommend this for anyone who wants some light reading about a man and his "best friend".

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 16, 2013

    :)

    I loved this book. Excellent!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 21, 2012

    It was OK

    I love dog stories and this one was not that special.

    0 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 12, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 26, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

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