Turbo May 27, 1996 - December 1, 2011
Turbo, who was still turning heads until earlier this week, has died. He was our longest-lived Bouvier at 14 and a half. A master of many lifestyles, he was bi-lingual and engaging in the extreme.
Born in Costa Rica to Manolo and Lara, Turbo had a sister, Tica, and four brothers. They all pre-deceased him. His half sister Asta (by Manolo), was Turbo’s constant companion for 12 years. Turbo was very depressed when she died 2 years ago.
Turbo was a light gray brindle color with cropped ears and tail. He loved to smile, and had all his teeth until he died, even though we never had them cleaned. Except for other Bouviers of his acquaintance, he didn’t care for other dogs. When it came to interacting with people, however, he was a charmer. There was only one person he had contact with who so misread the dog that it was a wonder he trained animals for a living. This was back in the Costa Rica days when Turbo was one or so and already neutered.
Mr. Dog Trainer came to our house and asked to spend a few minutes alone with Turbo. His assessment: on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most aggressive, Turbo was a 12. He would need a lot of training. When I expressed my doubts about Turbo’s aggressiveness (he was always friendly to people, even strangers), the trainer turned to me and said, “Cupcake, I know what I’m talking about.” We told him we wouldn’t need his services.
At one point in Costa Rica, we had four Bouviers. Turbo was the only male, and not quite as bright as two of three of his sisters. He was a little goofy, and he loved to play. One day, Turbo showed how smart he really was. I had been given macadamia nut shells to use as mulch in my gardens. My gardener spread them around in the front of the house. The next morning, our three female dogs couldn’t lift their butts off the ground after gorging themselves on the empty shells. Turbo was the only dog who enthusiastically ate breakfast, having for whatever reason rejected the shells to which tasty tiny nut bits still adhered. I called the vet in a panic. He laughed and said to come to the office to pick up some castor oil. That quickly unplugged the blockages and the dogs were fine.
When we shipped Turbo and his sister Asta to the United States (they were 3 and 4 years old), we had to pay by the kilo. Both dogs were obese, having lived their days munching fallen mangoes (and retching up the pit at 5 o’clock each morning), and other tropical fruits. The gardener gave them scraps of food, too. When we brought them to the vet in the States, he told us that they seriously needed a diet. We put them on diet dog food, didn’t feed them from the table (much), and within a year they lost 20 pounds apiece. The vet came out to the waiting room and told the other pet owners, “you see, you can put your pets on a diet that works. These dogs just added several years to their lives.”
Our daughter Mariel spent endless hours training Turbo and Asta to jump over obstacles. Mariel had competed in equine jumping competitions in Costa Rica, and went on to be a hurdler in high school and college. For large dogs, they were incredibly graceful. The only problem was, they discovered they could jump over the backyard fence, which they did on a regular basis. Eventually, we had to put up an invisible fence. I doubt they’d ever wander away, but they could easily be mistaken for bears or other shootable animals.
Turbo’s biggest adventure again involved Mariel. She had taken Turbo and Asta to the park near our house and let them off their leashes. Asta remained nearby at all times, but Turbo drifted off somewhere. In a panic, Mariel called us to say Turbo was missing. My husband and friends (who were visiting us) went off to search for him, taking our neighbors, who often cared for the dogs, with them. I stayed home to field phone calls. Our biggest worry was that Turbo would leave the park and get hit by a car. Finally, I couldn’t sit around anymore. I put on my sneakers and went to the garage door. There was Turbo, panting but sitting there and smiling, happy to be home. I called off the search party. There were several routes he could’ve taken, but we’ll never know whether he walked on the road, our usual route, or if he’d gone though the woods. I always said I wished my dogs could speak, which they did in a fashion. I’d love to hear how Turbo found his way home.
While Asta was “human-smart,” Turbo was dog smart. He instinctively knew what was harmful to eat, and he could use his nose-memory when he needed it. He was warm, loving and fun. Turbo, as his name implies, was full of energy and loved to run around out back. Whereas Asta was stand-offish, Turbo was ever-friendly. He barked at strangers when they came in the house, but this was more a reaction to Asta defending us and Turbo following her lead.
When we moved to Manhattan, Turbo became a city dog. Did he like it? I don’t think so, but he loved to soak up the attention of passers-by. “What kind of dog is that?” people would ask in shock. They’d never heard of a Bouvier de Flandres, so we explained that he was a Belgian cow-herding dog. European tourists were more familiar with the breed, but Turbo still had a magnetic effect. Kids and adults alike would ask to pet him. People took photos. It was a lot of fun to live in the reflected glory of such a head-turner. We used to joke with our sons Mark and Harry that Turbo was a chick magnet.
In his final year of life, Turbo experienced a number of old-age problems. He developed Bell’s palsy and had to be hospitalized for three weeks. He was already eating dog food for joint problems, and took Rimidyl and Tramadol on a daily basis. He especially hated the Tramadol so we had to wrap the pills in chunks of cheese or slather it with hummus or some other tasty sauce.
My husband Marty, who was Turbo’s primary caretaker, walked with Turbo to Central Park one day last summer. Turbo was 14 by then but could still walk pretty far if you took it slowly. They went to the dog area, where Marty took pictures and Turbo sat by his side. He loved to just sit in the grass and take in the sights ands smells. We have a small house in the Catskill Mountains that has a large lawn. Turbo loved to sit out there with us beside the brook.
Like many dogs, Turbo had many nick names. Named Turbo Dodger by Mariel, he was also known as Turbie, Tubsy Ubsy, Turbster The Turbonator, The Big Turbowski, and Baby. I called him Baby a lot in his final year. He was, after all, our youngest child.
After a wonderful Thanksgiving with the boys (I cooked all the turkey innards for him and doled them out a little at a time), we went back to Manhattan. By Tuesday I had to rely on Jimmy, one of our concierges who occasionally walked Turbo for us, to help me get him from the elevator to the door. He was okay on the street, but once we got into the building, Jimmy had to help me get him to our front door. Marty clearly saw the decline that occurred in a matter of two days. Early Wednesday morning, I woke up to find Turbo and Marty on the floor. Turbo had had some kind of stroke or seizure and couldn’t get up. We called a 24-hour veterinary hospital and they said to come right in. We spent Turbo’s final 15 minutes or so talking to him, kissing and petting him. The doctor came in and asked if we were ready. We were not ready but Turbo was.
Turbo has been cremated and his ashes will be interred on our property in the mountains. There will never be a dog like Turbo.
