When my 4 year old nephew visited from England this summer and met Canuke for the first time, Oliver's eyes popped open wide and he immediately climbed up onto a kitchen chair. "Auhntie Deb!" he exclaimed, in his tiny proper English voice. "He's rauhther enormous, isn't he? I'm really quite terrified!"
Canuke just wagged his tail. The rest of his 100+ pounds wiggled joyfully, too.
Emmett, my rescued Persian cat, utterly terrified Canuke. After a vivid first lesson he received after introducing himself to Emmett by sticking his nose under the cat's tail and hoisting the big cat's rear end into the air, he was always excruciatingly polite to Emmett. When he had a choice, he preferred to quietly leave any room that Emmett entered. If Emmett blocked the doorway so that he couldn't leave, Canuke laid down and covered his eyes with his paws.
My friend Fran used to remind Canuke to "practice his mean face" whenever she visited, because she knew that he didn't have one.
It took months to heal his terrible pressure sores and raw urine-scalded skin, when he became part of my family in spring of 2008. But he never complained, and he always wagged his tail throughout his daily treatments, no matter how uncomfortable they were for him. He healed up beautifully and became an even more handsome dog than he was when we welcomed him. But he never got over flinching when someone moved fast, or whenever anyone carried so much as an umbrella or a cooking spatula in their hand.
Whenever Canuke wanted something, he didn't fuss, or whine, or beg. He'd just do a dramatic and beautiful "sit" in front of you, utter a gentle, coughed "ahem" and make eye contact with the object of desire. Usually the fridge or the couch.
Lizzie bossed Canuke and ran his life, telling him when to go out and when to come in, and to ALWAYS stay the heck away from her food. And Canuke was OK with a tiny, senior Cairn Terrier telling him what to do. Maybe because she would curl up next to him for hours in the sun on the back deck, which was one of his favorite things to do. He would often feel almost hot to the touch, but he loved soaking up the sun as long as Lizzie allowed.
Bathing Canuke was very much like bathing a horse.
He absolutely adored tummy rubs and actively solicited them. Seeing someone the size of a human adult sprawled belly up, lip folds retracted to the heavens, big mouthful of teeth exposed, was a disconcerting sight to those who didn't know him.
Canuke was the ideal car dog. He would always fall asleep the minute the car started up, and he'd nap until journey's end. If it was a long trip, and he needed a rest stop, he'd yawn, stretch, walk up to the driver's seat, and mutter his soft, coughed, "ahem!" into my ear. If a rest stop didn't happen pretty quickly, the "ahem!" would gradually escalate. A Bullmastiff who needs to pee can be pretty loud when he's coughing directly into your ear.
Even just a single slice of cucumber was deadly to his digestion, but he loved them. So much so, that he'd steal them off the vine when he could get to them. Since Canuke spent his days with me at the hospital, it wasn't unusual to hear a loud wail from a staff member: "OH, NOOOO! Dr. Mitchell! I can't breathe back here! You were feeding him cucumbers again, weren't you?"
The vacuum cleaner was a mortal enemy. Just hearing it turned on sent him into a barking, "I want to attack you" frenzy. While he was too afraid to mount a frontal attack on any roaring, probably fire-breathing vacuum cleaner, he was not above taking a quick "bite" of its rear, when it was turned off and was being wheeled away to wherever the dreadful beast was stored. He ruined several expensive vacuums that way. Even a Dyson, durable as it is, isn't built to withstand the jaws of a Bullmastiff bent on revenge.
Canuke was never happier than when it was "Chicken Day." On Chicken Days, he waited with quivering anticipation while I unwrapped a whole fresh raw chicken, his only meal for that day. As soon as the wrappings were discarded, he'd run for the back door and wait outside for his chicken to be handed to him. In less than two minutes, he'd have that chicken reduced to something the size and thickness of a cookie sheet, which he'd then take about 15 minutes to slowly savor. Afterwards, it was always time for a long post-prandial snooze in the sun. Chicken days were always GOOD days for Canuke, and he'd always let me know when he thought he was about due for one.
He was an unqualified expert at slowly oozing up onto a couch, while still maintaining the requisite single paw on the floor.
