Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
~ Agnes Sligh Turnbull
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| Raleigh Girl 2000-2012 |
How do you say goodbye to a good friend? A best friend, a family member, a child? One you know you will never again see on this earth? Such a friend is one who has accepted you for all your faults, is understanding of your occasional (though not harmful) neglect, who greets you with eagerness and expectation, and extends love in a quiet and steady way.
Such is often the case with a dog. Holbrook Jackson said, "Man is a dog's idea of what God should be." That might be their second fault. How can we be deserving of such love and respect?
For us, saying goodbye to Raleigh was with tears and hugs, sobs and smiles, cooing, stroking, and strangled laughing through our crying at the retelling of stories. We held her, we held each other, and knew that to show our ultimate love we would need to stop her suffering.
Not that we weren't selfish. "Maybe if ...," and "She seems better!" were hopeful cries in our evening of recognition that Raleigh's end was near. She had health issues; she would not get better. She could not stand. We cradled her and cried and, when she could, she licked our hands and faces. It was torture for us all. We decided to end hers.
The next morning as I first opened the front door she raised her head. I carried her out and lay her on the ground. She held up her muzzle, closed her eyes, and sniffed the wind. She seemed to enjoy the breeze against her face.
An important thing happened shortly thereafter. To set the scene, let me tell you about Stray Cat, an old tom who showed up at our home a year or so ago and has never left. He doesn't like us to touch him, he is easily frightened away, and always disheveled. The funny thing about Stray Cat is that he always shows up when I feel down. I might be on the back deck, sitting and brooding, and when I look over ... there he sits, typically about eight feet away. He just appears and sits, and stares at me. Steady. Grounded. He sits there and we stare at each other, and soon I feel my emotions begin to come into balance. Then he walks away.
Stray Cat bonded with our Great Pyrenees, Tilly. She was about a year old when he appeared, and he tolerated her crazy puppy antics. I often see them doing the ESP stare-down as well. Tilly lays on her haunches, while this cat sits on his in front of her and they just look at one another for ages. When it is chilly, they snuggle. Raleigh did not care for Stray Cat. In fact, they avoided one another completely. But that morning, Raleigh's last, was different. I had come back inside for a cup of coffee and a jacket. When I walked out what I saw was Stray Cat lying beside Raleigh, her head nestled against him.
It has been a few months since Raleigh died. This is the first I could write about it at length. And, of course, I'm bawling like a baby. Hold on while I blow my nose.
. . . . .
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| That's Ollie on the right! |
We struggled with the idea of getting another dog. It felt a bit disloyal. But ... we finally decided to take the plunge. For us, and for Tilly. She was very sad, missing her friend. The rambunctious Tilly who would knock us down in her joy of seeing us had become reserved, detached. We brought her in to sit with us, and she stepped onto the couch and lay her head in our laps and stared up at us. We would explain what happened to Raleigh, and she would blink her eyes and look away, then emit a heavy sigh.
We considered getting a dog from a rescue shelter, but live near folks who often ride horses past our place. You just never know what habits come with a dog who has an established personality. I learned this because I have done the rescued-dog thing before. I loved that dog and we enjoyed many good years together, but I had to be realistic and cautious. And I can't deny I wanted a puppy. I found one, a badger-masked male Pyrenees whom I picked out a few weeks after his birth, and visited until the day we brought him home. Sir Oliver Schnapps. I wanted to call him Ollie, my hubby wanted to call him Schnappy, so the name was a compromise. I believe he is a dog of superior intelligence, as he responds to both monikers. And I'm sure he came with that built-in chip that tells canines how weird we humans are.
At first Tilly was a bit apprehensive, though never rude. She saves that for us. She would sniff Ollie, look at us, give her signature eyebrow wiggle and I think I saw a word cloud above her head that said "What the hell?" Ollie loved her right off, no doubt because she smelled like a mama. We went through the whole establishment routine, keeping our pup inside at night until he was acclimated to his new boundaries. Tilly would hang with him, but didn't seem too interested, but she eventually accepted him into the fold. A couple weeks after Ollie moved in, I noticed Tilly walking the northeast perimeter of our lawn with little Ollie behind her. Every few yards she would stop and bark, then look back at Ollie, who would wag his tail, sniff the ground, then look at his elder for approval. She would turn her majestic head and go another few yards, and repeat the process. She was teaching him! It was fascinating. Not long after he slept outside all night. The next morning I found Ollie nestled within the embrace of Tilly. Awww.
Now he's three months old and has exploded into a small dog. Tilly is close to 120 pounds, and he has some catchin' up to do. He jumps and chews, barks and chews, whines and chews, tackles Tilly and chews. You get the picture. He chews a lot and on anything not nailed down. Who am I kidding? He chews on everything. A few pairs of Old Navy flip flops have recently met their demise. He likes to act like he's the boss and thereby boss Tilly around. She just rolls her eyes. Seriously, she does. But he's still the junior, and when we recently broke out the old John Deer rider to mow the grass for the first time (waaaaay too early), he cowered in puppy fear, down on his belly, appendages sprawled, yelping like a baby. I laughed a bit (I had just found the first pair of mutilated flip flops, so was feeling no mercy), but then Tilly sauntered up and licked him a few times. He was quickly placated, wetly assured, and promptly began digging a huge hole in the yard until I ran yelling at him, brandishing my ravaged shoe. He ran to Tilly for protection, and I swear they both smiled. I stopped in my tracks, was filled with that goofy love-pride you feel toward animals who appear to be doing something important (but are most likely passing gas), dug out my phone and took a pic. It was perfect. It was beautiful. If there had been Great Pyrenees in the Sound of Music movie, a still shot would have looked like this ... you'll love it.
Mon dieu ... it makes your heart explode.
Then they did this ....
Somewhere, I bet Raleigh is laughing. And hopefully ... she approves.
