If you have ever faced the awful choice of whether to put down a dog you love, you know that it can break your heart. I‘ve been there and done that. Maybe you have, too.

REMEMBERING DOGS WE LOVED

You brought us such joy. That’s why we were willing to accept what we knew from the beginning--- that you would be given just a few short years to live, and that losing you would bring shattering pain.

A few people, surprised by the depth of the grief involved, have said to me, “But it was just a dog.” Before I exploded, I remembered there was no way they could understand.

They never watched a new puppy, clumsy and excited, delighting in each discovery of his world. They never had a puppy nibble their fingers, cuddle in their lap, grow familiar with their voice and the touch of their hand, until a bond was formed, and they belonged to each other.

They never joined in games a dog created for them to share. They never watched him frolic, filled with pure joy at being with them, at doing something together.

If there are children dear to them, they never had a dog lie down, ears back, and gently cover the little ones with kisses. They never saw a dog keep them safe, stop them from wandering more than a few steps away.

Times they were lonely, they never felt a dog’s familiar nudge that said, “Hey, I’m here.” When they were sad, they never had a dog press his head against their knee and make them feel better, just because he cared. When nights were long and shadows seemed sinister, they never heard the reassuring sounds of their dog standing guard over them nearby. They never experienced the unconditional love of a dog, the love that doesn’t know or care about all of the standards by which the rest of the world judges us. They never marveled at how the love of a dog transcends the barrier between species.

They never saw their cherished friend walk more slowly by their side, take longer naps before the fire, as seasons passed. They never ached, while they watched him trying harder and harder to keep up the routine they enjoyed together. They never saw him grow old and sick, and agonized over whether the time had come to let him go. They never had to wonder if they were delaying the end for their dog's sake or their own.

The only purpose our dogs know is to love us. The only faith they hold is that we love them, too, and loving them, will do what is best for them. The only hope they have is that they will live on as part of our hearts.

Those who say, “But it was only a dog,” couldn’t possibly understand..

Here are some of the dogs who have played such an important role in Dick’s life and mine.

Dick’s wedding present to me was this handsome fellow when he was a five-week-old puppy. Bravo had a cast iron stomach. He ate the tops off a whole potted plant of mums once, and another time devoured a complete pound of goat milk fudge we had inadvertently left in the car. (Goat milk fudge is delicious. you should try it.) He was all that a German Shepherd should be, and he hooked us on the breed.

Brandy joined us in Pittsburgh. She was a sweet soul, living totally in Bravo’s shadow, but she never seemed to mind.


 

Dick and Trover were inseparable. That scrappy old boy, (Trover, that is ) lived to be 16 years old. Though his exact lineage was a mystery, Trover was a regal fellow when he was bathed and brushed. Once, Dick and I were traveling and took him with us to a rather up-scale hotel. We chose it because we knew they accepted dogs. In line just ahead of us was a woman with a fluffed and groomed Maltese. The desk clerk fawned over her.

When we stepped up with Trover, she looked as if we might have a communicable disease. “And what kind of dog is THAT?” she asked coolly. It annoyed me.

I leaned close. “Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you, but this is a real Pu-yeti,” I said.

She looked confused.

“They are so rare that most people are not aware of them,” I continued, “My husband was on business in Tibet, where this is the dog of royalty. He did a favor for the Dalai Lama and received this puppy as a reward. Trover had just been weaned from his diet of yak butter, so he was all right to travel.”

She looked at the dog with emerging interest. “Really?”

“Usually, no one is permitted to remove Pu-yetis from the country, but they made an exception for Trover, provided we signed an agreement never to breed him. There is such concern about keeping the blood lines pure. We understand there is a female Pu-yeti in the United States, but we would never dream of breaking our promise,” I said.

“Oh no, of course not,” she responded.

“Now, can you assure me that no one will disturb him if we leave him in the room for a short period?” I said.

“Oh, madam, I’ll alert the staff. He’ll be quite safe. We’ll take special care. It isn’t every day we have a Pu-yeti staying with us.”

I felt pretty certain of that.

Later, Dick asked where I got the name Pu-yeti. I told him I always thought Trover looked a bit like a cross between a poodle and a yeti.


Dick found Flynn on a highway median, where he had crawled after being hit by a car. The garbage men had just come along and were ready to destroy him, but Dick pulled him into the car and took him to a vet. Flynn went to work with Dick when he was the anchor man on KHOU in Houston. Everyone around the studio knew him, and at air time, someone would page Flynn to come to the studio. He lay there beside Dick throughout the show. When the theme signaled that the news was over, Flynn got up and sauntered to the door, the camera following him. Only once was there a problem. The regular weather man on the show was ill, and someone filled in for him. Flynn thought that just wasn’t right and barked at the hapless soul until Dick led him out of the studio. Flynn never could conquer his hatred of white trucks, and one of them got him in the end.. After he died, the TV station received calls for weeks, asking where he was.


On the newscast, Dick did a feature about dogs at the SPCA who needed a family. One such puppy who appeared on the show was Murphy. I fell in love and called Dick, saying please bring him home. Murphy was an independent, but loving dog. One night, I was out of town, it was raining and Dick had the flu. Though he always walked Murphy, that night he had no choice but to let him out on his own. Murphy never came back. We haunted the pound and the SPCA and ran ads in the paper, but we never saw him again.


Morgen had a beautiful soul. I wrote the piece at the start of this page in his memory.
More than that I can’t say about what he meant to me. He loved Dick, but of all our dogs, he alone was really just mine. We had to end his life when he was twelve, because hip displasia had left him unable to stand. Losing him nearly leveled me. He lives in my heart.



Dick found Straw when he was a tiny puppy, running around a gas station on the road somewhere between Houston and Victoria. No one knew where he came from, so Dick brought him home.
We already had two dogs, and when I saw this yipping little tornado dashing around, I told Dick, “This is the last straw.” The name stuck, and so did Straw. We had meant to find a home for him, but we soon became too attached to let him go. Straw never understood how little he was, He stood ready to take on the world, especially big dogs. Max tolerated him, He seemed to think it would be beneath his dignity to notice a little gnat like the golden ball of fur that kept yapping at him. Last Straw died of old age at 15.
 

After Morgen died, I knew I would want a shepherd again one day. But I was afraid to take the chance of another dog developing displasia, a condition commonly affecting the breed. The vet found a fine pair of shepherds from Germany, who were OFA certified to be free of displasia going back 5 generations. We bought pick of their litter. Max was an incredible physical specimen, a gorgeous 110 pounds of pride and independence. He could be gentle and loving, and he was an absolute pussy-cat around children. But he was born believing that he was in charge of the world. He was sometimes playful. He loved stealing my wash cloth when I was taking a bath. He was never aggressive, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to challenge him. One night when I was home alone, a man knocked on the door. He made me uneasy, and I asked him to go. Instead, he stuck his foot in the door. Max suddenly flashed around from where he had been out of sight behind me. I’ve never heard anything like the sounds that poured from his throat. His hair stood up, and his fangs were bared. I was terrified that he would attack before I could stop him. The man was gone in the blink of an eye. We had to end Max’s life, also at 12, also because he could no longer get up to go outside, and Dick couldn’t lift him.


Breezy was the most stunning female shepherd I ever saw, (until Greta, of course.) Bred by the famous breeders of shepherds, the Monks of New Skeet in New York, she had been destined for a life of producing more perfect shepherds like herself. We got her from the breeder who owned Max’s Dad and who had meant her as a mate for that beautiful old boy. When the breeders decided to become missionaries, we bought Breezy. She was Max’s physical equal, and they had two litters of flawless puppies. Breezy was as feminine and lady-like as a dog can be. She had an innate sweetness. Though she usually was submissive around Max, she occasionally had enough and put him in his place with a sharp bark. He didn’t argue. Breezy had cancer, and we had to end her life when she was ten.


Shortly after Breezy died, our vet called and told us there was a female shepherd we must see. I was incensed, and asked him if he had forgotten that we had just lost Breezy. “But you still have Max,” he said, “And he is so depressed without her that I think a companion is just what he needs.” He told us that Greta was bred by the same people responsible for Breezy.  The young couple who owned her had two small children and another on the way. They were looking for a loving family for Greta. He had been transferred to Chicago, and a move, with house hunting, house selling, etc. was facing them. It was just too much to handle all of that and Greta, too. We went to see her. She immediately jumped on the couch between us. It was as if she had just been waiting for us to come for her. We’re convinced God led her to us. She has been a wonderful gift. Max perked up and tottered around another 6 months after she came. Today, she is family. Period.

Jolly Jake John arrived in our household this year. Lord help us. Greta had been part of a nightly play session with neighbor dogs in Houston. We thought she must be lonely without others of her kind no longer around. So we decided to find her a pal. We asked the vet whether he had any idea where we might find a grown male dog, who probably wouldn’t be adopted, unless by us. It just so happened he had one at his office. The people at the local pound had a full house, but they had fallen in love with this guy and refused to put him down. Instead, they were giving him a temporary stay by boarding him at the vet’s and hoping for a miracle. The girls at the vets office babbled about the dog. “He’s such a jolly fellow,” said one. 

The vet said he was  “about a year old.” But he assured us, “he’s fully grown.” Wrong.  This dog is pure puppy, with all of the traits of a six-month-old. He’s a load. If he continues to grow, he may become another Howard Huge. The vet thinks he’s part Rhodesian Ridgeback. What keeps popping into my mind is, “ a cross between a Mastiff and a Great Dane.” Whatever, we fell for him. Once we named him Jolly Jake, there was no turning back.

The pound had us fill out an application comparable to one the government probably requires of applicants for a job at the Pentagon. Then the inspector came over to check us, our house and our fence.. I was downright nervous, but we passed. I think their investigation  shows concern and care for the animals, and I applaud it. We headed straight for the vet’s and collected the newly examined and vaccinated fourth member of our pack.

Greta wasn’t sure about Jake at first, but he won her over with his infectious joy at each new experience. They romp together and have become great pals. I think he amuses her, just as he does us.

 
MUGS

Mugs never really belonged to anybody, but I don’t think she knew that. Community dog of Hickory Springs was a role she took seriously. Before my husband, Dick, and I ever saw the place, Mugs had wandered into the development and made it her home.

She treated all of us who owned the ten cabins nestled about our small spring-fed lake in East Texas as her people. She came wiggling out to meet us when we first arrived and she ran to greet us each time we drove through the gate thereafter. Mugs was love with a tail wagging behind.
That sleek black body always glistened. If she got dirty, she headed to the lake and frolicked in the water.

When she was happy, Mugs smiled. Unfortunately, a couple of crooked front teeth, caused the foolish grin that inspired her name.

When the full-time dogs of cabin owners came along to the lake, Mugs played with them, behaving as a gracious hostess. She seemed to understand that their rules and status differed from her own. Mugs never tried to follow them into the comfort of their homes when the day’s romp ended and lights began to appear.

On cold or stormy nights, we invited Mugs inside, where she settled onto a spot beside the fireplace, barely moving until morning. She relished those rare indulgences, but never tried to claim them as her right. Mugs' life was outdoors, and she knew it.

Most of us came to the lake only on weekends. However, a couple of families lived there, and they looked out for Mugs while the rest of us worked in the city. My husband and I took her to town for shots, which she endured bravely, though with reproachful glances. We saw that she had heartworm pills.

Everyone saved Mugs a few bites at dinner, and some of us filled bowls with dry dog food, too. She never begged, but she showed up each evening and accepted what food we offered, with a lick for the hand that fed her.

You could always count on Mugs to amble along beside you for a walk in the piney woods around our lake. Times we went fishing, her eyes never left the water. When somebody cried, “I caught one!” she would dance in a circle, as delighted as we, and then watch while the fish was released and swam away. If she considered this a peculiar ritual, she never let on.

Mugs adored the children who sometimes visited. They draped themselves around her neck, and she played with them till they were all exhausted. Then she’d flop down with that ridiculous grin spread across her face and fall asleep, wherever she might be.

Though friendly, Mugs was no coward. She once stood her ground between a snake and me, snarling until it slithered away. The snake was harmless, but I doubt if Mugs knew that.

She never filled the role of watchdog, because she accepted everyone. Strangers were just new friends. Only once did someone betray her trust.
When we arrived one Friday evening, Mugs led us to her litter of puppies, appearing eager for us to share this exciting event. Her babies were born under our house, a distinct honor.

Mugs was a concerned and loving mother. She brought me the smallest puppy, carrying it tenderly in her mouth, and deposited it at my feet with a soft whine. I took over for a couple of days, feeding the tiny one milk with an eyedropper and keeping it warm until it was strong enough to hold its own with the others. Mugs’ look when I returned it to her side was an eloquent thank you.

We spread the word that, as soon as the little pups were older, we'd take them to town and find families for them. We thought that would be easy, because Mugs had produced a cuddly, inquisitive group of three boys and three girls. What joy they would bring to their families, and how they would love being someone's best pal!

Soon afterward, we returned to discover the puppies gone and Mugs wandering frantically from house to house, searching for them. Our neighbor cried as she told us that a man from the far end of the lake had waited until Mugs was away from her babies, then piled them into a sack and killed them. She was afraid to try to stop him. None of the rest of us spoke to the man afterward, and eventually, he moved away.

Soon after the puppies died, we had Mugs spayed. We only regretted that we hadn’t acted sooner. We thought of taking her home with us, but we already had two dogs and one more seemed one too many. Her friends at the lake discussed finding a family for Mugs. That seemed like a good idea at first, but the more we considered it, the less certain we became. Mugs already had a home and people she considered her family. No one wanted her to move away, and would she really be happier if we took her from those she loved and the woods she knew? In the end, we did nothing. How I wish we could change that decision!

One sunny Saturday morning we arrived at the lake and, for the first time I could remember, Mugs didn’t come bounding out, barking joyously. We wasted no time finding someone who could tell us where she was. I think I already knew. No one could ever convince her to stay away from the dangerous stretch of highway passing our quiet little community between Livingston and Woodville, Texas.

When I drive into Hickory Springs, I always feel I have come home. But my heart will never lift in quite the same way at the gate. Mugs is gone. She seemed at ease with the life fate dealt her and lived it to the fullest. She loved generously, and those who knew Mugs smile when her name is mentioned.

Not a bad epitaph for a little stray dog.