Tribute archive: section 15

Dear Puppy, It has been a week since we said goodbye to you. A week since I saw that blood in your stool and I knew you were telling us it was okay, that you were tired, you were done. You lived much longer than those crazy Great Dane people in New Jersey told us you would live. “Oh, five to eight years, max, for a Dane,” they said, nodding their heads in unison.

You nearly made it to twelve. And you’ve been part of our family since you were 9 months old.

I remember the first time I saw you. The Great Dane Nazis had me browse through photos of prospective adoptions online. I sifted through pic after pic, mesmerized by the giants that I saw, their large jowls dripping with drool, perky ears alert. And then I saw you. “Oh no! NOT THAT ONE. She looks insane,” I mumbled, taking in your bright golden eyes, gleaming black coat, floppy ears, and huge Gene Simmons’ style tongue as it dangled a good six inches from your mouth.

Imagine my surprise when we drove over into south Jersey and there you were, all 148 pounds of you, 100% full of puppy energy and glee, sporting spinning eyes and a lollygagging tongue.

Your official pedigree name was Not So Shy Anna, but we decided it would be awkward to stand at the back door and holler out that long of a name. So we shortened it to Shy Anne. Never was a dog more wrongly named. You were not shy. Not in the least. We discovered your great love of crotch sniffing almost immediately.

You were my first dog. I’ve always had cats (you were obliged to share our domicile with three cats – and you did so admirably) – but I’d never had a dog. Go big or go home must have been the motto lurking about in my psyche.

I remember taking you to obedience school. Our graduation photo showed well-mannered pups all sitting in a row, smiling owners beside their pets . . . and me. Tugging on your leash. Trying to get you to SIT STILL and not drag me into another wall.

I don’t know if I ever told you why we started searching for you, Shy. There were break-ins in our nice neighborhood. Lots of them. I mean, we live near a country club for God’s sake, but I guess the robbery gangs took that into account and decided to go big or go home, and go big they did.

So we sat down as a family and decided that we wanted a dog that was large enough to scare the poo out of strangers but sweet enough to be gentle with Carter and Zak. Zakky wasn’t yet 2 years old and Carter was 6 when we brought you home that day. I was worried how you would react with them. I needn’t have been concerned. You were the Queen of Sugar. I think you fell in love with them that first night. The only Shy damage Zak ever endured was a small welt on his legs, caused by over-wagging of your massive tail. He cried, and said you were a bad dog, and then I think you licked him to death and he forgave you instantly. See, we got you to be our family dog and to love, but we also brought you into our home for protection. And protection you provided, in spades.

You nipped the nice man that tried to help me start the mower one sunny day. “She doesn’t bite, right?” he asked nervously, giving you a side eyeball. You were barking at him like he was a piece of bacon wielding a sword. You thought he was dangerous, and tasty, all at the same time. As you hadn’t ever bitten anyone, I blew off his concerns and thanked him for giving my mower aid. Two inches of hair hackles raised up on your neck as you circled him at a run . . . and then dive bombed him, and bit him squarely on the ass. “Thank you!” I squeaked out meekly as he ran for his life, one hand firmly on his buttocks.

Then there was the FedEx guy – the newbie in training. Daddy told him to wait, to not come into the yard. He didn’t listen. I’m so thankful we didn’t get sued.

I remember the time that I was in Philly for work, Daddy was in Maryland, and we both got calls from the security company. Our alarm was blaring and cops were at the house. I guess you decided you needed to go outside (understandable, since Daddy forgot to let you out to pee!!) and you halfway opened the back door with your nose and set off the alarm.

“Um, officer?” I said to the cop on the phone, as I flew down I-76 at 80 mph trying to get back to you, “Could you do me a favor and reach your hand in there and open the door all the way so Shy Anne can get out? She really needs to pee.”

“Ma’am!” his voice boomed over the speaker, “No offense, but there is NO WAY IN HELL I am reaching inside the house toward that dog!” He told me you were up on your hind legs, eyes blazing, enormous teeth on display, with murder in your eyes.

“Do you think someone got in?” I asked stupidly. The officer chuckled, then responded. “Trust me. Nothing got past that dog, Ma’am.”

You protected us fiercely – against UPS drivers, FedEx drivers, The Dude (aka The Postman That May Have Had a Bong In His Postal Truck), potential robbers, ne’er do wellers, other neighbors, the wind, swirling leaves, thunder, fireworks, and most importantly, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons.
Job well done, my sweet girl.

And you didn’t want to give up. When the doctor gave you the sedative, she told us it would take five minutes to calm you down . . . but you fought it. You fought it so hard. Your panting finally slowed, and you sank to your belly in the shaded grass underneath the huge tree in the backyard, your long, elegant paws stretched out in front of you.

You were our protector, always.

My favorite part of your body was your ears. We didn’t clip them – they were floppy and velvety soft, warm and utterly glorious. I loved every part of you, but I loved your ears the most. I loved how you would saunter up during Saturday morning breakfast, eyeball level with my plate of bacon, and nudge your nose under my arm, nearly flipping me out of my chair. You would stare at me, eyeball to eyeball, nose to nose, and then lick my nose after I asked, “What do you want?” Every. Saturday.

You went through approximately 24 beds in your 11.75 year life. Like clockwork, every few months I would buy a new human-sized bed for you. My wood floors are deeply scarred from your nails and near rotted from your drool. The drapes are currently at the cleaners but may not be salvageable. I scrubbed the walls clean of your streaks and dirt. It took a full three hours of deep cleaning and a whole bottle of cleaning fluid. Multiple swipes of microfiber and Windex finally freed the windows and back door of your nose imprints and congealed snot balls. And all I could think of as I scrubbed and swiped was, “This means she is gone.”

When I would come home, weary from travel, often in the wee hours of the morning, who would be at the door with a huge smile and a kiss? My husband? My children? NAY. It was YOU, Puppy. Always you. Always first. Always ready to greet me and genuinely happy to see me. Even when your eyes clouded over and you were nearly blind at the end, and it took massive effort to hoist yourself up from bed number 4,382, you were still first in line.

You murdered our grandfather clock. Jumped right over it and it slammed down on the floor so hard I thought a bomb had exploded. That innocent clock is now a mangled jumble of metal and wood.

You used to spring straight up in the air as if you were a marionette on strings and the master puppeteer had yanked you skyward. You totally freaked out that mean lady that lives behind us and threatened to call the cops about your incessant barking. And the mean lady that used to live around the corner who complained that you had busted through the invisible fence. (My response was the International Middle Finger of Love.) And that other mean lady further down on Wetherburn Drive who shook her fist at me from the front seat of her Mercedes when she saw you jump five feet straight up in the air.

We had a lot of mean ladies around here, but you outlasted them all.

We used to walk almost daily, round and round the neighborhood. Then, around age 8, you pulled your hips out and scared me to death. You cried and limped and I wanted nothing other than to save you pain. X rays showed your hip had slipped out of socket. The docs gave us paid meds and shook their heads.

And then, miraculously, you started feeling better. Nearly four years later, you had pain, I’m sure, but we managed it with pills. I remember you pushing yourself up from the floor, front muscles straining, long legs extended, and finally your hindquarters would obey and follow suit.

I asked the vet many times if you were ok. I didn’t want to be selfish and keep you alive just so I wouldn’t be sad. It came down to a quality of life issue, he said. And by all measurable signs, your quality of life was pretty darn fantastic.

So we moved forward as a family.

And then, last Monday, I saw that blood in your stool. And then it doubled, and doubled again, and I knew.

I’d never had to put an animal to sleep. I’ve been lucky, I guess, because I’ve had many cats that lived many decades and they passed away quietly when they were ready.

It was so hard to watch you go. I’m slapping tears from my face as I type this.

I picked up your ashes last night, sweet girl. You’re in a beautiful cedar box and I put you in our living room. All I could think of was how happy you would be to come back home. When we boarded you at the kennel, you always became so anxious on the drive home, whining as we rounded the corner to the driveway, springing from the back of the car with sheer joy, bounding onto the grass, landing on your back and sticking those thoroughbred legs in the air.

Even though you can’t revel in the grass any longer, you’re home, and you’re here to stay.

Everywhere I look, I see a void, because you aren’t here. I still get up thinking, “I need to go feed Shy.” I had to stop myself from buying a ton of hamburger and rice at the grocery store, because you aren’t here to eat it. We took a family trip to Pittsburgh to visit potential colleges for Carter, and I kept thinking we needed to get home so you could go outside, but we didn’t, and you couldn’t.

I want you to know you were loved – purely and thoroughly. You were a big dog with a huge life and a heart that was a bottomless vat of love and loyalty for your family.

You were a good dog. Such a good dog.

Goodbye, my Puppy. I miss you. I love you.