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Writer's pictureJeh Bruce

A "ruff" couple of years

Updated: Dec 27, 2021

As I've mentioned before, I love dogs (if pressed, that even includes my sister's "snot & fart cannon" pug). It is so hard to lose them, but that's sadly always a given, due to the difference in our lifespans. Years ago, after the death of Max (see an earlier blog post), a friend, Jordan Christiansen, sent me the below passage, by Irving Townsend, from "The Once Again Prince," which, several years later, I added to a photo-shopped image of a dog-shaped cloud I happened across. Townsend perfectly sums up the situation, the heartbreak and the hope, far better than anyone else I know and I, in turn, have passed this image along to countless others who've suffered the loss of a beloved dog or cat.

Over my lifetime I've lost a lot of four-footers--it sadly comes with the territory, but as Townsend says, I "still would live no other way": I can never see my life without sharing it with dogs and other "non-humans". The pandemic only brought this home for so many, who rushed to adopt companion animals to help them through lock-down (and, typical of feckless humans, are returning these animals to shelters in droves now that many believe the worst of the pandemic is over). When the pandemic hit, I had a "full house": six dogs. One, Miles, an elderly mini Schnauzer, had ongoing and serious medical issues (chronic dry eye which led to corneal ulcers, one so serious, despite aggressive treatment, it required a corneal graft; squamous cell cancer, which fortunately was caught while still limited to a front toe, and which was stopped in its tracks by having the toe amputated; a heart murmur, arthritis and hyper-lipidemia). I went into the pandemic worried about vet visits--could I be with him? The vets said no to any routine or follow-up visits, of which there were many, and so during his visits to his ophthalmologist, his oncologist, his orthopedic surgeon, he went in carried by a vet tech while I remained in the car.


He overcame every critical situation thrown at him with grace and stoic dignity. The staff at the specialty clinic adored him because he was so easy to work with, and each time he went in for a dressing change to the toe-amputated foot, he'd be returned to me with a fresh bandage decorated with doggie paws (one minus a toe!) and his name spelled out in Coban. Anyone who has worked with Coban knows that to take on such a task is not only an act of great affection but also a project fraught with frustration. And this went on for a month, with dressing changes three times a week. While Miles likely didn't appreciate what a labor of love these decorated dressings represented, I did. He was my rock.


On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, 2020, our luck and his fortitude ran out. He was 17--old for a Schnauzer, doubly so with his medical history.


I adopted him from a "high-kill shelter" as he'd supposedly bitten a child. Because his ears weren't cropped and he was a dark chocolate brown, no one at the shelter realized he was a Schnauzer. He'd been a Christmas puppy, who, once the holidays were over and he lost his cute puppy look, was relegated to a back yard or worse, and likely harassed by the very child he supposedly bit. Fortunately I found him just before he was put down. He was about 9 months old at the time, and in the following 16+ years he never showed any aggression towards anyone, no matter what they did to him. He also never played with toys--a lingering symptom of a puppyhood denied him. He was the sweetest, most gentle soul you'd ever want to meet. Thankfully, I was able to be with him when he left me for the final time. That had always been a major fear of mine, that this awful pandemic would force me to hand him over to virtual strangers at the end and I will be forever grateful that didn't happen, and it was quick and painless. He'd lived a full life and was ready to go.


A few months later, in May of 2021, I noticed a lump on the belly of another of my dogs, Mandy, and like Miles, a mini Schnauzer. By the time I'd discovered it, it was too late. It had metastasized. The vet gave her a month, most likely less. Mandy had other ideas. She remained true to her firecracker, bigger than life diva personality right up until the end. In fact the morning I had her put down, she was out in the yard, barking at the squirrels, giving them one last what for.

This is my favorite picture of her, one a friend said reminded her of an Ewok, from Star Wars. Mandy had been found as a year-old (or so) in a dumpster in a nearby town, along with her days-old puppy. A woman walking by heard a noise from the dumpster, was too afraid to look herself and so called the police. Mandy and her pup were then turned over to a rescue. I got Mandy; her pup went to another home. I have no idea what her life was like before I got her, but like Miles, she held no ill-will towards humans, despite being left in a dumpster to die. Unlike Miles, she was always up for a game of fetch, or to pounce on unsuspecting toys then give them a good shake, which suggests that at least for a time she was loved and cared for by someone. She quickly became the resident expert in de-squeaking dog toys, and in record time. She liked to snuggle under the covers at night, and to stretch out in the sun on summer afternoons, and most of all, she loved chasing the birds and squirrels. She never caught anything, but that was not for lack of trying.


Mandy had such a zest for life, was just so happy and loving. I didn't want her to suffer, and the cancer was spreading. Her belly started getting distended. She could no longer jump up onto the bed. I wanted her to leave this plane of existence while she still had quality of life, so on 4 September, at the age of 13, with a belly full of her favorite snacks and far exceeding the vet's prognosis, I had her put down. And again, I was with her, holding her, talking to her and staring into her trusting brown eyes...until her heart stopped. After that the house seemed so quiet, so...well dark, in so many ways. For weeks my other dogs kept looking for her--she was their alpha and they were as lost without her as I was.


I've lost friends to this awful pandemic, though death due to the virus itself before there was a vaccine, to suicide due to the never-ending, soul-destroying strain of caring for people who vehemently swear the pandemic is all a hoax--many right up until they are intubated, and one now ex-friend who fell willing, dare I say eager prey to all the insane conspiracy theories about the vaccine. All were hard and painful losses, but I readily admit, losing Mandy and Miles hit me the hardest. I had spent almost every minute of the pandemic with them; they were my constant companions, my confidants, a reason not to give up hope. They had been with me through the toughest times of my life, always a comforting presence no matter how bleak things looked, or in fact were.


I hadn't planned on getting another dog. I have four, all "senior" and after two such personally devastating losses in less than a year, I felt it was for the best. But then I was notified of a dog in desperate need, a terrier mix, about 18 months old, who'd been surrendered to the local shelter by her owners, and she'd arrived very pregnant, an eerie echo of Mandy, but at least her former owners had the decency to surrender her, rather than dumping her like so much trash. I gave myself permission to say no when I went to meet her. I thought if I was going to get another dog, I wanted to get another Schnauzer, or a Scottie and one no one else wanted, maybe an older dog surrendered by its even more elderly owner. Then I met her, and...well, that was that. I mean, who with a beating heart could say no to those eyes? I named her "Tig", after a character in one of my novels, and within a few hours of arriving at her new home she acted like this had always been her home.

She looks like an overly large Yorkshire terrier on stilts. She's tall and gangly and an absolute a love-bug. Better, she adores my other dogs, plays with all of them and cuddles with them at night. At first my cadre of elderly gentlemen weren't quite sure what to think of this wild young lady with the grizzled Mohawk, but within a day or two they were as smitten with her as she was with them. They are playing like they haven't in years, chasing each other and acting like they are pups themselves rather than senior citizens like their human companion. Even I've gotten into the fun and games, tossing a ball for her (she still hasn't quite grasped the concept of fetching it), and playing tug 'em toy with a knotted rope she carries with her everywhere (including to bed at night).


Sometimes the best cure for what ails one feeling one's age is an infusion of young blood. Tig isn't Mandy. She isn't Miles. She's her own dog with her own quirks and likes and fears. Just as it should be. No pet brought into a home who has just suffered the loss of another pet should be looked upon as a "replacement". They need to be given the freedom to be who they are and not live in the shadow of another. That said, there are just too many dogs and cats in desperate need of homes, and too many humans in need of a friend, a confidant, and not just during a pandemic. Just make sure, if you do decided to adopt, that it's for life. Companion animals aren't disposable and the life you save might be your own.




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