Dogs have a way of weaving themselves into the fabric of our daily lives before we realize how much of that thread is actually fur. You know dog owners by their home décor: dog beds, dog bowls, chew toys, leashes, random sticks and balls, all in and around the home provide a lovely complement to the dog hair embellishments. Pup parents do not care what others think when it comes to their fur-baby because the connection is deeper than we realize; our dogs take care of us as much as we take care of them.
It took us a couple years after we lost our beloved dog Pete before we even entertained the thought of having another. Pete was a giant lab-Dane mixed breed, gentle and meek. Before him was Tess, a yellow English lab, ditzy and protective. Beacon and Emme were a male and female dalmatian pair. Beacon could open any door, cabinet, or drawer, even the refrigerator. Emme would supervise him and quickly partake of any treasures he would uncover. These four-legged critters became our children from day one; we cared for them just the same as our actual two-legged children who were born some 17 years into our marriage.
Pete and Tess were elderly when our children arrived. I didn’t think anything of their age until one day the kids saw someone throwing a ball for a young pup and it raced with lightning speed to retrieve it. Our kids were in awe; they thought every dog had arthritis and diabetes with top speed being a shuffle. I realized that our offspring missed experiencing puppyhood and the various stages of a dog’s life, not just the elder years.
After being on the watch for the perfect pup for a long while, I stumbled on a Facebook post with pups matching our criteria: short haired, medium build and intelligent. The sire was a border collie, and the dame was a red heeler mix. This pup had the usual black and white markings of his dad, but the sturdy build of his mom.
I was familiar with the traits of different breeds but wasn’t ready for the unrelenting drive of a herding dog. Our kids quickly realized how sharp puppy teeth are and what the phrase “nipping at your heels” meant. Our daughter took to wearing her winter boots 24/7 as protection against this carpet shark we brought home. Those boots were shredded within a month.
Taking the advice of trainers, we committed to teaching this pup proper behavior by first establishing dominance. Basically, showing him a pecking order and that we were family, not sheep to be herded from room to room. He learned quickly and before too long we noticed his true personality emerging. He had cat-like abilities. He pounced like a fox when we’d go for walks, attempting to catch a mouse or rabbit. He loved snow, hated rain, and loathed wind.
At night, he would do what can be described as a bed check. He’d walk to each room, taking stock of who was there, and move to the next room until everyone was accounted for. He loved when the kids would have sleepovers; extra people to watch over put him in his element. He would bed down in-between them all and would not move until they woke.
We never trained him to stay in our unfenced yard, he just did.
He could walk without being leashed, he understood voice commands, he just knew things. He knew us. If he needed to go out at night, he came to my side of the bed, stomped his paw making a click-clack sound with his nails against the hardwood floor until I got up.
And he was terrified of sneezes. As soon as someone would begin taking a few quick breaths pre-sneeze and reach for a tissue, he would scamper to a hiding spot, usually the closet, under the desk, or sometimes in the shower. Many people offered to take him if we ever decided to rehome him; that would be unthinkable, he was part of us.
The reality of saying goodbye hit us like a freight train when we learned he had incurable cancer that had progressed beyond treatments. Until that point, he was asymptomatic with only a slight limp; otherwise, he was normal. He began to decline slowly at first, then right into what seemed like a freefall. We had traveled this path before with the other dogs. Even with the best care, his days were numbered.
While traveling with our daughter for sports I received a message from my husband; it was time. I spent the day holding back tears and keeping the news to myself until we were safely away from the crowds. The heartbreak of his loss hit hard, and when we made it home, he wasn’t there waiting as he had been for the past nine years.
Grief wrapped itself around my chest, but tears would not form, the weight of them tied to the emotion was smothering. When I suddenly felt the initial twinge of a sneeze forming, out of habit of consoling him I said, “It’s alright, it’s just a sneeze.” The release of the sneeze triggered the flow of tears that had been dammed up within my grief. Each tear drop carried a memory of a devoted, loyal, and trusted companion. Waves of emotion marked the loss that continued to pull at my heartstrings. I harkened back to the day we brought him home, deciding on a name. His name would remind us of his place within the fabric of our family and intertwined with our heartstrings — Tug.