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Not too many months ago, Moira lost her little old dachshund, Darby, and if you subscribe to her blog, you know how difficult it's been. And then she found Tyler.
She has supplied a tender, touching story through a link to Joe Yonan, who writes that losing a dog is sometimes worse than losing a relative. Joe's dog was a red Doberman.
Among the many, my red Roxy, also a Doberman comes to mind. She was one of those dogs in my lifetime that was "ALL MINE". Totally devoted, totally willing to do anything I asked verbally or asked mentally of her. And maybe it was because she was an urgent rescue who knew I would take her out of the situation she was in.
Do you have a moment?
There was a guy three streets up who lived near friends. He was taking care of a Doberman (Roxy), for a friend, but she wouldn't stay in the unfenced yard with his Chows, and preferred the company of the neighborhood children. So he told my friend Sarah, he was going to shoot her. But he did this often. He would get dogs, and they wouldn't stay in the yard and there'd be a gunshot, and then no more dog the next day.
Sarah was beside herself. I told her I knew a couple looking for a dog who would have a few acres to run on and horses to care for. I called them and they told me they'd take her. I thought it would be a good match.
I went to Sarah's and the grandkids walked me down to the trailer. I walked up to the steps and from underneath came raging out - an open mouth and teeth. I did not sit down on the steps.
But I did think for a few seconds, and went home and made a ham and Swiss sandwich with lots of mayo on rye bread. That dog and I were going to have lunch. A bite at a time. And then I'd slip the leash on her and off we'd go.
I went back. I sat on the steps. Once again, teeth. So I opened the waxes paper and held a hunk of sandwich in my right hand. Nothing. I sat back and there was the Doberman, gently eating the remaining piece of sandwich in my left hand so quietly and daintily, she was as good as any pickpocket. I clipped the leash to her collar, and after she finished the sandwich, we got in the truck.
She was thin and dull-coated. We drove to her prospective owners' home, and no one was home.
So down the road to home we went. By the time I stopped in front of the gate, this dainty, elegant dog had won my heart. Never in the world did I think I'd fall for a Doberman, but by the time we reached the wellhouse, I knew she'd never call anyplace else home.
I took a careful look at her.
She was heavily peppered with a tiny flea that lives in crawl spaces. They bury their heads and you have to pull each one out. I got out an aerosol pesticide - the only thing I had on hand and sprayed her. Dear God, I thought. Maybe it'll kill her! Johnny down the street had shown me these "chicken fleas" once on a pit bull bitch he'd rescued from a fight. She was in terrible shape, covered in these fleas, which were the least of her reasons for misery. She'd been a bait dog. A few months later, she was a beauty.
She let us pick every one of those awful parasites off with a sharp eye tweezer; between her toes and pads of her feet, her belly, everywhere. They were packed tight together. The process took weeks. Not one complaint.
My Uncle Joe used to raise Dobermans. Fierce Nina, black and rust, was confined to a chain during the day, and threatened anyone in her territory. But Roxy had the heart of a cinnamon roll, sweet as could be. Because of Nina, I never wanted a Doberman.
Roxy had a bad ear job and her ears stood out and flopped at the end. She had a very small tail.
We learned that she loved children; loved cats, loved dogs, loved people, loved rattly paper like candy wrappers. We also learned that she could snatch the proverbial candy from a baby without them knowing, very quietly. So we had to pass by strollers and toddlers carefully, but only because of food.
She could be taken everywhere, anywhere. The one thing she despised were the orange heads, large orange barrels with orange blinkers on them for road hazards. If she could have jumped out of the moving vehicle, I think she would have torn them to shreds.
Her favorite toy was a clean cotton mop. She delighted in throwing the strings up over her head and eyes.
When she became incontinent, I fashioned a diaper out of towels for her with diaper pins for the house. She was miserable. She had always laid at the foot of the bed under my feet. But even with the diapers, she would leak. So I had a talk with her. We made a deal. A real talk...Really!
I said, "Roxy, I know you hate your diaper, so how about this. You can lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, and I will make you a soft bed of your own I can wash and dry every day and you won't have to wear the diaper." And that was that. She never complained, and I am sure she missed lying under my feet as much as I missed her there.
Something was wrong one day - remember, we never knew how hold she was. We'd had her 7 years I think. She was showing signs of cardiac distress and fluid buildup. I think her kidneys were failing as well. She was frightened and ill. She looked up with such trust and pain in her eyes, and we put her down. She had become frail and had stopped eating.
Her ashes were spread on the dog path and with her friends who had passed. She's here in the yard, part of the blueberries and the flowers, the grapevines, the trees; all that is beautiful in this part of the yard.
I miss her still. I miss her shining eyes, the love in them. All dogs love you in their own way.
She knew what I was thinking before I thought it, and anticipated what would come. She was always grateful for the smallest touch. She loved lying across my lap. I would smile into her face and she knew she was in good grace. Unconditional love. More important than anything in this world. Love without reservation. Loyalty. Courage if necessary. She'd take her nose and bump my hand to have it land on her head. A million times. I miss that. It was natural.
My red Roxy.
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