dear shane

Dear Shane,

You were born on June 14th, 2003. Your mom was a lady, certified and beautiful. She gave you your beautiful brown eyes, and classic frame. Your dad, unknown and a bit of a rascal, gave you your smile, blond roots, and the spots on your tongue.

You found Grams at the Main Street Arts festival in Fort Worth. We were there to find an art piece, ideally the size of the couch, but took home a 7 pd. Rottweiler mutt puppy instead. She said you curled into her hand, fitting just over her heart as you rested your head on her shoulder. A man there also wanted to take you home, to guard his space and stuff. Mom just wanted you.

You first met me, and neither one of us knew what to make of the other. You were all ears and paws, and I had been told I was only supposed to deliver you back to Grams. After I put you on your leash and led you back to the car, you curled into the front seat like a soft puddle of dark night. I remember your yawn, the flash of tiny teeth and rush of sweet puppy breath. My heart was lost then.

I thought you would sleep on the way home, but you quietly crept into my lap each time I tried to return you to your spot. Looking out the window, your nose pointed and twitched, and I saw the beautiful, strong frame you’d eventually grow into.

Scout, the cat, hunted you when we got home. One morning, I skipped into the backyard and you tumble-trotted after. Scout, grey, stripped and so curious, stalked after like a lost raincloud on the green grass. She taught you to respect those smaller than you, and how to play with things sleeker and more skilled with claws.

Your first seizure terrified me. I was at work, and Grams called. She said you grew still, then dizzy. I came in the door to see you, snarling silently, back bowing. And I rushed to try to ease you to the floor as you lost consciousness. I stroked your lush fur, singing You Are My Sunshine as we waited for you to come back to us. I’d’ve followed you, if I’d known where you went then.

Grams and I searched for information about seizures and big dogs and other things which might hurt you in the future as if we could save you just by knowing more. Dr. Pipes gave you small, white pills in copper colored plastic bottles. And they helped; you were back with us.

You grew barrel-chested, bow-legged and dignified. One of your favorite spots became the doorway to the media room, with your paws stretched out, freshly groomed and cleaned, the way Scout taught you. Your head raised and ears perked, you looked like the dogs in paintings too dignified and pretty for modern life. You were such a gentleman.

Your face grew grey, then whiter as time passed. Your eyes, still clearly brown and so dark, seemed richer as you aged. More bowlegged as arthritis bit at your hips, you moved slower, and less, with more intention. I grumbled as you started taking up the doorway. But secretly, your big shoulders looked like gentler Rocky Mountains, and there was a comfort in climbing over you.

I came home yesterday morning to find you hadn’t moved the entire time I’d been at work. Your full, bushy tail dusted the floor almost absently when I stroked your face, asking what was going on. Dr. Pipes thought the rain may have made your bones ache.

You got up to get a drink and fell last night. And I cried inside my head when I noticed you couldn’t move your back legs at all. You coughed, sounding like a cat with a hairball. And although the rain eased this morning, you didn’t move. Or eat.

We went to see Dr. Pipes. You’re so big now, I had to have help lifting you into your spot in the trunk of our PT Cruiser. I wrapped the blankets we used as slings around you, trying not to notice your eyes differently dilated or how the smell of sick, wrong-ness clung to your fur.

You've spent most of the week there now. They took X-rays and blood. You were drugged and slept on a mat. And I prayed you could come home with me, able to walk again and sit for your cheese and cookies. But as time passed, the more I prayed you'd hurt less.

I suspect you knew how hard it would be for me to let you go. Ever the gentleman, you closed your eyes and went where I could not follow about an hour ago.

Because you were, are, shall be my sunshine and my therapy.