~ submitted by Tracy Thorleifson
On Monday I said goodbye to part of my family and one of my best friends. At 11.5 Sammy had developed severe orthopedic issues, front and rear, and could no longer stand, sit, or walk unassisted and would not eat except when I hand fed him. It was time. I spent much of the weekend and all day Monday either crying or denying. The vet came to my house and the end came quickly. It was, I suppose, a good death as such things go, but he is still gone.
One friend, veteran of many more losses than I, commented that at such times there is nothing unique to say. She is, of course, right. For all of us to live and to love dogs inevitably invites loss and grief, sooner or later. While there may be nothing unique to say, I am resisting the idea that my pain is not unique. It is my grief, my loss, my friend and constant companion who is gone – and Sammy was unique. The place in my heart that was his, was his alone. The individual that was Sammy is irreplaceable.
A trainer once aptly described Sam as a 220 amp dog in a 110 amp world. Endlessly enthusiastic and intense, Sammy lived and loved fiercely. He was my first show dog, my first AKC champion, my first obedience dog, my first Novice A title. Most improbably, he was my first (and likely only) High In Trial obedience dog, winning at the 2002 Briard National Specialty by qualifying when far better dogs NQ’ed. He was my entree to the dog community and many of my current friends were met through him.
Happiest when at my side – and always in the same room with me – Sammy and I had reached that stage in our relationship where we knew each others’ faults and no longer tried to change them. I accepted that he would bark long and loud if left outside, fence fight with the neighbor’s dog if allowed, and chase any cat who had the bad sense to be visible on our walks. He accepted that breakfast would inevitably be late on weekends, and that the younger dogs went to class while he stayed home. It was both comfortable and predictable. The crinkle of unwrapping cheese and the hiss of whipped cream in cans brought him running and steak or chicken for dinner meant excellent table scraps. He liked Brie cheese and pasta with pesto sauce. Baby gates were objects of suspicion and accorded great respect, while fireworks and thunder storms were endlessly terrifying. Even at 85 lbs and 27+ inches tall he thought he was a lap dog, and often spent evenings on the sofa next to me.
There will be other dogs. There are other dogs. Ellie, who is 9 and now practically perfect, is a constant comfort. At ten months, Griffey is still carving his own place in my heart. But they are not Sammy and even with their presence the house is quiet. The place next to my bed is empty and no dog lies beneath my desk as I type.
There is nothing unique to say yet everything about this loss is unique. I miss. Right now I think I always will.
