Story originally printed in the Tomah Journal or online at www.tomahjournal.com
Published - Sunday, May 18, 2008
Column: The passing of canine companion
It was no doubt destiny that caused a cute black Labrador puppy to slide a wet, pink tongue across the face of my 10-year-old daughter on an August day in 1995.
That was the day that Alexis n whom we called Alex n became a part of the Hardie household. That black bundle of energy and sometimes utter frustration became family.
My wife Sherry and I put up a good fight as our daughter Jessica begged and pleaded to get a dog. She said she would take care of it and we wouldn’t have to do anything. She even purchased a leash out of her own allowance money and put on a heart-wrenching performance as she sat on our front porch, leash in hand, with a forlorn look on her face. We caved in. She got Alex.
Jessica tried, but after about a week of cleaning up messes and dealing with the needle-like teeth of her puppy, Alex became the family dog. Mainly my dog, since I was the one who took her outside most often.
That was nearly 13 years ago. The kids are grown up and moved out. Alex stayed with her empty nest adoptees and was enjoying her senior years living in the country, where there are many opportunities on a farm to find rotten stuff to roll in, as Labs love to do.
Alex was a purebred and probably would have made an excellent hunting dog. I say probably because I had neither the time nor the patience to train her. The extent of her training was to fetch and then spend time running around with the item in her mouth. She knew how to retrieve, but certainly didn’t know how to return.
Alex was a smart dog though and quickly became housebroken. We feared that she would chew on all our furniture, so we confined her mainly to the kitchen, where she took out her chewing on the walls, woodwork, cupboards and pretty much anything she could sink her teeth into. It wasn’t until we allowed her in the rest of the house that she stopped chewing, much to our relief. She obviously was lonesome and needed to be with the rest of the family.
Before we moved to the country, we’d often come to the farm and work on weekends. Alex loved coming with n especially when she got to ride in the truck -- and running unleashed. One morning in early spring I was talking with my Dad in the barn when Alex came bursting through and dove into a green pool of liquid that had gathered beneath the barn cleaner. After a couple of gulps, she jumped out.
“Alex, what did you do?” I asked with heavy rhetoric. Those floppy ears that always seemed to be harboring some sort of infection lifted and she jumped back in for an encore performance. I dragged her into the milk house and she had several baths before heading home.
Alex was a part of the family and has become part of many family stories. The kids grew up with her. They have their own stories to tell.
A year ago Alex got sick. She emptied her stomach repeatedly and stopped eating and drinking. Tests showed kidney failure. I thought that was the last we’d ever see of her. Much to my surprise, the vet called the next day and told me to come and pick her up because Alex was sufficiently re-hydrated and she had tried to bite the help. Alex didn’t like vets.
Last fall Alex came down with a form of dog vertigo and she couldn’t stand or walk. She lost some strength in her back legs and her hips were weak. She had a problem with steps. On bad mornings I carried her up the stairs. We put in a carpet runner and she didn’t slip and slide as much.
We joked that Alex had as many lives as a cat, but over the past few months she started the wheeze and gasp, as her lung capacity diminished. Her once loud bark was a shadow of its former self. Her mobility became even more restricted.
Last week, Alex became sicker. The messes were frequent as she lost control of her functions. It was time. The vet confirmed what we knew had to be done.
On her last morning, I stroked her fur and she wagged her tail. She lifted her head off the rug and looked at me. Her eyes told me she understood.
Later that day Alex got one last glorious ride in the back of my truck, her ears flopping in the wind as she tried to stand. With her head in Sherry’s lap and her memory always in our hearts, Alex left us. No pain and no suffering. The way it should be.
The house seems much quieter now. We miss Alex a lot, but life goes on and we’ll enjoy not being tied down as much for a while.
Alex is buried by our garden, next to a new apple tree. In a few years that tree will bloom and bear fruit. Maybe someday I’ll give a bite of apple to a grandchild and tell them great stories about an old dog named Alex.
Chris Hardie is publisher of the weekly and shopper division of the River Valley Newspapers Group.
All stories copyright 2006 Tomah Journal and other attributed sources.