Ernie came into my life seven years ago. A couple years before that, I had to put our Rottweiler friend, Bertha, down. I loved that dog. Immensely. I swore that I would never own another dog. Ever. No way. Wasn't going to happen. Nope. Nuh-uh.
Two years later, Mark and I were driving home and someone had puppies romping in a pen with a For Sale sign hanging on the post. We stopped. They were super cute and I surprisingly felt a tug on my heart. I told Mark that I thought I might be ready for a new dog. We asked the breeder if she had any Rotts or knew of anyone who bred them. She took our info, emailed us some pics and a few months later our Ernie flew in from Oklahoma.
Of course it was love at first sight.
Ernie kinda sorta resembled an animation. I swear to you, he was always smiling. Cracked me up. His eyes would smile, he would grin, roll his tongue out, wag his stump of a tail and promptly back up and sit on your feet. The dog was obsessed with his butt. Demands for butt rubbing were given to visitors. Feet were made for sitting on and there was no way to convince him differently. If you sat on the ground, he would sit on you. All the better for him if he was the one to knock you down. There was a time last summer that he rammed me so hard that my knee hyperextended. I was instantly on the ground, bawling like a little school girl. Ernie was so excited to have me in his territory that he promptly grinned from ear to ear, backed up and sat his big old 100 pound butt right on my chest. Great. I couldn't breathe, my knee was destroyed, I was bawling and laughing and howling and poor Mark didn't know what the crap to do for me.
This Fall, Ernie developed a limp. I wasn't horribly worried. Nebo (my Rhodesian Ridgeback grand puppy) had come to visit. He and Ernie loved to romp in the back yard. Because Nebo is a little more light on his feet, I figured Ernie had simply overdone it. Time passed and his limp didn't improve. We looked at his paw. We felt his leg. We stretched and pulled and examined and prodded and poked and found nothing. We figured he had done "something" and the continued stress of his weight was somehow preventing the healing.
A few weeks ago, we decided to take Ernie to get x-rays and find out what the crap was going on. Mark took him to our vet. They x-rayed and questioned and discussed and diagnosed. Bone cancer. Man, I'm starting to hate that vet.
Dr. Park wasn't too hip on the options available. This was a fast growing cancer and throwing money at the problem wouldn't make it go away and most likely wouldn't extend his life. He would just be sick and miserable and there was NO WAY that I wanted that for my pup. We took him home.
I watched my dog decline. I monitored his every sound and his every movement. I gauged his eating, his sleeping, his chewing of the bones, his pain pill intake, his "going outside" routine; if he did it, I watched it. Friday morning rolled around and I knew. I bawled and bawled and bawled and called STUPID Park Animal Hospital.
At 4:30 in the afternoon, Mark and I said good-bye to my furry friend. The room echoed with my sobs as I gripped Marks leg so he could hold my dog. And I felt that familiar pain.
If you are a pet lover, you know exactly what I mean. Ernie was a listening ear, a companion, a friend, a no-nonsense-I-love-you-unconditionally comrade. I miss my dog.
