"Your dog is your friend, your partner, your defender. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion." - Unknown
"You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us." – Robert Louis Stevenson
From Becky: Early Wednesday morning Jess indicated to me that it was time for him to move on. Saying good bye to Jess was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. His passing was peaceful, a good end to an excellent life.
Jess was one of the smartest dogs I've ever met - also one of the quirkiest. He liked agility but what he really enjoyed was playing the games within the game. One of his favorites was his "Gotcha" game. While I was clearly signaling the correct obstacle on a course, he would take off running for a different obstacle. Then, at the last possible moment, he would turn quickly away from the off course to the obstacle I wanted, tail wagging merrily.
He was also quite literal. If I called a tunnel a tire, he would stop in his tracks and look for the correct obstacle, sometimes going all the way across the field to find it (we did a lot of "silent running").
I think Jess's favorite joke occurred at our first AKC trial. Jess was about eight when we started in AKC and he was running in Masters in USDAA and Elite in NADAC. The AKC Standard courses were much easier then. Jess came out of our first run looking very surprised - a "that was it?" look on his face. The Standard course the next day was pretty basic with the table about halfway. Jess always enjoyed watching the dogs before him run and this day was no exception. The first half of the course went well and then we got to the table. It was a down on the table. Jess hopped up on the table, flopped over on his side and pretended to go to sleep. When the judge finished the count, he got up, yawned, stretched, shook himself and then took off and ran the rest of the course, clean, completely by himself (the judge and I were still at the table, with dropped jaws). Jess got a 1st & Q and was very pleased with himself.
Jess will be greatly missed. I feel honored to have been his partner in life.
Amber was a tough old girl and hung in there much longer than we ever thought she would, having survived several cancers that would have done most dogs in. I sat in the backseat with Amber, and she ate treats all the way to the vet's office. She never lost her appetite, but then, that's a Ridgeback for ya! I'm sure if I had offered her a pumpkin pie at that point she would have eaten the whole thing, too (and a bag of flour if it was available). As Dr. Nairn told me, relieving your pet of their suffering is the most loving thing you can do, but it sure is hard on us. She said Mario was probably waiting for her, barking the whole time. I learned so much from Amber - she was the one who truly converted me to clicker training. I didn't know anything about dog training and was taking a lure/reward class with her, but we didn't seem to be getting anywhere (mainly due to my lack of skills/knowledge and not because she was a "stubborn" Ridgeback). I learned about clicker training and then started practicing with her, and suddenly it was like a light bulb went on in her head - "Oh, THAT'S what you're trying to communicate to me." My timing was definitely much better with the clicker and she suddenly knew what she was being reinforced for, and she LOVED training from that point on. When I was shaping a new behavior, she was often the first one to understand what I wanted and to perform the behavior with gusto. She came a long way from the scared little pup with huge paws when we first brought her home to our loving companion who loved to snuggle on the couch and be petted. We will miss her terribly, but at least she's not in pain any more.
Mario was a wild and crazy dog, and I loved him very much. He was the first dog I ever raised from puppyhood. I bought him for $8 after he and his littermates had been dumped out by the airport. He would have been a better-behaved dog if I had know what I was doing when I got him, but he was definitely a good-hearted dog. He loved everybody and wanted to give them all a big lick across the face, whether they wanted it or not. My friend, Debbi Bennett wrote a poem about him after he died that fit him perfectly:
An Ode to Mario
We met when you were nothing but fur and big ears You were a bright spot in my life for over 12 years. You were sweet, loud and goofy and brought Brenda great joy. She never dreamed her second kid would be a black boy!
You barked and you barked, no doubt about that And occasionally you were known to feast on a rat. It’s obvious you had an iron-like belly And strangely enough your head smelled like grape jelly.
One summer you farted all the way to the beach Not only did it stink but it made Kevin screech. Your affection could brighten a mood so blue And you were nice to your sisters when they weren’t nice to you!
I held your gray face the day before your last I was blessed to have been in your present and past. I know you’re making buddies wherever you are Just remember we love you and don’t stray too far. (And stay away from beach tar!)
They should come with a warning label, these creatures. They should come with a label that says you're going to fall hopelessly in love, only to have your heart shattered before you could ever possibly prepare. And then you face one of life's truly wrenching decisions. Which is where I am now. Specifically, as I type these words I am on the back deck of a rented house in Maine surrounded by fields and forest, watching a sleeping golden retriever named Harry drift another day closer to death. He is gorgeous, this dog, with a gray face that shows the wisdom gained from his 10 years on Earth and brown eyes that are the most thoughtful I've ever seen. He is sprawled out on the wood, his blond fur damp from his morning swim and his breathing labored from his disease. And I ponder the question that has dominated my thoughts for weeks: How will I know when the time is right? He arrived in my life nearly a decade ago on one of those storybook Christmas season nights that is too good to ever forget. He was a gift to my wife, and when she opened the box the tears that spilled down her face were those of joy. Women, of course, come and go, but dogs are forever, so when the marriage ended, Harry stayed with me. Since then, we've moved from Boston to Washington, D.C., and back again, fetched maybe a quarter of a million throws, walked, I would wager, over 10,000 miles together. He carried a tennis ball in his mouth for most of them, convinced that anyone who saw him would be duly impressed. And, judging by their reactions, he's right. Throughout, he has shown me sunrises and sunsets that I wouldn't otherwise have seen. He has taught me that snow is a gift, that the ocean is there for swimming, that the coldest winter mornings and the hottest summer days are never as bad as people say. He has introduced me to people, kind people, whom I otherwise wouldn't have met. He has forced me to take time every morning to contemplate the day ahead. With his tail-swishing swagger, he has taught me to slow down, to pause in an Esplanade field or on a Public Garden bench, the journey being as good as the destination. The big ruse, which I think he figured out years ago, was that all these walks were meant for him. He has been an anchor in bad times, a ballast amid occasional uncertainty, a dose of humility when things might be going a little too well. He has been a sanctuary, a confidant, and an occasional excuse. He regards it as his personal mission to make me laugh, whether by a ritualistic dance over a pig's ear or a gushing lick to my face. He's never once said the wrong thing, and it's impossible to be in a bad mood around him. All along, he lives by one simple mantra: Count me in. Anything I'm doing, he wants to do as well, no leash or nagging required. At home, he prefers to lie on the stoop of our condominium building, presiding over the world around him. His time, though, is fleeting, a fact that he's starting to understand. In April, his lifelong veterinarian, Pam Bendock, blinked back tears as she informed me that his stomach pains were caused by lymphoma. Several rounds of chemotherapy failed to do what was hoped. Two weeks ago, I stopped his treatments. These days, he has lost 10 pounds or more and can't keep food inside. He often wakes in the dark before dawn moaning softly in pain. But by daybreak, he is urging me toward the beach or guiding me on another walk, ball in mouth, ready to fetch, albeit slowly. Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit that a dog can change a man, but I'm not. So as the clock winds out on a life well lived, I look back at the lessons learned from this calm and dignified creature, lessons of temperance, patience, and compassion that will guide us to the end. And I look into those handsome brown eyes for the sign that the time has come. He'll give it to me, when he's ready. And hard as it will be, we'll both know the journey was better than we could have ever possibly hoped.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Amber was a tough old girl and hung in there much longer than we ever thought she would, having survived several cancers that would have done most dogs in. I sat in the backseat with Amber, and she ate treats all the way to the vet's office. She never lost her appetite, but then, that's a Ridgeback for ya! I'm sure if I had offered her a pumpkin pie at that point she would have eaten the whole thing, too (and a bag of flour if it was available). As Dr. Nairn told me, relieving your pet of their suffering is the most loving thing you can do, but it sure is hard on us. She said Mario was probably waiting for her, barking the whole time. I learned so much from Amber - she was the one who truly converted me to clicker training. I didn't know anything about dog training and was taking a lure/reward class with her, but we didn't seem to be getting anywhere (mainly due to my lack of skills/knowledge and not because she was a "stubborn" Ridgeback). I learned about clicker training and then started practicing with her, and suddenly it was like a light bulb went on in her head - "Oh, THAT'S what you're trying to communicate to me." My timing was definitely much better with the clicker and she suddenly knew what she was being reinforced for, and she LOVED training from that point on. When I was shaping a new behavior, she was often the first one to understand what I wanted and to perform the behavior with gusto. She came a long way from the scared little pup with huge paws when we first brought her home to our loving companion who loved to snuggle on the couch and be petted. We will miss her terribly, but at least she's not in pain any more. 
Mario was a wild and crazy dog, and I loved him very much. He was the first dog I ever raised from puppyhood. I bought him for $8 after he and his littermates had been dumped out by the airport. He would have been a better-behaved dog if I had know what I was doing when I got him, but he was definitely a good-hearted dog. He loved everybody and wanted to give them all a big lick across the face, whether they wanted it or not. My friend, Debbi Bennett wrote a poem about him after he died that fit him perfectly:
