‘You Know Goodbyes Aren’t Forever’

When I was little, just like every other kid I knew, I wanted a dog.  I begged my parents, I swore I would walk him before and after school, I would feed him and let him sleep on a little oval braided rug at the foot of my bed like all the old movies showed.  I’d name him “Benji” or “Rusty” and throw a stick for him to fetch for hours on end.  Maybe we’d even solve mysteries together?  Who knows, the possibilities were endless.  But my mom liked her house in a certain order, and that order was “non-destroyed, anti-smelly and sans-tumbleweedesque balls of fur.”  I’m not mad at her, not trying to make her out to be some “Mommy Dearest” type, though I do call her that sometimes.  Lovingly and without an ounce of resentment, of course.   I totally get it, dogs are hard work and since my brother and I couldn’t even avoid torturing our human sister, it probably was the best decision at the time.

Instead we had fish.  Goldfish.  The kind you won at the church fair and you were super lucky to get to decide on a name for before they were found floating belly up in their “aquarium.”   We had many goldfish over the years, can’t remember a single name, but of course I feigned heartbreak and perhaps managed a few measly tears as I poured them out into the toilet for their dizzying trip to “Fishy Heaven.”   Hamsters were really popular when I was little.  Almost all my friends had them.  Not me.  They were rodents, after all.  Actually, I don’t even mind that I never got one, weird little furballs if you ask me.

When I was about seven or eight, my parents tried something really daring.  They bought me a rabbit for my birthday.  He was adorable, all black with just a bit of white on his nose.  It took me the better part of a week to name him but I finally landed on Wascal, you know, like Bugs Bunny is a wascally wabbit, according to Elmer Fudd??  I think I only had him a couple months before it became clear that getting up early to feed him and clean his turds wasn’t really my thang.  I did love the rabbit, though, and it was a sad day when I had to bring him over to the family that would be taking care of him in my disappointing failure.  So, a few more goldfish later and bada-bing-bada-boom, roughly 17 years pass and I get engaged to this handsome fella who happens to be a lifelong dog lover and owner.

Yada yada yada – we move into a house and decide get a dog.  Our list of criteria:
1.  Has to be a cute puppy (duh!)
2.  Has to be a good protector as fiancé turned hubby was working nights at the time.
3.  Has to have short hair, which I thought meant they didn’t shed that much.  I was very wrong on that point.

So, for our first dog together and my first “for real” pet EVER, we get a Rottweiler.   A tiny little black & brown, drooling, car-sick, sharp-nail having, shedding(!!) Rotty.  He didn’t have the really round, thick head that some of his breed have, he was a bit more sleek, less intimidating, but still a Rottweiler.  We planned on beefing him up and making him the best companion/protector we could, so we named him Tonka.  Like the truck.  Like the truck you don’t wanna F-with!  That’s our boy!

Housetraining was a b-word because he came home with us in a Canadian February, which meant several overnight trips outside in the snow.  Crappy planning.  By springtime he was getting to test me, very playful and nippy, tore holes in several articles of my clothing.  As I was wearing them.  He never chewed on furniture, peed in the house (once trained) or snacked on my favourite shoes, and for that I’m thankful.

I’m more thankful for his companionship and good temper.  People sometimes shied away from him.  I understand, he got to be about 100 lbs and he loved to run, chase and jump.  But to me, he was never a threat, and I feel like you need only look at his sweet face to understand that.  He hung out with me more during my pregnancies, sensing something was different and sniffed around his little sister when we brought our first daughter home, but ultimately took it in stride that he wasn’t number one anymore.

On our TV stand in the living room, we have a picture of our daughters together when #2 was a few weeks old, a special wedding gift and a picture of our Tonka-tonk. When I begged for a dog as a child, I wanted a pet.  I never expected a pet would be such a huge part of my family and the love that is shared in my home.

I’m writing this on the eve of what could be his final veterinary appointment.  He has been sick, noticeably sick, for several weeks.  Rottweilers are expected to live 8-10 years and are notorious for having hip problems.  Tonka is 11.  We have noticed he’s a little slow to stand in the last few years, but it has gotten increasingly worse in the new year.  We credit his good health to this point to the fact that he is the king of six acres of land, and, much to our neighbours’ dismay, probably rules more than that.  Once housebroken, our Tonka has rarely been on a leash, is seldom crated unless we have skeptical company in the house and has a funny-looking BFF in Milo, the pug.

We’ve noticed he’s started trying to be closer to us.  As he used to never venture on the side of the house where our bedrooms are, he has started sleeping in ours or one of the girls’ rooms.  He hops up on their beds with skepticism, knowing the comfort the bed will grant him will be worth the brief discomfort in his legs.  He naps there when they are not home.  A few times he has vomited on their beds or carpeted floor.   He does not get scolded.   He gets cleaned up and petted.  He knows he is loved.

This weekend, he got a nice bath, some fancy treats, lots of outside time in the sun and a little FaceTime with some of his favorite humans.  I know my husband thinks I’m insane for making “preparations” for what could be his final days but this dog has been with us only a few month less than the entire time we have lived in our home, the same home we got married in.  The home that has been the place we’ve brought both of our daughters home to.  The place we have spent the majority of our lives together in.  He’s been a part of ‘us’ since almost day one and, while I know he’s not likely to be with us much longer, the idea that tonight is the last night he may be protecting this house is breaking my heart.

I am so glad my parents never gave into my begging back in the day, I’m not sure I could have handled what I’m feeling right now as a kid.  I’m pretty certain I’m not handling it very well as a 37 year old mother of two.

24-hours later, Tonka is resting peacefully and I’m trying to wrap my head around how different this house is going to feel without him.  RIP, Tonka Tonk!