How Do You Say Goodbye

Fifteen years is a long time.

"Well, she's a...kalaka. It's a Russian breed, you can't normally get them here in America. They were bred as attack dogs during WW one and two; what with the Cold War and everything, America had them classified as a dangerous breed and wouldn't allow them to be imported. They had to bring her in from Canada, took a trip to Saskatchewan. They're trained from birth to bite your fingers off."

Rory had a half dozen people or so following this line of BS for nearly a half hour before someone said "Wait. Where have I heard 'kalaka' before?" and he cracked up (It was a made up word from a seventies commercial) Rory could never resist a practical joke.

The funniest part of the spiel is that Mieshka had the friendliest face you could ever imagine, and her demeanor was the same. We often joked that if a burglar ever broke in, we'd find him dead on the floor-licked to death. You'd be hard pressed to find a time when she wasn't grinning like a big fool dog.

For the record, Mieshka was mainly Husky and Springer Spaniel. A good old fashioned mixed breed from a relative's farm. She got her name from a 'name the dog' contest at a party that year, and although hardly anybody submitted names, someone gave us "Meshka' and said that it was a Slovakian term that means good girl. It was BS of course, but that suited, too; a BS definition for a dog of a BS breed.



When we brought her home as a pup, she spent a week on that cushion, never venturing off. She had never seen a hardwood floor before and was terrified. That cushion became her bed for years. Where it was, she would sleep.

Rory completely loved the dog, kalaka nonsense notwithstanding. When we were out of town, he was always happy to take care of her, and she loved him too. He'd take her over to his house, and she'd hang out with the hippies for a few days, wearing bandanas and just generally having a great time. We could never get her to come home, and Rory never wanted to bring her back.



When we brought our son home for the first time, she was thrilled. A new Pup for the pack! (We always figured she'd be a complete puppy machine if we didn't have her spayed). As we were all sitting around, looking at this small pinkish thing and trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do now, the cats came by to see what was going on. She whirled on them, snapped and growled a warning. It was the only time I ever saw her react to anything in anger.



Otherwise, she was the sweetest dog you could ever want. She loved kids, and blithely tolerated those small hands latching onto her long fur without ever nipping. The only problem her love of kids caused was when she was off-leash; she would charge towards a child, and in her enthusiasm, run him over, terrifying the child. But it was just a game.

We couldn't keep her out of water, which was always a pain with the long fur. She could smell like wet dog for days. She loved to jump into the lake; and particularly like the dirty, muddy Milwaukee River. The nearby park is left mostly wild along the river, and it is used as de facto dog park. We would take her there and let her run off leash with the other dogs, but became dog owners non-grata when she developed the habit of running around until all the other dogs were chasing her, then lunging down the bluff, while we were yelling at her trying to get her to come back. ( At times like these, she developed a certain selective deafness). She heedlessly crashed down the bluff, there would be a brief pause, then we could hear -splash!- and -splash splash splashsplashsplash- as the rest of the dogs followed her in.

In later days, the deafness became less feigned. Although she started to come up the deck steps a bit slower, she would always leap of the deck to go for a walk, even last Sunday night.

Because Monday morning she couldn't walk anymore. Couldn't stand or even sit up. I carried her out to the yard so she could poop, and she struggled to get up enough to do that. She didn't want to eat, and looked to me to carry her back in; she seemed embarrassed about it. The last thing I did for her was to carry her into the vet's office Monday morning. (Sorry if I was clumsy at it, Mieshka). was it a tumor, or a stroke? Doesn't matter.

I keep looking out the back door, expecting to see her wanting to come in.

Fifteen years is a long time, forever for a dog. She far outlasted her littermates. She was happy, healthy, and loved until the very end.

But fifteen years is still far, far too soon.

The backyard is so empty now.



EDIT

Rory sends along another picture of a familiar face. Thanks Ror.