You had us trained so well, and we weren’t quite ready to stop using that training.

You decided early on you wouldn’t poop in our yard – ever – and therefore our 1.5-mile daily poop walks were a necessity.

When you passed away last Monday, we had racked up over 3,500 miles on the dog trails and sidewalks around town.

That’s like walking to Florida and back.

And that’s just me. You also walked three days a week with Tania, your favorite human in the house.

That’s another 2,500 miles or so.

It’s no wonder you looked so young and healthy at 13!

On nice days, the walks with you were a blessing. Tunes playing, birds chirping, pooping, peeing – great stuff.

On warm days, you’d “swim” in Halfway Brook, though you never swam, just waded. The most adventurous you got was dipping your butt in the water.

 

On rainy or bitter cold days, the walks were a little less fun, though you never cared. You LOVED the snow and were my X-C ski buddy.

The walks were when you were your happiest. You checked pee-mail every 20 feet or so and would dig in and refuse to move if the scent was particularly appealing.

That got frustrating some days, and now that you’re gone, I’m feeling guilty about losing patience and tugging a little too hard on you when I was sick of your 100^th sniff stop of the walk.

I’d love to go on a walk with you right now and I’d gladly let you sniff until your nose was packed with information.

In year’s past, the walks would include a tennis ball, and damn were you a good catch. I’d throw it past you over your head and if done well, it would bounce up and you would leap and snatch it from the air.

I was so proud of us and loved to show us off. We were like Marino and Duper (and yes I realize that analogy is old, but I’m a helpless Phins fan).

Then, one windy day, I threw one that the wind caught and blew back. Instead of bouncing in front of you, it bounced off your head.

You never played again.

I love and hate that. I hate that my crappy toss led to the end of our ball days. I love it because it showed your intelligence and stubbornness.

You were a true character.

When we got you, you were scarred – figuratively and literally. You’d been rounded up with your brothers and sister by the dog catcher in a nearby town. You were about 2 years old, skinny, scared and super cute, despite a gash on your face. Kirsti and Sarah fell in love with you immediately, helped by your decision to flip over on your back to get a belly rub.

We looked at other models but came back to you. They didn’t even want to check any others out. They knew.

Tania, again your favorite human, really wasn’t all about getting a dog. Even you.  

But boy did you win her over.

We brought you home and life was great – for I think two days. Then you were spending days at the vet, riddled with Lyme disease and struggling to eat and survive.

We didn’t even know you, yet we were paying a lot of money to save you.

So glad we did, because you survived and we set about learning and loving each other for the next 11 years.

You came with the name Sugar Bear. We nixed the Sugar and you became Bear, though I often referred to you as Bubba, which turned into Bubbles.

You were Beary Bear to Tania.

We learned that you couldn’t do stairs, hated being near fire pits, hated loud noises and generally looked sad and moped a lot – until it was time to go for a walk.

But you eventually overcame the fear of stairs and grew to curl up near a fire.

Until your last day, you also still got so excited for an evening post-potty chicken jerky – and would run like a puppy to your bed to eat it. Every… Single … Time.

In recent years, you also trained me to give you an extra treat when I got my evening snack.

You LOVED to be pet and would look up at us, like “WTF” if we stopped.

You were indifferent generally about other dogs. Content with a quick sniff and moving on.

You tolerated a good friend’s dog Willow, though you hated her damn energy.

You made Kirsti and Sarah jealous of the love you demanded from us. They probably don’t get that you were the remaining kid when they moved away.

I’m sad about you. I felt so helpless seeing you lose control of your legs after another normal day. Normal walk. Normal dinner. Normal everything – until you collapsed.

A few hours later, we’re told you had something wrong with your brain and that it was time to let you go. You couldn’t walk into the vets in Latham. You needed a gurney. But when it was time to let you go, you walked in on a leash like nothing was wrong.

The vets say that’s normal. A burst of late-life adrenaline, I guess. That will haunt me for a while though, wondering if you had to go right then.

I’ve thought about how maybe it was best. You didn’t get a doggy cancer or suffer long. So that’s good. But we just weren’t quite ready because you looked and acted so healthy right up until the end.

And you had us trained so well.