One of the Family

White hairs frame his face and fall across his muzzle, hairs that just a few years ago were black and shiny. His coat is a little duller, his eyes a little cloudy and his breath is downright nasty.

"Two words, Rowdy my friend," I tell him, scratching in his favorite spot under his chin and along his throat. "Breath mint."

Seemingly offended by my comments about his offensive breath, he wanders off, stumbling slightly as his hips fail him. There's no mistaking it, my dog is old.

It's been more than 13 years since I took one look at his sweet little puppy face and fell in love. Never mind that his feet were the size of small soup bowls, indicating that he could grow into a larger dog than I knew my parents really wanted. I knew instantly he was the dog for me. I had to have him. If only picking out a husband were so easy...

I grew up around dogs, from Charlie Brown the Basset Hound, to Roscoe, our whining, fretting Blue Heeler mix that was never without a ball in his mouth. But they were never MY dog - they were always, first and foremost, loyal to another family member. My parents have always believed it was best to have two dogs, so when we lost Bandit, my brother's Shepard mix, I knew it was my chance to get a dog of my very own. And so after six weeks of searching, I found Rowdy in the local animal shelter, all saucer eyes and big feet, and talked my mom into bringing him home.

Now, Rowdy is my dad's dog. Sure, he's always glad to see me when I drop in to visit my parents, but he's definitely found himself a new champion in my father. When I left for college he became Dad's buddy. Rowdy used to sneak downstairs to where my dad was watching tv and pull the blanket off the couch, his signal that he wanted to play. Dad would wrap the blanket around his arm and Rowdy would attack it, biting and growling like a vicious attack dog. After he retired, Dad started meeting his fellow retirees at a local restaurant for coffee each morning, with Mr. Rowdy faithfully lounging in the passenger seat. Like it or not, I'd been replaced.

I know everyone in the family has noticed that Rowdy has lost a step. It's hard not to, because the dog is now as deaf as a post and has a hard time getting up the back steps. We just don't say it out loud because that would make it real. It's too hard to think about losing a family member. And that's what our dogs have always been, one of the family.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting with a friend about his own aging canine, this one a saucy Springer Spaniel named Boots. I almost broke down and cried on the spot when Jon said all he wanted was to give her one last good trip in the field, let her bring back a few final pheasants, create a few final memories before it was time to hang up her cammo collar and become strictly a house pet, or before it was time to say goodbye once and for all.

"I'm losing my hunting partner," Jon told me. "I can't imagine not hunting behind her. I've never done it, she's been there since I brought down my first bird."

I asked if he'd considered getting another dog, letting the pup learn from the Queen Bee herself, and shortening the time he's hunting without a dog. I told him I felt an older dog often benefits from the company of a younger dog, as Rowdy did from his schooling sessions with my own pup Hoops.

"I've thought about that, but there's no way I could get out the guns and my gear and get out of the house without Boots. I couldn't leave her at home, looking out the window, wondering why in the world she didn't get to come," he explained. "That'd be like benching John Elway."

Hearing the finality in his voice, I let it drop. After all, I'm the girl who still refers to the mare she sold almost a year ago as "my horse."

What is it about these creatures that allows them to weasel their way into our lives and our hearts? How is it that big brown eyes and puppy breath can break my rule of no dogs on the bed so effectively that now a night in a hotel room without Hoops's familiar figure at my feet seems strange? How can an whining, obnoxious mutt that about got my sister thrown out of our family for bringing him home reduce my strapping, commanding father to tears at his passing? And its not just dogs, sometimes it's a cat, a horse or even a bird. Even my friend Ferd, who thinks the only good animal is one you can eat, engaged in a custody battle with his sister over Starlite the cat in their childhood, and even eulogized Starlite on his Myspace page when he died.

There's plenty of studies out there that proclaim the benefits of pets. And whether you get a dog as a hunting tool or a cat just to control your mouse population, pets have a way of sneaking into your life. We complain about the expense of vet bills, bemoan the possessions lost to wayward teeth and claws and pretend like we'd be just as well off without them. But what we get in return far outweighs those costs. They become our hunting partners, car companions, dish washers, seat warmers, alarm systems, exercise buddies and sometimes even our therapists. Dogs, cats, horses, and in my case even a pig, their species doesn't much matter. Without ever realizing it, our pets become part of who we are as people.

Eventually, Jon will get another dog. He's too much of a dog person not to. And his next dog might be a better hunter, one that helps him fill his bag more often, doesn't snore and won't chew up her doggie bed. But I know that when Jon hangs up his own gun at the end of his life and heads to the proverbial happy hunting ground in the sky, Boots will be waiting, leash in mouth, ready to hunt again. And Jon wouldn't have it any other way.

Afterword:

I wrote this column a few weeks ago, knowing that chances to sit down and write between now and the conclusion of our Expo would be few and far between. Little did I know just how few my remaining days with Rowdy were. Today, on my way into the office, my mom called and said it was time to say goodbye. Rowdy's spirits and spunk were still there, but his body was failing him. After a prolonged, and what appeared to be a painful seizure Sunday night, it was obvious that we needed to have him euthanized. I'm sure we could have nursed him through another few months, but that would have only served our own selfish purposes, human owners not wanting to let go of a loyal and trusted friend. But with pet ownership comes the responsibility of minimizing their pain, regardless of how much it hurts our own hearts. And boy does this hurt right now.

But time heals most wounds, and soon, the sting of saying goodbye will be replaced with the warmth of a thousand memories of Rowdy, my first dog, our family friend. And just like Boots, I suspect he'll be waiting there, sitting just on the other side of the threshold of the afterlife, eyes bright, tail wagging, ready to beg for bones or a scratch on the neck.

Until then, old friend. Until then.