The first evening he spent at my house, Ronan didn't want to come out of his kennel.

I'd set the large, black cage up because I knew Ronan's previous owner kept him in one most of the time. Although I had no intention of doing so, I thought he might find the familiar setting a comfort in a strange house. He might even like it -- one of my past dogs, Casey, loved hers with a passion and spent a lot of time in it, door wide open but content to lie in her "den." That proved to be true with Ronan, too.

But that first night, he went in and didn't want to come out. I tried to coax him at first, then opted to sit quietly near the door, just letting him get used to my presence. That wasn't enough for Charley, though -- my other dog, a playful pup who'd been with me for a few years, brought a tug-of-war toy to the cage door and used it to lure Ronan out, one pull at a time. When Ronan realized he was out of the cage, he looked around in mild astonishment ... then took off running around the house in unfettered glee.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Ronan came to me in unusual circumstances. A big, rangy, wolf-like Malamute, he spent much of his time in a cage and was apparently beaten by his owner. He was too thin, and skittish, when my fiancee Michelle finally -- after years of trying -- managed to persuade his owner to give him up (not willingly, but because he was evicted and had no choice).

But Michelle, who loved the dog dearly, couldn't keep him. She already had a dog -- a lovable pit named Gracie -- and her lease only allowed one pet. When no other avenue immediately presented itself, I offered to take in the 7-year-old wolf-dog -- somewhat reluctantly, at first, since Charley was already a handful.

It was a great decision.

Just to be clear, the pup's name when he came to me was Ronin, with an "i." I changed the spelling for symbolic reasons; while I liked the Irish origins of Ronan, the meaning of Ronin -- a masterless samurai -- annoyed me. He had been masterless for years -- at least, without a good master -- and now he had a home. He was Ronan.

Michelle warned me that Ronan didn't like men, but we took to each other right away. Often he would stand, leaning hard against me. In scary situations -- like the veterinarian, or his first trip to a dog park -- he would tuck his head between my legs. He was a big sweetheart of a dog, and he would often lie with his head in my lap or with his big paw resting on me. (If he wanted more attention than he was getting, he wasn't shy about pawing at me, either.)

Many of his teeth, after a life without even basic veterinary care, were rotted and caused him constant pain. We got them fixed -- several had to be pulled -- so he could eat comfortably again.

He gradually gained a little weight and, thanks to Charley, he learned to play. He loved the snow and would run in it whenever he got the chance. He didn't run as fast as his fur-brother, but he trotted with a space-eating gait that suggested he might run forever without tiring. He also liked simply being outside and lying in the snow -- bonus if it was still snowing, and the flakes would come to rest on his coat. He dearly loved Michelle and her young children, with whom he was a gentle giant.

Sadly, he was with me for less than a year.

Two weeks before the end, Ronan started to show signs of discomfort walking, especially up stairs or when climbing onto a sofa or bed. Although that soon seemed to clear up, he next lost his appetite -- first for his usual dry dog food, then for wet food and even people treats. He became weak. And he didn't want to play in the plentiful snow.

The vet was stumped, although she suspected a deep tumor or an internal bleed might be the culprit. X-rays and bloodwork were inconclusive. We scheduled an ultrasound and a needle aspiration to try to find answers. But we didn't have time to complete them.

On his last day, Ronan wouldn't eat. He had even more trouble walking than usual. When I had to leave for a performance that evening, I first had to help him lie down, as his legs had started to shake. I stayed with him for a few minutes, arms around him, my forehead resting against his. I reminded him that he was a good boy, and I told him I'd be home soon.

But when I got home, he was gone. No more waiting, no more tests. No more pain. He was on his side, in a position that looked like he had been comfortable, at least. He looked like he was sleeping. But he was gone.

Charley, who had greeted me at the door as usual, seemed confused. Worried. In the days since Ronan's death, Charley has stayed unusually close to me.

I am forced to remind myself that Ronan's last year was a good one. Despite the bad years with his former owner, he had learned to be part of a family. To play. To be loved.

I wish we had gotten more than a year together. I wish we could have figured out what was wrong, and fixed it. I wish I could have been with him when he died.

Ronan was a big, beautiful, loving dog who didn't deserve the life he'd gotten. I hope I made up for some of it in the time we had together. I hope when he died, he knew how much he was loved.

by Tom Knapp
Rambles.NET
12 March 2019