He Was a Very Fine Dog Indeed!

Jesse and I shared a chair; our daughter captures him in crossstitch.

Jesse, our 12-year-old Lassie dog, died on my dad’s birthday. I am always melancholy at that time of the year because my dad died suddenly four days after his 50th birthday. This second death has heightened that sense of loss I feel in the dead of winter.

When our youngest was 12, we gave into his plea for a dog. I agreed to another pet if we would find a small, short-haired outside dog. But when a friend’s registered collie, Shenandoah Misty, gave birth to a litter of pureblood pups, the whole family was captivated by the most curious of the five balls of cuddly fur. Because we acquire the puppy, sired by champion Limited Edition, the same week our son was named to an All Star baseball team, we registured our new pet as Jesup’s All Star Edition, but he was always Jesse to us.

Since he had been born in air-conditioned facilities and we took him home in the middle of the summer, I reluctantly consented to let him live in the utility room until the weather cooled in the fall. Then he would move outside. It didn’t take but one concentrated battle with fleas to learn that in South Georgia, a dog can’t enjoy a life indoors and out. And collies, with their heavy coats, are not designed to live in areas that don’t encounter snow fall each year.

So Jesse and I began the precarious arrangement of sharing quarters for a dozen years. My first mistake was holding the puppy. Like any baby, he loved to snuggle. And there’s something very therapeutic about hold an animal.

However by the time he grew to adulthood, he didn’t realize his size had changed, but mine hadn’t. If I sat down, he thought it his right to sit in my lap. Thus began the battle of where he could and could not sit.

The collie is an intelligent breed which learns the lessons he want to learn. Within days, the puppy was trained. He accepted, without complaint, the pieces of furniture he could sit on and once forbidden, he never even seemed tempted.

As smart as he was, he learned language quickly, too. If we asked, “Do you want to go out?” he trotted to the back door. If we said do you want to go on a walk? he headed for the front door and waited for his leash. If we opened the refrigerator door, he did not move. But if we opened the freezer compartment, he was at our side. He loved to eat ice. He also loved to drink water from a hose. He would bark at the hose until we turned on the faucet and let him drink running water.

Likewise, he loved to play ball. Of all his toys, a partially deflated ball which he carried around with him was never out of his sight. If anyone sat down, he would bring that pitiful excuse of a ball for a game of tug of war. Although we showered him with assorted balls, he never found another one to his liking. But most of all, he loved to play basketball with the kids. He was a pretty good guard, too. Somehow, he realized his job was to keep people away from the basket and he would run between players and the basket almost tripping anyone who challenged him. Because of him, the kids became pretty good three-point shooters, but they never mastered slam dunking. At the first sound of a bouncing basketball, he was at the door, ready to take on anyone.

He loved the kids and couldn’t stand for them to be in distress. Whenever our sons scuffled, he barked and jumped on them until they finally stopped. He wouldn’t let the boys pick on their sister. After they were grown and on their on, he enjoyed their visits home. He assumed they came to see him. If we asked for any of them by name, he would go to the front window to look for them. One of a herding breed, he was the happiest when all of us were seated in the living room and he could sleep in front of the door.

At times, he seemed almost human; never more so than three years before his death when he was diagnosed with diabetes. Although animals are plagued with diseases humans never suffer, the four-legged creatures can also develop almost any condition a human can. The vet gave us three choices - let him die a slow, painful death; put him to sleep; or give him daily injections of insulin.

Equally important to his health was a rigid routine. Thus, I gave him an injection between 6 and 7 a.m. for over three years ago. He ate a calorie-counted meal thereafter and another about 12 hours later. We had a three-hour window in the morning between 5 to 8 p.m. and a four-hour one in the evening, 4-8 p.m. Therefore, our lives became regulated by the dog. Because he became so stressed and wouldn’t eat if we left him at the kennel, we never went anywhere overnight unless one of the kids came home to care for him. That’s why, one Christmas Day, we drove to Atlanta and back just to spend a couple of hours with the new grand baby.

During those last years of his life, he experienced several crises, but each time, the heroic efforts of the vet pulled him through. Then the crises became more frequent. By last year; it took him longer and longer to pull out of a debilitating attack.

On February 11, six years ago, Jesse weakend; I treated, but he did not respond. We asked the vet for help. Thus, the man intent on healing eased a very sick out of his pain forever. Afterwards, we called the kids to tell them. Even our son-in-law, who every morning he was in town walked Jesse, and our daughters-in-law, who walked him in the evenings, grieved.

For weeks, I awoke without an alarm in time to give Jesse his injection. I could not stay in bed. Whenever I opened the freezer, I expected him to be at my side. Whenever I sat down, I anticipated a nose in my lap because he had long lost his ability to jump on the couch. Whenever the neighborhood boys began to bounce a basketballl, I listened for Jesse to bark. Likewise, my husband had a hard time going to bed at night because he had always taken the dog on a walk before retiring.

Whatever we talked about, we always turned the conversation to Jesse. And while I wrote this tribute to him soon after his death, I couldn’t share these thoughts early on.

Life eventually became easier without a handicapped animal to care for. We could finally travel without planning our schedule around his needs. But life was lonelier, too. Like so many good things in life, we don’t always fully appreciate them until they are no more.

And while the memories can still bring tears, they now recall more of the happy moments than the sad ones. As painful as our loss was, we are thankful that he was a vital part of our lives. He was a very fine dog indeed!

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