Eulogy
(Originally posted Saturday, June 20th. No changes have been made aside from this note.)
It was April 26th, 1995 when we first saw him.
The day before, the neighbor's dog had given birth to a large litter of tiny, wriggling purebred labs, five black and five yellow. Their eyes were still closed and at any given moment it was hard to distinguish one from another. We oohed and aahed and came back every day for the next couple of weeks, waiting for them to get big enough for us to play with them.
As is inevitable, we started begging for a dog. My family had always been a cat family; it had little to do with personal preference and a lot more to do with kindness. Until the previous year, we had been "city kids" -- no room for a large dog in the house in Sioux Falls and my parents refused to get "a Nick," a reference to my grandparents' small yapper-type dog.
But now we lived in a considerably more rural area; we had space for an outdoor kennel, room to take a dog for a walk, and at 11, 9, and 4 we kids were old enough to help. Moreover, the neighbor was willing to cut us a deal for these normally spendy dogs, something that sealed it for my mother. In early June, we finally got to pick out our dog -- and, whether consciously or not, we picked the runt of the litter, a little yellow boy dog.
Then the arguing started when we had to name him. When the kids could agree, one or the other of my parents -- usually my dad -- rejected our choice outright. Finally, when we suggested Bugs, Dad saw an opportunity.
"How about Bugsy?"
"Okay!"
We got our kind of cute, rather unique name; Dad got the right to put the dog's official name -- first name Bugsy, middle name Siegel -- on his papers. In the end, my clever father found a way to name the family dog after the gangster who built Vegas.
My parents got the kennel finished shortly after Bugsy discovered he could easily escape his makeshift cage, and then we just hoped this dog with the serious vertical leap didn't catch on that he could probably hurdle the fence.
Like all dogs, he grew fast -- and the fun really got started. The first winter, he bodily dragged my brother down the road after Mia Sorella and I sternly told him not to let go of the leash under any circumstances. (Once we could stop laughing long enough we told him to let go and called the dog back.)
Sometime around his second year, I had my most memorable encounter with the dog's strength. I was taking him for a walk-ride -- him on the leash, me on my bike -- when he caught sight of a pair of neighbor dogs and took off after them ... to which, unfortunately, the most direct path was straight through the ditch. I survived the incident with a few scrapes and a lot of embarrassment; my bike was less fortunate.
The most surprising insight, however, came with the 4th of July. Unlike other dogs in the area -- who tended to howl in disdain, run off, or cower in small spaces when the neighborhood started lighting off fireworks -- Bugsy tried to catch them. Before they went off. Often succeeding.
Sometimes it seems utterly miraculous that he made it past his second birthday.
We learned quickly to lock him in his kennel before playing with firecrackers -- and we learned an easy way to call him back when he ran off for a swim in a pond or a visit to a neighboring kennel.
The first time Dad took him out pheasant hunting, he came back to the house chuckling. "Not quite what I had in mind, but it works." Bugsy was a terrible retriever unless the birds landed in water -- but he found them and kept them there. When Dad chased him down after his first shot, he found Bugsy standing with his front paws on the bird, holding him down and waiting for my father to appear.
When we first started letting him into the house, our elderly but definitely in charge cat, Ernie, made it clear that he was not to be messed with -- and the two got along famously.
As the years progressed, he mellowed as expected and got along with other dogs and pets without difficulty. Ernie died when Bugsy was three; he got along even better with the next cat -- who also slept in his kennel. And the one after that -- received from the same neighbor and about the same color as Bugsy -- was a great buddy.
And he was good-natured. When he was still a puppy by most accounts, he and my cousin (roughly the same age, actually) had a minor run-in; Mom turned to see said cousin standing in shock, the cookie he had been holding long gone -- and Bugsy off to one side, munching mysteriously.
"Did he take your cookie?"
"Uh-huh." A forlorn nod.
"Did he bite you?"
"Uh-uh." A head shake.
"Did he get your hand all wet?"
"Uh-huh." Another nod.
Uproarious laughter in the retelling.
As a matter of fact, Bugsy would never bite anyone in the course of his life. He growled at passers-by from a distance but only a few up close -- one neighbor we didn't much care for, a Sears repairman who smelled strongly of cigarette smoke (kind of strange, but that was the only characteristic that made him different from any other strangers that showed up in the house).
A few times he got to go out to my grandparents' ranch when we did, or while we were off on long vacations. He had stayed the runt (although you couldn't have convinced him of it). It wasn't until he met Hank, my grandparents' lab/horse that he had any particular issues with another dog -- and even then, wisdom seemed to win out over brawn, as Hank didn't do much to mess with Bugsy despite being twice his size.
He aged; his face turned grey and he slowed down a bit. He stopped running off as often; he, oddly enough, developed allergies. He started moving more gingerly, as it seemed he was starting to have issues with his hips (a rather normal occurrence for labs).
But he made it through the winter and seemed to be improving. In his last few months, Bugsy was in better health (through Benadryl and more regular exercise) and better spirits.
Mia Sorella called me yesterday afternoon while I was at work, and although she didn't tell me what had happened at the time -- just asked me to call her back when I got home -- I had a feeling. He hadn't been doing overly well when I was at home last weekend -- he was in pain and not eating very well -- and I was bracing for the worst.
I didn't wait till I got home. Instead, I sat in my car and listened as my sister informed me that they had just put him to sleep. This past Thursday, he was abruptly unable to walk without falling. A visit to the vet suggested that he had probably had a stroke on Wednesday night and wouldn't likely regain use of his left side. While he wasn't in a lot of pain, he wouldn't be able to function normally again.
And so, yesterday afternoon with my parents and sister there, Bugsy died.
The only thing I can add is -- I'm really going to miss him.
It was April 26th, 1995 when we first saw him.
The day before, the neighbor's dog had given birth to a large litter of tiny, wriggling purebred labs, five black and five yellow. Their eyes were still closed and at any given moment it was hard to distinguish one from another. We oohed and aahed and came back every day for the next couple of weeks, waiting for them to get big enough for us to play with them.
As is inevitable, we started begging for a dog. My family had always been a cat family; it had little to do with personal preference and a lot more to do with kindness. Until the previous year, we had been "city kids" -- no room for a large dog in the house in Sioux Falls and my parents refused to get "a Nick," a reference to my grandparents' small yapper-type dog.
But now we lived in a considerably more rural area; we had space for an outdoor kennel, room to take a dog for a walk, and at 11, 9, and 4 we kids were old enough to help. Moreover, the neighbor was willing to cut us a deal for these normally spendy dogs, something that sealed it for my mother. In early June, we finally got to pick out our dog -- and, whether consciously or not, we picked the runt of the litter, a little yellow boy dog.
Then the arguing started when we had to name him. When the kids could agree, one or the other of my parents -- usually my dad -- rejected our choice outright. Finally, when we suggested Bugs, Dad saw an opportunity.
"How about Bugsy?"
"Okay!"
We got our kind of cute, rather unique name; Dad got the right to put the dog's official name -- first name Bugsy, middle name Siegel -- on his papers. In the end, my clever father found a way to name the family dog after the gangster who built Vegas.
My parents got the kennel finished shortly after Bugsy discovered he could easily escape his makeshift cage, and then we just hoped this dog with the serious vertical leap didn't catch on that he could probably hurdle the fence.
Like all dogs, he grew fast -- and the fun really got started. The first winter, he bodily dragged my brother down the road after Mia Sorella and I sternly told him not to let go of the leash under any circumstances. (Once we could stop laughing long enough we told him to let go and called the dog back.)
Sometime around his second year, I had my most memorable encounter with the dog's strength. I was taking him for a walk-ride -- him on the leash, me on my bike -- when he caught sight of a pair of neighbor dogs and took off after them ... to which, unfortunately, the most direct path was straight through the ditch. I survived the incident with a few scrapes and a lot of embarrassment; my bike was less fortunate.
The most surprising insight, however, came with the 4th of July. Unlike other dogs in the area -- who tended to howl in disdain, run off, or cower in small spaces when the neighborhood started lighting off fireworks -- Bugsy tried to catch them. Before they went off. Often succeeding.
Sometimes it seems utterly miraculous that he made it past his second birthday.
We learned quickly to lock him in his kennel before playing with firecrackers -- and we learned an easy way to call him back when he ran off for a swim in a pond or a visit to a neighboring kennel.
The first time Dad took him out pheasant hunting, he came back to the house chuckling. "Not quite what I had in mind, but it works." Bugsy was a terrible retriever unless the birds landed in water -- but he found them and kept them there. When Dad chased him down after his first shot, he found Bugsy standing with his front paws on the bird, holding him down and waiting for my father to appear.
When we first started letting him into the house, our elderly but definitely in charge cat, Ernie, made it clear that he was not to be messed with -- and the two got along famously.
As the years progressed, he mellowed as expected and got along with other dogs and pets without difficulty. Ernie died when Bugsy was three; he got along even better with the next cat -- who also slept in his kennel. And the one after that -- received from the same neighbor and about the same color as Bugsy -- was a great buddy.
And he was good-natured. When he was still a puppy by most accounts, he and my cousin (roughly the same age, actually) had a minor run-in; Mom turned to see said cousin standing in shock, the cookie he had been holding long gone -- and Bugsy off to one side, munching mysteriously.
"Did he take your cookie?"
"Uh-huh." A forlorn nod.
"Did he bite you?"
"Uh-uh." A head shake.
"Did he get your hand all wet?"
"Uh-huh." Another nod.
Uproarious laughter in the retelling.
As a matter of fact, Bugsy would never bite anyone in the course of his life. He growled at passers-by from a distance but only a few up close -- one neighbor we didn't much care for, a Sears repairman who smelled strongly of cigarette smoke (kind of strange, but that was the only characteristic that made him different from any other strangers that showed up in the house).
A few times he got to go out to my grandparents' ranch when we did, or while we were off on long vacations. He had stayed the runt (although you couldn't have convinced him of it). It wasn't until he met Hank, my grandparents' lab/horse that he had any particular issues with another dog -- and even then, wisdom seemed to win out over brawn, as Hank didn't do much to mess with Bugsy despite being twice his size.
He aged; his face turned grey and he slowed down a bit. He stopped running off as often; he, oddly enough, developed allergies. He started moving more gingerly, as it seemed he was starting to have issues with his hips (a rather normal occurrence for labs).
But he made it through the winter and seemed to be improving. In his last few months, Bugsy was in better health (through Benadryl and more regular exercise) and better spirits.
Mia Sorella called me yesterday afternoon while I was at work, and although she didn't tell me what had happened at the time -- just asked me to call her back when I got home -- I had a feeling. He hadn't been doing overly well when I was at home last weekend -- he was in pain and not eating very well -- and I was bracing for the worst.
I didn't wait till I got home. Instead, I sat in my car and listened as my sister informed me that they had just put him to sleep. This past Thursday, he was abruptly unable to walk without falling. A visit to the vet suggested that he had probably had a stroke on Wednesday night and wouldn't likely regain use of his left side. While he wasn't in a lot of pain, he wouldn't be able to function normally again.
And so, yesterday afternoon with my parents and sister there, Bugsy died.
The only thing I can add is -- I'm really going to miss him.
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