My dog is dead and I don't feel so good myself...

My sweet, dumb, dear old dog died recently. More accurately, we had to put her to sleep. Cancer. Ruby was twelve.

Either way, the end (no pun intended) result is quite the same. I am more than sans-dog. I am without of my best friend. The house seems quite empty. I am quite lonely. Oh, I have many friends. Quite a few "best" ones. And I don't mean to insult or slight them or minimize any of our friendships. But a dog, ol' Ruby here specifically, is a unique breed (pun intended) of a friend. And for those who have had dogs (or cats or gerbils or cockatoos or plecostomuses) who've transcended from "pet" to "companion" or "friend" and right on into "family", you'll know what I mean. And again, I don't mean to insult or slight my wife or kids or minimize our relationships either. But she was kin. She never left my side, except when she had to. She never disappointed me. And if I ever disappointed her, she kind enough never to bring it up. She never criticized, never complained. Never laughed at me. Always seemed to be quick with a smile for me, with that busted front tooth and her long, moist tongue lolling out of her mouth. If I was at home, she was always with me. Wherever I went, she followed. We did everything together. Even going gray in the muzzles.

She was the last face I saw at night when I went to bed (she slept on the floor along side the bed)... I'd pet her before turning of the light. She was the first face I saw upon awakening. As if she waited patiently for me to wake up. She was the last face I'd see when I'd leave for work in the morning (she'd walk me to the door... after I gave her the expected - and deserved - handful of Milk Bone dog biscuits). And it would seem that she would have sit at the window the whole day waiting for my return. When I would go away for the weekend, my wife would say the dog would "pine" for me to come home, walking from room to room in hopes of finding me. When we had to board her, Ruby wouldn't eat until we picked her up from the kennel.

She seemed to prefer my company over anything else. When we moved into another home one time, I was busy hanging curtain rods and putting beds together and unpacking books onto the bookshelves. All those things that need done before the house becomes your home. Ruby never left my side. It didn't occur to us that she hadn't been eating or drinking. My projects weren't in the kitchen and that was where her food and water bowls were. But she stuck by me, until we noticed that she was lethargic and could barely lift her head. We were ready to call the vet, there in the middle of the night, when one of us noticed that her water dish was full and none of us could remember having had to fill it for days.

Ruby wasn't the brightest pooch on the planet. Not a Lassie or a Rin Tin Tin or the dogs on "Frasier" or "Mad About You" - she was more like Warner Bros.' animated "Charlie Dog." But I blame myself. We took obedience lessons together. She did well. I failed to do our homework assignments. Even when she reminded me.

But she had one trick. And she did it well. She could potty on command. Both number one and number two. She'd go out and quickly attempt to come back inside. Standing at the door I would ask her, "Did you poo?" She would stop and cock her head if trying to remember doing such a thing. "Ruby," I instructed her, "go poo." And she would reluctantly and sheepishly turn on her heels (all four) and go back and complete her constitutional. This happened all the time, too. Each time actually.

Lest you think I jest , I explained this to the neighbor who was going to let her out for us. He too thought I was making this up, but after he let her out, she piddled and wanted to come back in. Our neighbor, remembering, told her, "go poo." Ruby obeyed but did so behind the tree and away from his prying eyes. He was dutifully impressed.

She wasn't much of a watch dog. Although she fancied herself to be one. She protected our house from every small child in a stroller, two blocks down, on the other side of the street. She would bark her fool head off and wouldn't quiet until they rounded the corner. I am not sure what she thought the threat from them was, but that was her one focus to protect us from. And she did it well. No toddler ever attacked our home.

One time I picked her up from the vet's after an exam and some tests (and a bath)... they told me that they weren't able to do the urine test. They said they had waited outside in the cold for quite a while for her to go but she never did. "Well," I asked the vet, "did you tell her to go?" No, they said, that never occurred to them. "Okay, let's go outside. Grab what you need." So they got a cup and a soup ladle and followed Ruby and I out the door. "Ruby, " I said in a normal voice, "go pee-pee potty!" Ruby never was much for baby-talk. Neither was I. But we had an audience. And right on cue, she squatted and squirted. The vet-tech was so impressed she just stood there, mouth opened. "I suggest you gather what you need before she finishes!" I said. And she collected a ladle-full of the stuff. "Anything else?" I asked. Ruby sat waiting patiently to perform. Well, they said, we would love have a stool sample. I doubt they would actually "love" a stool sample, but understood what they meant. "Ruby...poop!" And of course, she was happy to comply. And perhaps a little proud. I know I was.

She broke her front right leg a few years ago. And quite badly at that. Much like Washington Redskins' quarterback, Joe Theismann's break back in 1985, she seemed to have an newly added and flapping joint midway between knee and paw. She came to me, I swear, looking for help. I called a friend and she rode on my lap to the vet's. They say that you shouldn't handle an injured animal without first muzzling them... that, even though usually gentle, they might bite in fear or in pain. Ruby did neither; just nuzzled my hand, looking for comfort on the ride. She ended up with some plates, rods, pins and screws. And a bolt or two. And a pretty terrific scar. We were supposed to have her wear the obligatory plastic "Elizabethan Collar" so she wouldn't mess with the cast, but the ridicule from our two cats was just too much for her. We told her to leave the cast alone and she obliged. She hated for the cats to laugh at her.

We have rabbits and squirrels in the backyard. And the occasional strange cat. Ruby seldom, if ever, chased them: we just had to remind her, "that isn't your rabbit (or squirrel or cat)." And obediently she would politely ignore the interloper. The rabbits and squirrels would return the favor and politely ignore her back. Even only scant feet apart. The cats were a little less trusting. They are a suspicious lot.

When we had her "put her down", I stayed with her. Like I said, she hated to be without me and I didn't want her to think she was bad or that I was upset with her. I'm not going to go into the whole theological church-dividing debate over whether dogs have souls and do they go to heaven. But I didn't want her to be alone with some stranger there at the last. I didn't want her to be alone, to be frightened. I wanted her to see my face as she went. And feel me petting her one more time. And hear my voice. Telling her what a good, good dog she was just one more time. And that I loved her. That was all she ever wanted. To see my face, to feel my touch and to hear my voice.

"Ruby, you were a good dog. And I miss you. And I love you. You were a great friend. I'll never forget you, 'old dog'."