Attached is one of my best paintings, a contrast between my brooding son and a happy dog. The dog is Gem, my daughter's dog for over four years, who was just put down last week. I just learned yesterday, and I woke in the middle of the night, crying, wanting to give a tribute to her. Below is the story of Gem, a great dog.
I just found out that your final owner put you down this week. We figure you were well over fourteen years old, which is when we got you, but there is no way to know for sure. You were a white german shepherd-lab cross. Your coat was closer to cream, with a light stripe of tan down your back. Your large pointed ears and your great liquid brown eyes gave you an expressive, animated face, most often in a broad doggy smile.
You showed me that a big, bright dog can live in a small space with people and cats and furniture. You paid attention to your lessons so you were no bother at all. My daughter taught you many things, and you cheerfuly went along. She poured out all her teenage ambitions on you, running through the drills as she had seen so many times on the showroom floor. She taught you, and you taught her. You barely ever barked, being a bright dog. You did not bark at the mailman or at friends you had seen before. You barked only at men and boys with sticks, who you always believed could only be up to no good.
You knew many words, "outside" being one of your favorites. My favorites, I must admit, were "excuse me", where you would politely move out of the way, and "down". I asked my daughter to teach you "down" so that when she and you cruised through the paper route in the morning, she could stop you from crossing the street when a car was coming. I'm convinced that the command saved your life at least once. You showed me how delightful it is to have an educated dog.
You had a sly sense of humor, too. When we were home, you never broke a rule and never went to where you did not belong. Except. When we all drove away on some errand, there you were at the kitchen window to smile and wag your goodbye. Standing on top of the kitchen table.
You tormented the cats in your own sly way, too. They had set the ground rules early on with a quick swipe across the nose, and you cheerfully submitted. But when you all lined up to greet me from a long day at work, your broad, sweeping tail swatted their faces mercilessly.
The only other time you and I had a disagreement was when my granddaughter, Naomi, was born. Not knowing how you would react to an addition to the family, my daughter gave me strict instructions that you were to remain in the kitchen. You had another opinion, believing your place was right outside the baby's door. You knew right away your job was to protect her. But I had my instructions, and I spent a long night ordering you back downstairs. You went, reluctantly. But as soon as my back was turned, you snuck back to your post.
There are so many things I wanted to tell you, to explain to you about the puzzling ways of the people you lived with. When people argued, you would slink with tail between your legs to some far corner. I wanted to tell you that you did nothing wrong. It was rather the failings and weaknesses of your human owners.
When I moved away, I wished I could sit down and explain that it was not forever, and I would be back for visits. The look in your eyes when I did come back a month later, was unforgettable. You must have thought I died, you were so happy to see me again. Your whole body wagged with happiness and greeting. You had such a big heart, I was sorry that I caused you that pain.
I wished I could explain, too, that the long succession of owners was not from any failings on your part. Especially since you always assumed, that if things went wrong, that it was somehow your fault. The first owner we know about rescued you from the shelter. You were so thin back then, the shelter failed to notice that you were pregnant. I think, also, before you went to that shelter, you had an early experience with men and sticks. You were a great dog, to show such love and patience for people, after that tough beginning. That first owner after the shelter watched over you and your puppies, but she was a single parent with many children of her own. Responsibilities overwhelmed, and you moved on to another large family. They, also, had trouble giving you the attention you needed. So you came to us.
The birth of Naomi spelled the end of your stay with us, too. Having a new baby and an energetic dog, too, was too much, and my daughter gave you to her in-law's mother. This elderly woman had a small apartment in the inner city and was afraid most of the time. You gave her confidence and mobility, and she was no longer afraid in her own home. This woman did not have experience with dogs, though, so yanked on your collar constantly when you were out. Your expressive eyes showed great patience. You were an educated dog, and knew how to heel without all that yanking. But how could you say so? I wish I could tell you again, it was not your fault.
I had the chance to see you a few more times in your later years. You had those same expressive eyes and large grin, but your gait was a little slower, hinting at the pains of age. You didn't greet me as you did those many years ago, when you thought I was gone for good. I wasn't even sure if you remembered me. Perhaps like all of us in old age, you had your own worries by then. When I saw you that last time, I so wished I could tell you what a great dog you were. How honored I was to have known a dog that was so good to every one of her families. Even if we rarely returned that faithfulness. I can't explain all that, so I'll tell you the only way I can, in the words you know.
Good dog.