Too Soon
He was magnificent. Big, beautiful,
bold, and ball crazy. He answered the
call through cold and wet and muck and mountain laurel and dark. He was able to bring two people home in his
career. And he was only 8 years old when it all came to a crashing end.
He
was not the most social of dogs, Chessie’s rarely are. They like their person
and not much else. He liked to wreak havoc in his world. Stirring up trouble everywhere he could,
mainly because he was bored when he wasn’t searching. So when not searching, he
appointed himself the job title of “pot stirrer”. He had his job, and get out his way when he
was working. Self-appointed job or out in the search field.
He
ended up with his handler (who was a pointy eared dog lover from way back)
after basically being dropped on her door step as a puppy. He was suffering from puppy strangles and
looked like he was at deaths door. His face and muzzle swollen to two or three
times its normal size. Gobs of green pus
rolling out of his eyes. And skin
lesions everywhere. A little prednisone, some antibiotics, and a tincture of
time, viola, a Malinois in a floppy eared body.
He
was a thing of beauty when he was in his search harness. He cleared logs with
wings on his feet; crashed through underbrush, ripping hide from his side with
nary a sound; climbed mountains with springs in his legs; and danced across
rubble like it was a ballroom. All the while not so patiently waiting for his
handler to catch up with him. But that’s the case for most of our search dogs.
His
career was cut short by a horrible disease called Degenerative Myopathy.
It is a disease that is as cruel as it is devastating. His mind still sharp,
but his rear end quit working. He was
supposed to be able to retire when it was time and enjoy a well-earned
rest. But, maybe, just maybe, that would
have been shear torture for him, not being able to work.
It
was a beautiful sunny and cool morning. We followed an easy path, one that
wouldn’t tie up his barely functioning rear legs in knots. Put his harness on, with the bell. And he
changed from an old tired dog that didn’t understand what was happening to his
body into one that we remembered from before.
His nose in the air seeking that scent, ranging far and an extra spring
in his step that we hadn’t seen in a long time.
He
found his last person, then left us in the arms of his handler, crunching on
his favorite ball and talking smack.
Uzi, you son of a bitch, you will be missed.
