Never mind. It was probably me who decided it was time. My surefire way of locking in the relationship. Adopt a dog.
So off we went, our friend John driving us there, to "just look". Well "just look" until we wandered by Bernie's crate and he jumped up to greet MBC like he was his long lost best friend who had suddenly showed up to take him home to his place where they would live together happily ever after.
Forever and ever and ever.
There are protocols first, of course, and so Bernie was trotted out to a play area where he and MBC continued to bond, Bernie, a hound/lab/beagle/? mix, leaping in the air to catch a ball, a rumoured 18 month old medium large stray (I suspect he was more likely a return) so full of joie de vivre it was, well, delightful to MBC, terrifying to me.
Bernie was a lot of dog. A lot. Santa's Little Helper from the Simpson's come to life.
So while they played, already best friends, I looked on warily, glancing surreptitiously over at the family of little kids plastered up against the glass, desperately wanting this dog for themselves, and growing increasingly alarmed that, oh my god, we're going to adopt this leaping fun fest of a beast (although very handsome I must say) into our little home that was seeming littler by the second.
The plan, mine, anyway, had been a middle-aged, well-mannered, sedately-paced small medium-sized lady dog. No training required.
I would name her Corah. Or Edna.
Aunt Bea?
I snuck another look over at the family. No, I thought. You think you want this dog but you'll be returning him in no time. He's too much. Look at him ffs! No WE are taking this wild and crazy goofball home with US. I'm sure there's a nice sedate middle-aged lady dog back in there you'd be much better off adopting.
For sure your parents would.
Also anyone with eyes could see Bernie was already MBC's dog. I doubt two beings were ever more destined to be together, a situation which, by the way, led to years of me questioning who was really the third wheel in this triad. Bernie?
Or me?
Anyway it was pretty much an "oh my god what the hell am I about to do" adoption for me, an ungainly exuberant hound who never met a piece of garbage he wouldn't try to eat, person he didn't want to jump on and lick their face (in case they had food on it?), dog he didn't want to meet and greet whether they wanted him to or not, always showing belly if it came to it, a lover, not a fighter.
This changed in his middle age, by the way, when he became more selective, much to our amusement, our garbage snatching third wheel deciding he might be too good after all for some of the other dogs in the 'hood.
It was Halloween, 2011, the day we adopted Bernie, and late afternoon when we got him home. That night I took him for a walk while MBC stayed behind to hand out candy. It was ass backwards but I must have been determined to have Bernie tamp down my fears I'd made a huge mistake by dragging me around the neighbourhood, excited beyond belief by the kids out and about trick or treating, my panic mounting about this life changing commitment I'd just made and could not undue because by the time we reached our friend's car he and MBC were rock solid pals.
Bros. The best of. Each other's ride or die.
Just a couple of hours earlier I'd been privy to Bernie drinking water from a bowl we put down when we first got home. Oh. My. God. Water splashing everywhere. Later, when we put down food, we barely had time to step back before it was gone.
But that first walk was something else altogether.
That first night, though, he was on our bed, between us, a big furry panting baby, up and stomping on us and ready to eat breakfast at 5:00 a.m. the next morning.
Okay. Training school. That'll do the trick.
Well, kind of. More like he was class clown and teacher's pet, everybody's favourite D student, his goofball personality too irresistible to waste everyone's time trying to impart much discipline.
MBC's friend, meanwhile, diagnosed him with a high EQ. And it tracked. He could read the room. And his prescription was always right on. Everybody need more goofball hound in it.
We, on the other hand, learned enough to buy a special leash.
But over time, because it does go on, doesn't it, and living where we do, eventually MBC could actually let him off leash and never once did we have to worry he'd take off or got too far or bother other people out with their dogs. He was bonded to us and that was that.
It was pure joy in action when MBC would detach the leash and Bernie would run, leap through the air with the greatest of ease, and catch his orange ball in his mouth. Over and over and over again until his tongue hung out sideways and we'd have to call it and head home.
Such a good boy.
Training, schmaining.
As I said, he slept with us from day one, our third wheel, and as the years went on he would decide around 9:00 p.m. it was time to go up to bed, and he'd sit on the stairs, looking at us through the rails, waiting for us to get the hint.
Hilarious.
This is what we'll miss so much, besides just his presence, the laughs we had thanks to Bernie. And the comfort, because he really did have a high EQ, it was just that his paws weren't hands and he was 65 pounds of chaos, so his caring could sometimes hurt.
I'll always have the plate in my wrist to remind me of it.
Up until a few months ago we'd get our exercise, too, chasing him around our little house with his three things in his mouth, a ball and two antlers. He loved being chased and could sucker visitors into the game before they realized they were playing it, chasing him around our little house, his three things in his mouth.
"Chase me!"
Then it was just two things, the three being too much, so one antler was disappeared.
Eventually there was just one thing, the orange ball.
Finally the orange ball mostly stayed in his crate with him, the chase left behind with the long walks and joyful leaps through the air. I never knew if he particularly cared if the orange ball was with him in his crate or not. That's the thing with dogs and humans. We can't always know what each other wants.
Fifteen years we lived together, the three of us, a few of them my son with us, too.
But mostly it was just us three.
A couple, or maybe it was a few, years ago, Bernie started turning around partway through the walk. And again, it was just so funny to us. But also a little sad. A pattern starting, the funny, but also the sad. It was far enough, he was telling us. Too far. He wanted to go home and have his bone now.
Then came the evening I could see was coming and he stumbled trying to go upstairs, as he had been doing on his own for a few years, always around 9:00 p.m.
Well, the few years before he needed us to go up and give him a boost to get on the bed, a boost only MBC could do after a while.
And so we coaxed him into his crate for the night, instead, locking him in.
We knew he'd try the stairs again and hurt himself if we didn't.
After a week we didn't even have to lock him in. He'd settled into the new normal. Moving with the changing times while we lamented them.
There were accidents, changes to diets, probiotics, joint supplements, CBD oil. Last summer was particularly hard with some sort off hellish digestive issue. But we got through it all together, and really, at remarkably little expense.
Because that's the thing, too, isn't it, the expense. There was the time he ate a puffball or piece of moldy bread, something he snatched on the walk, me seeing a puff of smoke as he did, that was really the only big expense, and not nearly as big as it could have been. I thought that was it, Bernie tripping on whatever it was, terrified, but the charcoal or whatever treatment they gave him worked, his overnight stay at the emergency clinic (because of course this happened on a Sunday of a holiday weekend) whittled down to a mere $1000 because he'd mostly recovered by 8:00 p.m.
An hour before bedtime at home. Coincidence? I think not.
Isn't it nice, though, to have the money. The Humane Society takes donations I believe for families who don't. We can spread love with money. It kills me so many people who want to care for a pet, and are otherwise capable of it, just can't afford the expense.
Anyway, if you have or have had a dog you know all about the short puppyhood, medium middle age, and short senior years, that this is how it goes, you will outlive them, your heart will break, and that's life. Love and loss. It's so true what the song says, love hurts, and I don't blame anyone for avoiding it. This is so hard. I didn't anticipate it being this hard. But living together as long as we did, Bernie became part of us, he really did, and we're not sure who we are without him.
We shared a life together and now he's gone.
Whoever could have thought animals don't have souls? Crazy. Just look into those soft brown eyes.
Soulful.
This past year has been one of palliative care, really, most of it falling on MBC as Bernie was too heavy for me to help get up from sitting, carry down back steps to do his business, even hold up while he finished breakfasts and dinners.
We, and by we I mean me, did ease up and start giving him a couple of corn chips at lunch. For a part hound/lab he had a delicate constitution and I was quite strict about his diet, MBC more easy going, other people even more so with their butcher bones. But the couple of corn chips didn't seem to do any harm so they became part of his final year diet.
For his last year he had his lunch of two corn chips while we had our black bean taco salad.
I think now MBC may have missed his true calling. His devotion to Bernie was total. Right down to getting up in the middle of the night, sometimes twice, my keen hearing picking up the sound of Bernie's tags when he'd shake his head, to take him outside to pee. We didn't realize we were doing palliative care until we did. We'd just been adapting to Bernie's increasing needs. But once you realize, oh, this is palliative care, and it was pointed out to us by the vet, then comes thinking about how to make that tough decision, when to call it, the hardest part of pet love, helping your best friend, the one with unconditional love, die, their body having given out, their loving hound heart still pumping.
Who are you doing all this for?
Bernie?
Or yourselves?
So last week MBC made the toughest decision we've certainly faced in a long while, maybe ever, because that's what it feels like right now, of seeing our third wheel out, sending him on to doggie heaven, where there is always a new butt to sniff, ball to chase and an endless row of treats.
Yesterday a mobile vet service came to our home, two lovely young women, so kind, caring, understanding how hard it is to say goodbye to the best dog ever. And while he lay on the couch being fed treats, they administered first a sedative, then a drug to stop that big old loving hound heart.
MAiD. But up to you, not the patient.
And just for your information, it cost $1200. But that's with cremation and return of ashes, an option we wanted, otherwise it's less. Lucky us, we can afford it.
They do shave off a bit of fur and put it in a pouch, which may be all some people need or want, as part of the basic service.
All dogs are the best dogs, aren't they. But Bernie really was the bestest. And although we think we'll never love another dog again, not like that, it's not possible, we can't, we will.
One day.
We're here to love, after all.
Rest in peace, Bernie, our loving hound, the bestest dog there ever was.💗
