Five years for our big guy.

Photo copyright Wings, 2019; all rights reserved.

The five-year point came about 12:30 this afternoon: Major, who, were he still with us, would have hit (or nearly so) the improbable age of 20. As it was, even hitting 15 was not merely improbable; in his case, it was downright miraculous, given his size and the terrible start he was given in life.

We didn't choose his name; that came from Mom and Dad, and while we would have given him something far more fitting, by the time he came to Wings and me, the name was firmly ingrained. Who knows what it was before, or even whether he had a name; what we do know is that he suffered terrible abuse and neglect.

When he came up here, we thought he probably didn't have more than a couple of years. Early starvation led to metabolic syndrome, and massive weight gain; his hips were bad, and he could barely haul himself into the back of my old low car, even with help. A few months here, and he was a new dog: slender, muscled, active, always doing his morning patrol of the land, always ready to eat the healthy food we made sure he got.

Even so, I failed him. He developed cancer, too; as one of our vets puts it, everyone who lives long enough will eventually get it, and Major was no exception. As with the others, though, the toxicity of that topical treatment undoubtedly played a role, and I will never forgive myself for that, or for failing him thereafter. And no, it's not up for debate, so no need to comment on it. Even so, he had a far better life here than he would have had otherwise (a life, period; his earlier situation was so dire that he would not have survived long enough to come to stay with us in the first place). But here, he had all the healthy food and clean water he needed, plus twenty-five acres for roaming, patrolling, chasing prairie dogs (and, despite his bulk and age, catching them fairly regularly), and green grass and abundant shade for resting. He had warmth in the winter, safety at night, and shelter from the storms that terrified him so. Most of all, he had a life free of abuse and filled with love — from us, and from all his adopted sibs, like Griffin up there with him in the photo, resting his chin on Major's back. If memory serves, that was a moment of shared grief, right after we lost Dom in 2011. he also had a dog coat from his aunt, and he was so proud of it that I could rarely get it fastened before he took off in it. Somewhere, there's a photo of him with it half off him, Raven trailing behind indignantly because he didn't have one.

This is a hard one. It's made all the more so by the knowledge that Raven will be joining him before too much more time passes, and from the same disease. But we have always tried to give them everything, even now: At the appointed time, I took him some cedar and tobacco, gave him a little smoke; Wings is setting aside a little raw elk for him, and we'll take that and some water to his resting place, too. He lies below the big blue spruce on the northwest side, between Griffin and Lilith, and the spruce? It's thriving.

We love you, Big Guy. You're always in our hearts.



All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.