Seven Years Now

Photo copyright Wings, 2021; all rights reserved.

It's impossible.  It cannot be seven years now since we lost our big guy, the one in the foreground there. But a quick search of prior posts proves that it's true. [That photo was taken in April of 2011, on the day we buried their little (but older) sister Dom, and they were both in mourning.]

Major was the one I failed, terribly and utterly, and no, I do not want argument from anyone about it, because I know the truth of it. He had developed cancer (as, it would turn out, would all of his adoptive siblings, dogs and horses both, because we have a large and deadly animal cancer cluster in this area, maybe environmental contaminants from the old moly mine, or maybe from what they've been doing up at the Ski Valley). He had had such a hard life before he came to us, and all we wanted was to give him whatever years he had left in comfort (and that was before the cancer). 

He had been abused, neglected, starved and abandoned, apparently left tied out on a chain in the middle of the summer monsoons, which are terrifying even to humans; how much more for a young dog? Whomever had him first also cropped his tail badly, ripped off his dewclaws, and just generally set him up for a lifetime of pain and fear. He wound up at the shelter where my parents lived, then with them, and then with us when it became clear my mom couldn't handle him anymore. By then his insulin resistance had kicked in and he was overweight, hip joints in terrible pain, and even thought the car I drove then was fairly low to the ground, I still had to pick up all 125 pounds of him and lift him into the back to bring him here, because he couldn't climb even that foot or two for himself.

And then he got here.

Twenty-five fenced acres to roam at whim and will, absolutely fascinating smells everywhere for a scent hound, and good healthy food and fresh water and a safe place to sleep indoors for the rest of his life. He was in heaven. He dropped 25 pounds in the space of a couple of months, and in short order was running, jumping, patrolling all the way around the fenceline every day, hips apparently fully healed. So up until his last months, we were at least able to give him a good life. Those final days were complicated by a bitterly cold winter and the fact that we no longer had the house and were crowded into that toxic tin can, with no funds for continual vet visits, and we had to do what we could for him ourselves. It was hard. So hard. But we loved him, and we had made him that promise. You know the one.

Major was a wigglebutt when he was happy, not enough tail to wag effectively so he just wagged his whole back end. He was also scared far too much of the time, effects from his early years of trauma and abuse. But he also lived up to his name (not one we hung on him, by the way, but it was what he knew) when it counted: In the spring of 2009, then year-old pups Raven and She-Wolf came across a prairie rattler in the south hayfield, thinking they could play with it. Major instinctively knew better and threw himself between them and it; I watched it all unfold as I was racing across the field myself. He grabbed it, bit down hard, and threw it, sustaining a snakebite on his muzzle. I couldn't reach Wings, who was gone with the truck, and so I had to resort to the old suck-and-spit routine on a dog's muzzle between each effort to dial. Fortunately, I had my peoples' own traditional remedy for just such an eventuality, and after I had done what I could, I made a poultice, plastered it onto his muzzle, and kept him quiet until Wings got home and we could get him to the vet for Sunday emergency care. Two vets came in, and both were shocked to see that there was no swelling, no redness, nothing; I had to search through his whiskers and fur for the fang-marks to show them where he'd been bitten. They concluded that a half-course of anti-venin (hideously expensive even at that) would be sufficient, so that's what we did, and was enough.

I have never forgotten that moment when our scaredy-boy set aside all thought for himself to protect the younger ones. It showed a strength that normally wasn't visible to anyone on the outside, and I was so proud of him that day. We were always proud of him, of course; he was always a Good Boy. And so today, at 12:30 (the time that he left us seven years ago) I took some water and cedar and tobacco to his resting place, as I always do for the ones with four legs and feathers and no lesser spirits than humans have . . . and found Wings already there, putting out a little of the food he loved so much in life, kibble, wet food, a little raw meat that was his favorite thing in the world.

We love you, Major. We will always feed your spirit.

 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2021; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.