RIP Leonidas, Sir Floof

I've seen it said often, that having a pet offers many wonderful days and one terrible one.  Saturday, February 11 2023, was that day for our Leo.   Leonidas, we named him, back in 2009, as a commanding sort of fellow.  Turns out he was a big floofy teddy bear.  Though he had the sort of bark that could make people soil themselves, and he was definitely stand-offish if he did not know you and you were not greeted by one of his people.

But that's the Terv breed.  Belgian Tervuren, the name is often spelled, are a fairly rare breed, thankfully.  Our first, Daisy, was misidentified so many times until we finally figured it out.  When we lost her, it was an immediate turnabout to get another one.  Daisy, my first dog, was so special and wonderful we really wanted more.  

I know, I started about Leo, but I suppose I should put a bit in here about our Daisy, as well.  It was her fault we wanted Leo.

It all started with my wife saying "hey, let's go look at a pet adoption event."  And it is right here where Mr. I Can't Walk Past Pet Stores because I want to adopt all the fuzzy/furry ones should have said "maybe we should wait."  Thank God I did not.  I did, however, say as we got out of the car in South St. Paul that day "we're not going home with a dog."  It's important to set the right level of expectation for children when you are in such a situation.  I mean, I had a four year old and a seven year old, in my head, and in the back seat of the car, along with their mother.  

I've said it many times, I don't know who was the brilliant person who placed this massive animal right in front of the door, but when we walked into the Petsmart and followed the signs to their back room doors - twelve feet tall by probably three feet wide, thin aluminum - you know, the thin stuff that booms like a gong when someone pushes it out of their way and it hits the stop?  Yeah.  Right in front of those two huge doors was a dog that was almost as tall as my four-year-old son was.  And she was sitting on the ground.  

Her coloring was mostly black on her back and sides, with red and blonde undercoat colors covering her lower sides and underside.  But this pretty, massive girl sat there with paws easily the size of my own palms, 4" across.  My son boomed through the door, ran up to this strange animal he'd never seen before, hugged her, and ran off.  She watched him.  I more sedately came over and offered the back of my hand for a sniff.  She almost smiled up at me with her mouth open.

I wandered that room, barely taking my eyes off her.  A striking, pretty, CALM dog - what was wrong with her?  The handlers there said she and her sister had been given up for adoption.  We couldn't afford two dogs - we probably shouldn't have afforded one dog - but she was too pretty and calm to pass up.  After taking her outside for a walk, and learning that she was going to exercise my shoulders to the point of potential dislocation, I thought that might be a wonderful idea.  And so we fell into pet ownership, and walked out of there after having paid something like $150.  With pet food, bowls, and other stuff too.  

Then things got extremely interesting.  We got home, into the back yard, and let Daisy start getting used to us.  My son, being the hyperactive child he was, was running back and forth across the deck, arms flailing all over.  Daisy was trying to follow him, smiling and panting with her mouth open.  She liked the kid.  She was just following him all over.  And my wife was relating to me, quietly, that the handler had told her in a quiet moment that her original owners had decided to get rid of her and her sister because they weren't trustworthy around small children, they said.  What had I just brought into my home, with my kids?

Then my son freaked way the heck out.  He'd been running back and forth on the deck, passing the dog, who treated it as a game.  His arm had passed right through her open mouth.  "I felt her teeth on my arm!" he shrieked.

I'd seen the entire thing.  Starting from only mildly concerned to "did I bring Cujo into my house to feed on my family" - which was when his arm slid into her mouth.  And, as if she'd been doing this for years, Daisy calmly turned her head away from his flailing arm, and then went to the end of the path he'd come from to continue their little game, then she'd turned around.

It was at that instant I made the judgement that whomever had gotten rid of this animal had made a wonderful addition to our family.  I also knew that if my son's fear wasn't corrected in the next few seconds, he might never relax around her - nor would any of us.  With his mother hugging him tightly, I beckoned to Daisy, who immediately came over.  I started to pet her and told my son "You're OK, and even better.  I saw the whole thing."  

"She was going to eat me!" he said.  I continued to pet Daisy.

"No, she wasn't.  She was playing a game with her new friend, the one who hugged her and let her come home with him.  You were running with your arms out, hit her in the mouth, and she turned away immediately, she didn't chomp down like she could have if she wanted.  She wanted to protect you."  She'd gone over to sniff his foot, and looked a little worried.

"She did?"  And he dropped back into the hug.  She looked happy.

I thought "well, at the very least, we've bought a day or two."  I made a mental note to keep an even closer eye on her just in case I misinterpreted what I'd seen.  You can't ever be too careful.

That evening, I got the real education on just how intelligent and loving that dog could be.  For some years, my son had been having what the doctors diagnosed as Night Terrors.  He would come screaming out of his room, eyes wide open, terrified, and yet utterly unreachable.  We had to hug him very tightly and hold him until he woke up, which then brought him back to reality, where he'd recount some terrifying dream.  

This had started a few years before when Elizabeth Smart had been taken from her home in the middle of the night.  She hadn't escaped yet, but was still missing.  And this, I think, settled rather deeply into my son's brain.  Most of his nightmares involved being taken away.  And the dreams all usually started about the same way.  He'd be snuffling and grumphing in his bed, almost like he was awake, when he wasn't.  I'd stood outside his bedroom door one night as the snuffling escalated into full-throated screams as he tore out of his room.  So I could identify the signs, if I was paying attention.  

It had been a busy, involving day, and Daisy was sitting on the couch with my wife.  I was paying attention to them when I noticed sounds from my son's bedroom.  I started to get up, but Daisy beat me.  I hadn't gotten both feet on the ground yet (recliners) when she was gone and in his room.  I looked in.  She'd climbed up on his bottom bunk.  Was laying right next to him.  And he had his arms around her neck.  

She knew.  

From that instant, I knew we had a winner.

A few months later, at a gathering at our house, a young family friend reached up, tangled his sticky hands in her fur, and pulled himself up.  He was almost two at the time, but Daisy stood there, looking at me with a slightly sad, slightly annoyed look.  She did not move.  The little boy stood himself up and turned his face away from Daisy.  The sticky sucker he'd been working on had plastered enough sugary saliva onto his face to provide him a very respectable beard, filled out with dog fur.  

I learned three things.  The first was the person who worried about Daisy around children was an utter idiot.  That dog was gold with children.  She also needed to get to a groomer to do something about all of that fur.  And we were all completely safe.

Which was why Daisy's loss in early 2009 was especially painful.  And the opportunity to add another Terv to our family was too good to pass up. Which is why that picture below is absolutely priceless.  My then-12-year-old son, having lost his first dog, needed a buddy to grow with him.  Which is what you see there to the left.  

The little guy turned into our 73-pound Leo, who was exactly tall enough to walk up to me, if I was standing with my hands hanging at my sides, and his head would fit right under my palm.  It was a trick he enjoyed doing.  One of many he taught us.

That little fluffball shed enough hair over the years that I am convinced had we been able to keep it all, we might have been able to construct a king-sized mattress, some 18" thick, with his cast-off hair.  Some people will tell you that in their homes, dog hair is also a condiment.  I am fairly certain that initially, I used to pull hair out of my mouth with revulsion.  I didn't eat hair. As time went by, it became less revolting - it was a little bit more some of him with me all the time.

We had many great years with that furball.  He started out small, which immensely pleased our other dog, Lily, until Leo decided growth was a good thing.  He grew from that fifteen pound floof you see there to something that was just downright wonderful - unless you were the senior dog of the home who fully expected everyone else on four feet to give her her proper deference.  While the cats did, Leo apparently chose not to on a few occasions.  

There were times I had to get between them and hold them apart.  Both gave as good as they got, most of the time, though occasionally Lily drew blood on Leo.  And Leo did seem to be a bit frightened around her on occasion.

That all ended in 2014 when Lily turned out to have a rather large mass in her, which our vet diagnosed as liver cancer.  He'd seen it in his dogs and others, and knew the odds and expected outcomes, so we ended up making the decision that day to put our baby girl whom we'd had since she was 7 weeks old on her path to the Rainbow Bridge.

Leo was a bit skittish for several months.  We lost Lily in May, and it wasn't until November when I saw a picture my wife showed me of this scared, small dog - not small as in size, but small as in attitude.  She was all curled up, trying not to take up too much space on some moving blankets, in a corner.  After some messages back and forth, we had arranged for some ungodly low price for this puppy to become ours.  My daughter and I took a day off, drove down 35W to I90, and then I 90 across the state, into South Dakota, and to Sioux Falls, a few blocks from my then former former former employer's offices, and we picked up our little Chey Chey.  Cheyanne.  Another Healer, like Lily, who talked smack all the time and sang us the song of her people.

We drove back, watching Cheyanne stay attached to my daughter and close by, all the time.  No exploring, just in the car.  We'd arranged, by phone, to meet my wife and son, who had Leo out for his long nightly walk, at a neutral school parking lot a few blocks from where we lived.  We figured meeting on neutral territory might go well, because Cheyanne had been smelling blankets and other things of Leo's in the van while we drove back.  We had nothing of Cheyanne's to prepare Leo.  But he came across the parking lot and gently sniffed at Cheyanne.  Cheyanne, who had been discovered when she was attached by a group of dogs, one of whom had her by the throat, did not cower, did not back down, but she did not challenge Leo, either.  

I think both of them recognized that they needed someone else in that first instant.  We got home, and went in, and all remained well.  They did fight, a bit, but nothing at all like the blood drawing snarling matches Leo endured with Lily.

But we knew we were on a timer.  Most Tervs make it to twelve or so, doing well.  After that, they tend to go downhill fast.  Daisy was, our vet proved, poisoned by something she ate, most likely something thrown into our yard by someone who was scared by her snarly "get away, you bastard" bark - which could intimidate if you didn't know her well as we did.  Then again, we were her people.  But Leo, we knew, was slowing down.  

In the spring of 2022 I started noticing him slowing down.  My sweet gentle teddy bear was starting to drag his hind legs a bit when out for our nightly walks.  He slowed down, and was quite happy to let Cheyanne go out front.  Late last summer he really slowed down, he began to get finicky about his food, and he wasn't doing stairs all that well.  He would usually go up and down to see my wife, but stayed primarily in our living room.  He almost never came down to sleep next to our bed as he had for many years.

We tried a lot of things.  Massages, accupuncture, and a few different medications.  Eventually he was on a gabapenten and a half a day, one dose at 11 am, one dose at 11 pm.  Closer to the end we added the occasional carprofet, first thing in the morning before breakfast so he could get up and get to his food bowl, one usually around midday to early evening to keep him moving, and as needed.  He also got an allergy pill, some probiotic powder with his dinner, along with some glucosamine/condroitin chews for joint health.

And we were regularly in to see our vet, who really came to love Leo too.  At first it was just like any other family pet, I'm sure, but late last summer, a new family brought in a Terv puppy, less than 6 months old.  And she saw what we did when we first saw Leo.  The wee floof.  They're so fluffy and so darned cute, it's hard not to love them immediately.  

Even at the very end, Leo remained sweet.  They knew he had problems on linoleum floors, so they brought in a mattress and blanket for Leo to lie down for his last visit.  When he tried to stand and couldn't, they slid him into the back room and turned him so that he could see us while they inserted the final catheter.  Several of the vet techs had come in to help, and they were crying, too.  Leo remained sweet and bright eyed until his girlfriend, as my wife called the vet who had become closest to him, and who had come in, on her day off, to help us say goodbye, pushed the final dose of medication into him.  He put his head down onto his paws after looking at all of us crying, and closed his eyes one last time.  At 12:34 pm on February 12, 2023, our floof took his last breath.  That soft fuzzy head remained worm and perfectly fit to my hand, though it will never come up from behind me silently and slide right underneath to tell me "hey Dad, you were just waiting to scritch me, weren't you?"  My son, who lifted him into the truck, had him on his lap while we drove to the vets, and endured Leo's final bowel movement on him, cried too.  We all did.

You don't lose a family member without crying, I've learned.  Not if they're that deeply loved.  We were all blessed, deeply and profoundly, by having Leo.  And now, I'm sure, he's running pain free in a big open warm field, with plenty of shady places to lay down for naps, plenty of spots to drink fresh water, and plenty of nice friends - including Lily, who remembers her bigger baby brother, who was always there, for a cuddle, a wrestle, a fight - be that because of her, with her, or for her.  

Some day, I'll get to see all of them again.  Gillie, the kitten who went first, Tish, who went second, Daisy, Charlie, our short-term cat who charmed us all, Ella, the cat we had to give away, Lily, Leo, and ... well, all of the future pets whom I may outlive.  At my age, I just don't know.  Another 14 year dog will see me at 73, which may or may not be some day I'll see.  But I know if I'm no longer here, my kids would care for any pet I leave behind, as well.

I just really miss that floof.  Leo always had a smile when he saw me, or any of us.  We were a family.  He was my pup.  And while there will continue to be tears in the coming days and weeks, eventually the good memories, the silly memories of that dog, will overwhelm the final months and minutes, and I'll smile when I think of him.  And in his honor, we'll find another dog who needs us like we need them.  It'll work out in the end.