So I told you about the Woodge, here. Let me tell you about Sam.
Sam's story isn't one of unmitigated joy. He came to me as an unwilling legacy from a friend who took her own life in August of 2017. She had two dogs: a young Ridgeback adolescent, and an elder statesman of a collie cross (? His breeding wasn't really known. He had classic Entlebucher/Swiss Mountain dog markings, but the double coat of a collie, and very much a shepherd personality.) I say unwilling, because she had wanted me to take the puppy, but Siri was not a good match for my household, and Sam needed the particular care I could offer, plus he and I had really bonded, on those occasions where I visited him at home, as she stopped bringing him to the farm when she got the puppy. He would let me brush him and snuggle him, even when he was very defensive to everyone else: it never occurred to me that there might have been a lot more to it, but later revelations proved painful and difficult, and it really was meant to be that he came to live with me. When we got him he was old, scruffy, tired and pretty much constantly sore. Considering his condition and his loss, I did not expect him to last even a few months. And then, within a week of bringing him home, he had a new lease on life. He was eating all his food, acting like a much-younger dog, and seemed to really enjoy his life
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The painful truths emerged as we looked into his medical history. She had been dosing him with Tramadol, pretty much constantly, since he had suffered a stroke earlier that year. His back and leg muscles had atrophied as a result of the very minimal exercise she was giving him, as she'd take Siri to the park, but not Sam, not anymore. He would wander outside to the yard to do his business, maybe twice a day, and that was the extent of movement he got. Dosed up and pretty much neglected, she seemed just waiting for him to die. She may have been "helping" by giving him very high doses of the meds.
When he came to live with me, he detoxed for a day or so, and then brightened, significantly. Pretty soon he was walking with me and Woodge to the dog park and the corner store, and soon after that he was following me on trail rides, while the Woodge ran ahead to flush whatever game he could find. Hour, hour and a half long rides, Sam would tuck in behind the last horse and just follow, all ove rthe woods and meadows of the farm. He once even followed the neighbour's horse group, all the way back to her place, before realising he had no idea who those people were, and tucked back to the Wode!
So by that winter, he was a happy-go-lucky old man, farting around with Woodge and even running through the piles of leaves at the little park... It was a huge relief, and an honest delight to watch him romp and run around. From that moment,
I did not doubt I had been right in claiming him, even against Caro's wishes.I took him to SCA events, camped with him, snuggled with him, he even climbed onto the couch with me a couple of times. He stayed a lot longer than a few months.
In the summer of the year after I got him, he suffered another stroke, this one at the Wode. We got him home and I consulted with my vet, who has a more holistic approach to pet care, so I followed his directions and made Sam as comfortable as I could. Since our hardwood floors were way too slippery for him to negotiate with his hind end out of whack, I set up our beds in the back yard (it was high summer and super clear, hot weather, so we found it more comfortable than the house, to be honest). For a full week, we hung out in the yard together, and he made a full recovery, just was a bit weaker.
When I broke my arm that fall, he was there for me in the same way as I had been for him: stuck close to my side, breathing his rancid breath on me to let me know he was watching me, even giving me tiny, tentative licks, in high contrast to Woodge's rather thorough face-cleanings. I always felt blessed when Sam dropped a feathery kiss on me. He snuggled up at my side and let me fondle his ears for hours in my drugged up state: I waxed rhapsodic about the softness of those ears more than once. He maintained that close contact all the way through my healing process.
When we moved into our new digs in South Surrey, I got him a new dogbed, purple to match the paint in our room. He liked the carpeted floor of our room, and the space in the new place: the rooms were bigger and there was less difficulty getting in and out of the yard. He loved the new big back yard: barked and ran around with Woodge right till his last week.
In the late fall, he woke up one morning and struggled to get off his bed. I immediately knew he was close to the end: the fight had just gone out of him. I am tearing up even now as I write this, because I still miss the old man. I told the roomies that it was getting close to having to say goodbye, and then I took him for a night walk, as had been our wont, and he got lost at the end of the driveway, which was the confirmation that I was right, he was ready to go. I booked the date with the vet, contacted Barb so she could come out and say goodbye, and then we took him in.
Dr Rama was incredibly kind and understanding, and Kyr and I were able to stay with him and hold him and remind him how loved he was as they gave him the shot and we felt him leave. The Star Eyed Doe stood right there with us as we held his form and hugged him and shared the pain and sorrow of his farewell. It was such a cutting kindness, and one of the most difficult rightnesses I have ever enacted. I kept nothing of him, just his tags and the pictures and memories to hold him to my heart.
Miss you still, Old Man. You were a great Good Dog.
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