Chapter 28. Our Last Newfoundland Dog

I sit here tonight alternating between collecting my thoughts, wiping my tears, and going over to where Boomer lay.  Today, his long struggle with myelopathy ended with the collapse of his rear legs and the loss of control over bowel and bladder.  Tonight, a veterinarian will come and peacefully send Boomer away from us. 

Boomer is a Landseer Newfoundland.  Black and white.  He’s gorgeous, sweet, and  today still strong enough to drag himself a few inches.  

It’s been 39 years, nearly to the day, when we acquired our first Newfoundland, Max.  A year later, we purchased a gorgeous puppy to be his companion.  They were the best of friends.  After them came Elon, a sweet older girl who lived six months with us.  Then Winter, a dog who had been overbred and was terrified of the world.  We purchased Doc from our dear friend Linda Morley, a Newfoundland breeder we trusted.  He joined Winter and made her whole. And after Winter died, Nisha, another rescue from Pueblo, joined Doc. Our sweet Doc died suddenly at age 8.  A few months later, a young man named Miguel contacted us about dog-sitting his Newfie for a month while he put his own life in order.  That was Boomer, a strapping, gorgeous, rambunctious two-year old.  I remember calling GB and telling him to watch out!  We were going to fall in love with this dog.  We did and we were grateful when Miguel asked if we wouldn’t mind having Boomer live with us permanently.  

Boomer had his own unique way of looking at the world.  Newfies do that, but Boomer was more.  He didn’t like water.  He didn’t know how to retrieve.  His favorite toy was a stick, ignoring the many stuffies I collected to interest him. He wouldn’t go in or out of elevators.  He couldn’t remember how to get in the car.  Couldn’t use the ramp or the stairs to the car.  Oh, we’d teach him and ply him with treats, and he’d do it but by the next outing, he couldn’t remember just how car entry was accomplished. Of course, he loved snow and all winter-long we’d open the door to let him hang on the terrace.  He’d then want to come in.  We’d open the door.  He wouldn’t move.  We offered treats.  He wouldn’t move.  This routine happened a good thousand times during his life with us.  He loved Nisha and after she died, he turned his attention to our other two dogs, the Grifters, 20 pounds each of bad behavior.  He guarded our chickens and permitted them entry into the house whenever the door was open.

Boomer is our last Newfoundland.  Neither of us have the physical strength to work with a 140-pound dog who notoriously becomes as immovable as a sack of rocks. We love Boomer.  We love this breed beyond good sense.  Our lives will be lessened by this loss and make no mistake, it is another loss credited to aging.

Boomer’s favorite resting spot was in our front doorway, half in, half out.  He preferred the door open so he didn’t miss any passing dogs, people, or bikes; nor would he miss any household activities.  And, this afternoon, Boomer let us know he wanted to go out and go to his favorite spot. With great effort, GB and I lifted his paralyzed back legs with a towel and helped him walk from the south-side garden across the lawn, up the wilderness trail and to the front hall off the north entry courtyard.  It was there, in the frigid air he loved so well that the kind veterinarian named Rebecca came and sent him on his way.