Chapter 28A. Our Last Newfoundland Dog

Loving dogs is a life-time effort.  I’ve lived with them my entire life.  Let’s just say GB married into it. And he had no idea where it would lead.  Having dogs is a life choice.  Having Newfoundlands is a lifestyle choice.  The size, the stubbornness, the drool, the hair, the expense are all things from which the average, normal human back away.  

Not us. Over our nearly 50 years we learned that this breed was majestic, strong, sweet beyond description, tolerant, loving and so very easy to live with.

I never knew they existed until one day I was passing the old Tiffin Inn and there were bears in the parking lots.  I stopped, asked questions, and fell in love.  After the deaths of our first two dogs, Cruiser R Roozer and Barney, we received our first Newfie.

We joined the local Newf club.  We collected Newf paraphernalia.  We purchased a fabulous bronze sculpture of a Newf.  We participated in water rescue and drafting (cart pulling at Christmas in Larimer Square).  We won awards.  We tried to show one of our Newfs but she had none of it.  We returned dejected from her debut and had her spayed.  At back yard events for the Diana Price Fish Foundation, we kept the Newfs in the rabbits’ yard and put up a sign that said “Pet the Rare Newfoundland Cow”.  Max, our first Newf worked as a therapy dog in the children’s wing of University Hospital.  Later, when my sister-in-law staged her annual summer camp, “Tickles and Tennies”, in our garden, Max and Winnie watched over the 15 five-year-old children.  This was good because we had a pond at the time, and we didn’t want children wandering into it.  On the 4^th of July, the children produced a parade from our house down to the park.  They dressed the two Newfies up as floats and used yarn as leashes.  Yarn.  When we walked them, they’d pull us and run roughshod over our bodies.  With the 5-year-olds, they complied with yarn.

The Newfs have been our standard.  Our logo in life.  And, now no more.  Yesterday, I said the loss of this breed is another piece of our lives crumbling to aging.  It’s true.  If we were ten years younger, we’d find another Newfie.  Well, that’s when we found Boomer, isn’t it.  We were younger and healthier.  Our bones weren’t brittle, and we didn’t ache every time we stood from a chair in which we sat too long.

It is the loss of a lifestyle choice.  It’s another limitation on our lives that we didn’t ask for.  That we don’t want.  

Today, I’m looking for a dog to keep Monkey and us company.  We’re looking for a small, 25 pounds or less scruffy rescue.  I’m filling out applications and hoping something will stick.  We’ll love whoever we get.  We’ll laugh at those future antics; we’ll work hard to train for good citizenship.  And we’ll be heartbroken when we lose Monkey and the new, unknown friend.

A pair of small dogs will be a different lifestyle choice.  One that will fit within the parameters of the 55+ community we’re looking at.  I’ll continue to scan the world for Newfies walking in a park or along a sidewalk.  I’ll always stop, get out of the car and, with tears in my eyes, tell that lucky owner how once I loved a Newfoundland Dog.