Godspeed, Loyal Heart

We never had a dog when I was a kid. I don’t think either of my parents liked them. I got my first dog, a beautiful Husky with one blue eye, the other brown, when our first two daughters were still very young. We named him “Thor”. He was a better dog than we deserved.

I’ve had many dogs since. My love for Newfoundlands saw four into our lives. One of them, it was discovered while still a puppy, was part of a litter that was wrought with a genetic disease. It is heartbreaking to bury a long awaited puppy in your backyard with two little sobbing children at your side. Our longest lived Newfie was Luna. She was a rescue from a backyard breeder. From there she went to her first adopted home where she got in a fight with two other Newfies. Her new owner returned her to the Newfie rescue, explaining that she had a “heart to heart conversation” with Luna. She asked Luna if she could live peacefully there, with the woman’s other dogs and Luna told her (telepathically I’m guessing) “No, I will never live here peacefully.” So the woman returned her. We were grateful for Luna’s proclamation every day of her life. She was the sweetest, most dedicated dog you could imagine. She died at twelve years old. 

I have loved everyone of my dogs. They become family to us as, I’m sure, they do to most people. But Louis was on a different level altogether. I was heartbroken and deflated after our last Newfie ripped apart and tried to kill our Border Collie and thus, had to be euthanised. I didn’t think I could stand the stress of managing another aggressive dog (an issue with some lines of some breeds - I had two beautiful, problematic Newfoundland males over the years). I started looking at Great Danes. I am, admittedly, a lover of large breed dogs. I like a dog that can take my weight, and bump against my legs and reach up with its nose and touch my hand. There’s substance there, weight and solidity. 

I remember having long conversations with our Great Dane breeder and telling her what I was looking for in temperament. She really got it. She chose for me the most lovely little puppy. Blue eyed, blue fur, true blue heart. I loved him instantly. 

Our daughter, Mila, said, “Take a picture of him on my lap every month so we can document how big he gets.” I never thought it would be him outliving her. I never would have even imagined it.

He grew and he grew. He was silly and sweet, sometimes a bit timid with our other dogs. Sometimes not so timid with baby rabbits. We trained him. He learned. He came when we called. We went on walks in the forest and watched him, more stallion than dog, sprinting, full out, over hills and down valleys, chasing deer. So close he got to almost catching them that I thought he actually slowed himself down. It was in the chase after all. What would he ever do if he caught one?

But something changed when Mila died. Louis slowed himself down for me, too. He knew there was something wrong. He came to me slowly and carefully and lied at my feet. When I laid on the kitchen floor, sobbing in front of the wood stove in the middle of the night, he came beside me and offered his soft belly as a pillow. I remember lying on him and hearing his heartbeat and rubbing his silken ear. He was my touchstone, my anchor to this world when I was in danger of disintegrating.

There were days, so many, many days when we would head out into the forest and walk to the little lake where we would stand in silence, only the wind and the birdsong around us. In us. He would sit beside me, leaning against my thighs and I would rest my hand on his head. And we could stay that way for as long as I needed to. If I stood there and wept for an hour, he would, too. He never faltered, never left my side. I was never too much for him. He never ran away, no matter how raw or feral my pain emerged. He took the whole weight of me. 

When I released the anguish of my broken mother’s heart, he would stop his powerful, joyful thoroughbred sprints through the wilds and return solemnly to me. To walk at my side. I would often sit on the earth and he would come to me and sit, inches from my face, staring into my eyes. We were the same height like that. And I would say, “Who are you?”, and he would lick my chin. And I would rub my hands over his enormous head and he would stay, staring in my eyes, just being there. He was my friend.

Even when I didn’t acknowledge his acts of loyalty and love, he remained steadfast. He was peace and love when I needed it. He was goofy and playful when I didn’t know I needed it. When I ground my morning coffee he pinned me to the wall with his strong body. When I chopped onions for dinner he pinned me to the kitchen island. When I stirred the soup pot he pinned me to the oven. He was never close enough to me. He loved me. 

We took those pictures of Mila and him as he grew. At some point we forgot about it and stopped taking them. He knew Mila. She loved him and he loved her too. Another thread connecting us to our earthly Mila dissolved in the aether. He got bigger than her lap. And then he took the weight of her, too. And then she was gone. And now he is gone, too.

The vet said it was hereditary. The generational curse of the blue king of dogs. But that’s not why. I know the real reason. He took the weight of me. The whole, collapsing, dead weight of my grief. He absorbed it all and stood, stoic and strong until the weight could be borne no more.

My dear Louis, my dear, dear friend. You were a king amongst dogs, a loyal heart, and a beautiful soul. I will watch for you everywhere. I will listen for you in the wild winds of the forest. Thank you for your love. 

Now, go find Mila.