My favorite furball

2 fridays ago, I learned that my favorite dog in the whole world, *my* dog Lomu, the big black Newfoundland I had named after the legendary All-Black rugby player, had passed away. Fucking cancer. It broke him in a barely a week.

He would have turned 12 this week. Pretty remarkable for a dog that size, although he had been looking pretty rough for the last 2 years, plagued as he was by various begnign ailments . He hardly looked the splendid bear-like dog he was in his youth, robust, with shiny fur, a big head with both intimidating and yet harmless shiny black eyes. No matter how much he hurt in his last couple years though, he couldnt resist running and barking after the delivery cars when they came up to the house. Bright yellow postal vans were his favorites. The mailman never delivered the mail any other way than through his car window, barely opened more than a crack. He was harmless to those he knew though. A big deep booming bark and intimidating size, but nothing more. Of course, when you have a 130 pounds all-black unidentified furball running at you, you dont take too many chances.

I remember he almost succombed to a bad stomach virus his second summer. That August, I spent most of my days lying besides him in the kitchen, feeding him cookies and helping him drink when he couldn't move his rear-end. That young bear manage to pull through back then though. This time, he was too weak, too old to resist.

3 years ago, the housekeeper, who loves to hunt (he spends most fall days perched in a tree-house he built himself, camouflaged, waiting for the migratory birds to fly by) bought himself a young white retriever called Tina to help him bring back the birds he shoots down. Since the first day, we made her sleep in the kennel with Lomu, so she wouldnt be alone and so she would quickly get used to sleeping outdoors. She immediately adopted Lomu as a surrogate dad, and the old nut discovered in himself a fatherly instinct we never even suspected he had. From a wild, stubborn, slightly thick, barely trained bear, he morphed into a protective, patient, borederline caring role model and play-partner. An amazing transformation. I often wonder if that's what'll eventually happen to me.

For the last week, Lomu could barely move and seemed in a lot of pain, but the usually frantic and energetic Tina kept sticking by him, and seemed to know something was wrong. Instead of running laps around him and tugging at tail or the remains of his mane, she'd lie by his side licking his nose. Dogs know.

When they took him to the vet, she came along and the vet had her lie on top of him on the table so she wouldnt be looking for him after it was all said and done. The vet was unequivocal. He had to be put to sleep. Even he was shaken by the news, since Lomu had been his only Newfie "customer" for the past 12 years. My parents got the call and were heartbroken because they couldnt fly back in time to say goodbye. The housekeeper came back from the vet in tears; that dog had been his everyday companion for 10 years.

I'd been dreading an email like this for a year now. Last time i saw him back in September, i made my goodbyes knowing it could be the last time I saw him. It doesnt make it any easier to take in though.
He's in a better place I think. I imagine puppy heaven is made of a big fields of tall grass in which he can run around wildly, chasing insects and rabbits (or his own shadow), giant t-bones and cheese crusts everywhere, sticks and postal mopeds to chase at will, and a giant beach-style pool he can swim in like an otter.

Rest in peace buddy.