Kid Kaiser. 1994 - 10 October 2006

I’ve never met a more . . . unique dog. My old GSD was a calm, fairly quiet dude who took things as they came without much complaint. He was an accepting fellow. Kaiser was different. He believed the world operated—or should operate—according to his desires and notions, and blew off anyone or anything that didn’t. He was incredibly stubborn, very dog dominant, and could be pushy if he thought he could intimidate someone. He was also a mush who loved to be petted, who believed anyone who came into the house should first and foremost give their attention to him, who was puzzled and fascinated by children, and who thought the curtains blowing in the breeze were downright spooky and the best place to be when that happened—or worse, when the door squeaked and moved on its own from the wind—was in someone’s lap. He was indifferent to balls and chewable bones, considered squeaky toys—even on the television—the work of the devil, but loved a good stick. Failing a good one, he’d take what he could get, even if it was just a long piece of grass.

He’d been failing for a while, and what we guessed was a stroke a couple of months ago had more or less left him living on borrowed time. Yesterday we said goodbye. DH was with him.

The house is strangely quiet now, and the spaces he occupied seem all too empty.

Kaiser was DH’s dog. Actually, I’m not sure he considered himself anyone’s dog, but this was where he connected. He will be missed.

Janice had to say goodby to one of her dogs today, and I can only wish her peace.

Not long ago, a professor commented that he’d visited my website and seen the information I have posted about dogs, including the photos of our beasts. He asked how they were doing and how many we had now. “We’re down to one,” I answered, and when he asked how that one was doing, I told him. Honestly, but as dog people tend to do, with a sense of humor. Kaiser is very unstable and weak in the back end, as German Shepherds tend to be when they get old. When he’s in a stand, his back end sinks to the point where he finds himself kneeling. He wobbles, and cannot back up. In order to move backwards, he either does a sit-and-spin movement or moves forward in a circle, depending on how much space he has. If he has no space and has really crammed himself into a corner, he needs help. He’s reached the point where his back end often moves at a different speed than his front, and he makes you think of one of those old black-and-white comedies where the sidecar or caravan breaks loose and suddenly finds itself passing the towing car.

The prof was shocked that I smiled when I spoke of the different speeds. “But that’s sad,” he said.

I know it’s sad, but it’s also funny in a black humor sort of way, and you simply have to accept that. If you can’t laugh at the little things—such as when Kaiser couldn’t move because he was standing on his own tail and couldn’t figure out what was holding him—then all you’re left with is the sadness. And if all you’re left with is the sadness, then the last year of your friend’s life will be grim indeed . . . for both of you.

You know this day will come when you add that animal to your life; it’s a thing you should be prepared for, and which you should expect. That doesn’t necessarily make it easier, but it—and those silly little light moments—makes it bearable.