NOTE: If you choose not to read this series I understand. I will resume normal posts on December 8th.

This is part 4 of the toughest post I’ve ever put up on this blog. As you read it you will see why: it details the final week in the life of my beloved dog, Maisie. This is set to go up on the web during the week after we have her put down. I know I won’t be up to writing anything new for a few days.

I started writing this on Friday of the week before her death. When I woke up Saturday I knew there was much more to say and decided to make it a journal of my thoughts and feelings during that last week of our lives together. Her life is so intertwined with mine that where her gray butt begins and my gray beard ended was often indistinguishable. One big lump on the couch, one snoring mass on the bed, one contented ball of fur and drool on the carpet, and one love so deep that my head explodes when I think about it now.

Please hold us in your prayers. There are three grieving souls at this minute and one who’s gone on to wait ahead for us. Because if Jesus can count the feathers on a bird, I know He certainly has a fresh bowl of kibble and some water for a Sheltie. He’ll take good care of her until we can join her down the road.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26th, 2012.

I’ve had a fair number of dogs in my life. And that history has to bear on the story of Maisie and how she became the girl that she is today. Some of those dogs were in our family before I was aware of them and gone before I missed them. The first that had any kind of an impact on my memory was a bulldog that seemed to come and go in short order. The second, the one who taught me most of the really great lessons of compassion, was Bruno.

Bruno was a Mahogany Sable Collie. He was a big dog, 70+ pounds, all muscle and fang. Many the neighborhood dog and cat had scars and serious internal injury from his powerful jaws. You would have had to have been insane to try and hurt any of his kids – he’d end your life.

Like most herding dogs he was fiercly loyal. But Collies have a gentle side that the movies and television show “Lassie” highlighted. He was not a rocket scientist, but he was the most loyal and kind friend a little boy could have. There was not a thing he wouldn’t do for you as a friend. Many a day I spent on the back step of our home telling him all of my small troubles as a child. He would listen quietly and then lick away the tears on my freckled little face. And all was right in the world once again. To this day, the smell of a wet dog brings a smile to my face because it reminds me of Bruno.

We had some other dogs, Belle was the first. She was a Great Dane who didn’t understand that no matter how much somebody deserved a bite in the rear, it was socially unacceptable. She met a tragic end due to that proclivity. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did, but die she did.

Her successor was Duke. Another Great Dane. But he wasn’t named after John Wayne. He was named after the character in Doonesbury, Uncle Duke. There was something roguish about that dog from his very first day in our house. The two of us formed a fast friendship when he was a little puppy and that grew while I was in college. I worked nights and he and I hung out together when the rest of the family was at school or work.

I’d often throw him into the car and we’d go around town together. Duke never allowed himself to be driven around in the back seat. He insisted on the front seat. Matter of fact, he chewed through my shoulder belt because it was in his way when he wanted to look out my window. His window wasn’t good enough. Only the driver’s window would do. And that created problems when we were on the freeway. Thankfully he took it well when I elbowed him in the chest and pushed him out of my way so that I could see out the windshield. I still think he figured it was his car more than mine.

Duke gave me my start in the voice over business. It was his goofy personality that inspired my first “regular” voice. I decided early on that he needed to talk. God only knows why, but he just cried out to speak with humans. Between my brother Dave, the dog himself, and yours truly, my poor mother was conditioned to respond directly to the dog when “he” spoke. Even in retrospect it was pretty darned funny. The dog scored more snacks from my mom than you can imagine. She’d be in the kitchen and he’d walk over to see what she was doing. Before she realized it she’d be giving him a piece of whatever was at hand simply because one of us would say (in the very patented “Duke voice”), “Ellen, I need some cheese or I’m going to start barking.” Given his thunderous roar (140 pounds of muscle and attitude) that was enough to prompt the extortion fee he sought.

I still have Duke’s tags. He died while I was in Europe. I’d lost my own “dog tags” long before and when I opened the envelope from my mom and found the letter and the tags I did two things. I cried like a baby and I put them around my neck. I stood many an inspection and went to sea identified as “Duke. I belong to O. Courtemanche 454-8203” All they ever do in the Navy is tap your chest to make sure you have them on under your shirt. Never once did they discover that my rabies vaccination had expired years before.

My wife and I adopted a stray in Spain, Rubashka. His name meant “shirt” in Russian. Get it? Short-sleeved Shirt (Courtemanche means short sleeved.) He was so maladjusted from running loose as a puppy that we couldn’t keep him. We tried really hard but he was just too much for my wife to handle when I was gone for months at a time. He was the only dog I ever willingly gave away. I took him to the animal shelter on base and gave them a giant bag of dog food and all the cash I had on me that day. I was humiliated that I’d failed this dog and felt terrible that he’d probably be euthanized. A few weeks later I saw him walking next to a Spanish farmer on a local road. I was off the hook emotionally and genuinely glad for the dog. I hope he had a long and happy life.

The next dog we had was here in Minnesota. His name was Nigel Aqueed Dijaj Courtemanche (A.K.C. registered, dont you know.) The name meant Nigel Colonel Chicken in Arabic, because he had a whispy little goatee under his snout just like Colonel Sanders.

Nigel was proof to me that God sends angels to Earth to carry out His wishes. Nigel (often known as “Spygel” because he liked to sit under the neighbor’s window and listen to them talk) was crucial in his support of my wife during some very dark times. He was her anchor, her protector, and her friend. I was his friend as well, but he viewed me as competition for the woman we both loved and from time to time he’d challenge me for the role of pack leader. Luckily for me that hair in his eyes allowed me to catch him off guard. He was a big boy and a cartoon character in many ways. But he saved my wife’s life with his love and I owe him my love and loyalty forever.

In his later years he became incontinent. That’s a big problem when a dog weighs 90 pounds. But since he had no tail we were able to put adult diapers on him and make it work. I remember the pitying looks the clerk at Walgreen’s gave me when I bought box of the extra large size. I couldn’t decide which was better – letting this pretty girl think I wore diapers or letting her think I was nuts for buying them for a sheepdog.

Nigel was accompanied in his last two years by Edzell, our other Sheltie. But before Nigel had to go he taught me the value of pre-planning the time and place of a dog’s exit. I hung on to Nigel too long. His last two weeks were unpleasant for both of us. He was miserable and I was angry that he … I guess that he didn’t try as hard as I did to prolong his life. On the day he died we put him in my Bronco II and drove around a while. He loved riding in that thing almost as much as Duke loved my old Pontiac Catalina . When we pulled up in front of the vet’s office it was the beginning of a really sad and dramatic day. But my vet, Mark Goodell, showed what a great friend and doctor he is by his actions. When my wife and I got home from lunch a condolence bouquet was waiting on our front porch. Class act doesn’t begin to describe Mark.

Edzell, just a young fellow at the time, became deeply depressed in the wake of Nigel’s death. Say what you will about dogs not having emotions, but you are wrong. He clearly was lonely and missed his friend. We were so worried about him that we changed our plans and got the new puppy months ahead of schedule. Edzell proved to be a great big brother and came to love and cherish the new dog as much as the humans in the house. It is not uncommon for the two of them to be curled up together on the floor in a tight ball of fur and warmth. They take turns watching over the house and lay butt-to-butt in the yard so that they can observe 360 around them.

And now they’re old. Really old. And once again Edzell is going to be alone in the house with the people because the puppy that came home early to save him is going to leave before him. Maisie was that puppy. And now she’s going on ahead.

I have to stop now. I really can’t even see the screen to type. But I hope that Ed hangs in there until Spring – there’s another puppy that needs to be trained in our ways and I can’t think of a better tutor than my friend Edzell.