Blackie Blankenhorn 1995?-2010

It was my sad duty this week to give Blackie her final rest.

She came into our lives on Christmas of 1996. Santa sent her, we told the kids.

Santa was my friend T.Bass, who was house-sitting for us that Christmas and brought Blackie up from a shelter in Sumter County, Georgia, where he lived. She was 18 months old, the shelter said. Maybe. But shelters have a habit with adult animals. They cut their age to whatever seems acceptable. No one wants an old dog.

Blackie was sad. Blackie had been abused. She was frightened all the time, would cower and drop to pee if you came in too close or too fast. She hid in a corner. She had heartworms. She had them bad. She was in the vet hospital twice before they were gone.

We never knew what type of dog Blackie was. Some thought her a Scottie. Some thought her a spaniel. Some thought her a terrier. For some years I thought she was several dogs in one. She didn't hold together that well.

The kids named her Blackie. Because they were kids, and her fur was black. Years later I learned, on a family cruise, that this was a family name. Remember the movie San Francisco, starring Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy? Gable played a night club owner named Blackie Norton on the Barbary Coast. He was modeled on a real person, I was told on the cruise, a real nightclub owner from that place and time, whose nickname was also Blackie. Blackie Blankenhorn.

The kids also saved Blackie. A few months after we got her they walked around the block. Next day they asked for a rope, said they were walking around again. At the end of that rope came a puppy, a big chow-shepherd mix, whom they quickly named Brownie.

Brownie grew into a happy 65 pound dog, and Blackie's leader. She stayed around 26 pounds, the same size Brownie was when we found him. They lived together until this week. Brownie had a habit of running away, not to stay but just to play. And she would follow him. They would go down the street, him circling her like she was a sheep, her trying to follow but just wandering.

We learned the hard way that the best thing to do was not to follow. When you followed Brownie, he went further. If you waited for him to come home, he knew the way. And Blackie would come home, too.

The lesson was learned when our son, then about 10, made the mistake of following the two dogs when they ran off one day. About an hour later Blackie came wandering home. A half hour after that Brownie did too. Jenni was frantic, started driving around the neighborhood.This was when we still had wired phones, so I hung back and waited. Good news did come. Our son had wandered two miles away, trying to get behind the dogs and chase them home, and gotten completely lost. A neighbor let him call home. A possible tragedy became a family story.

Brownie was a rambunctious dog, and he helped Blackie find her inner dog. She became less frightened. She even stood up to Brownie. He would try to nuzzle her, to explore her with his mouth, as chows will do, but she turned and barked loudly at him. Get off my back, she would bark. He would nip a few times and finally get the message. Until next time.

Blackie had a hard start to life. I don't know how long that was. She remained reserved all her life. She had a little dog bed in the corner that she spent most of her time in. She slept a lot, always. She would growl when eating her kibble, warning everyone away. But she knew to bark when she needed to pee or poop, and she barked later to come back in.

I finally figured out what breed she probably was. A Tibetan terrier. These are sometimes known as "epileptic dogs" because so many suffer from seizures. She didn't. She was probably a Tibetan terrier mix.  I proclaimed her an official guard for the Dalai Lama. All she could possibly do to an intruder was bark at him, maybe pee on his foot. She was a non-violent guard dog. The Dalai would be pleased.

Blackie had nasty, matted poodle fur. We finally learned that what she wanted, more than anything in the world, was a hair cut. So she started going to the dog salon. We would call it her "spa day." Each place cut her face differently. Sometimes she came back a scottie, sometimes a terrier, once an actual poodle. But when she was picked up her tail wagged. She was happy. A happy dog.

A happy dog is a great blessing.

Blackie was supposed to be my son's dog, but in the way of such things she became my problem. She was getting older. She developed cataracts. She became arthritic. She lost her hearing. She got the doggie version of Alzheimer's. She was suffering, but I was frozen on what to do.

It was Santa who brought her and Santa who helped take her home. I talked about Blackie with T.Bass. He has raised many dogs, and lost many. One, a giant lab, lasted until age 21. Tommy is wise, and he would know.

I said the dog is peeing and pooping all over the house. She doesn't know where she is. She's completely incontinent, and can't see to get out. Her tail is locked behind her legs most of the time. It doesn't wag.

It's time, he said.

So I waited until noon. She was still in her bed, asleep. I roused her. I put her leash on. I led her outside. We walked toward the back gate. Brownie was there, waiting. I let them wander the yard together. She did her business, once, twice, three times. Her tail even wagged a little. 

I brought her back through the gate, and for a moment thought we might wait for another day. But her tail drooped. Her eyes grew vacant. She seemed lost.

We got in the car.

For a vet who serves loyal family pets, the "death panel" is a sad, common, and mysterious rite. We were ushered into an exam room. We waited. Blackie wandered about on her leash, got it tangled. I untangled it. She bumped into the door, into a desk. She stood on the floor, panting, because that's what she would do whenever she was awake. She had COPD along with everything else.

The vet came in. We talked. We discussed Blackie's condition. And I talked about Blackie's life. I went on a bit. The vet was patient.

She explained what would happen. I would sign a form. Blackie would be given a shot, a barbiturate. She would go to sleep, then her heart would stop. She would be at peace.

And so it was. The picture that leads this is the last I took of her.

I'd randomized the songs on my iPhone. Just by chance, what played as I left was The Parting Glass, an old Irish folk song to the dead, which was used in the film "Waking Ned Devine."

"Since it falls unto my lot.

That I should rise and you should not.

I'll gently rise and softly call

Good night and joy be to you all.