I have dug a lot of holes in the ground with a number two shovel. I’ve never dug a three-foot by four foot hole three feet deep in heavy clay until yesterday. This day-long task was filled with grief, loss, and love. Our ten-year-old male golden retriever, Roscoe, had died the night before.
My wife, Catherine, and I got Roscoe at eight weeks old from a fine hunting kennel in SE Minnesota. When I told the field trainers which kennel he came from, they said, “That will be a lot of dog.” I asked what that meant. Their only response was, “Well, he’ll be a lot of dog.” Now I know what “a lot of dog” means. Roscoe was that and more. His athletic form was coated in beautiful reddish-orange hair with flowing feathers. His spirit was always puppy-like, even as his muzzle got snowy. His attitude whiplashed between willing and stubborn. He was a lot of dog.
Catherine took the lead in obedience classes when he was a puppy. I participated, but as second chair. As a career elementary school educator, Catherine knew how to manage a classroom. But Roscoe taught her a few new tricks. During one final dog class, Roscoe had a moment. All the dogs in class were to remain on a “down-stay” as their owners walked across the training floor to stand opposite their dog. The dogs were expected to remain until each individual owner released their dog to trot across the room to be rewarded. That was the test. When Catherine turned around opposite Roscoe, he had other plans. His butt was in the air, and his head was down between his splayed front legs. Before she could say “oh n..!,” he broke into a wild, frenzied case of the “zoomies” chasing uncontrolled around the room, shattering the somber moment of this final test and inciting every dog to break form and join the chase. It was chaos: barking, name-calling, chasing, and laughing. When some semblance of order was regained, the three trainers had their heads together. They announced that due to the circumstances, all dogs, “except Roscoe” could have a do over. Roscoe and Catherine had to do the walk of shame, leaving the test arena only to watch the success of the other dogs through a plate-glass window. Our dog was “that kid” in class.
Roscoe became a fine hunter. His breeder was dedicated to golden retrievers as field dogs. No couch potato Golders for her. Our Roscoe was a wonder in the grouse woods. His drive exceeded me, the guy behind the gun. My main task was to keep him within gun range. We often hunted with Chester, the other hunting dog in our extended family. Roscoe and Chester were a study in contrasts. Chester was a pure white English retriever built and acting like an over-caffeinated bulldozer. Roscoe was more like an orange, over-caffeinated gymnast. Chester just plowed through to the retrieve. Roscoe leapt, vaulted, and careened off tree trunks to change directions. My brother-in-law, Chester’s half-owner, called Roscoe a “ninja dog.”
Roscoe was all business when he had his hunting collar on. Getting that collar on was another matter. When he saw orange or a shotgun, he went nuts in his kennel, barely containing his joy. At ten years old, his jumping could get his head five feet in the air. I don’t know how he did it. All four feet in the air like he was on a trampoline.
Our long-coated female German Sheppard, Riley, has a kennel adjacent to Roscoe. They were best buddies. Daily, they played a game of chase in our yard. Riley was younger and faster, so Roscoe figured out how to take shortcuts to meet Riley as she came around a building. Hind leg boxing and tussling where they took turns being dominant and submissive. One would flop on their back to let the other chew on their neck fur. Then they would reverse roles. It was their endless play style. They ate side-by-side with never an issue, and rested in close proximity in the house. I have to admit, but don’t tell anyone, that we have a special blanket that goes on our king-sized bed for them to rest on in the evenings. Their overnight crates are in our bedroom.
The dogs are loved by family and friends who visit us. A favorite task for young children is helping feed Roscoe and Riley. The dogs are on a down stay, waiting eagerly for their bowls to be placed on the floor. The word “OK” releases them to eat. The kids love to give that command and see the dogs’ immediate response. It is fun to see the sense of accomplishment in the kids with their control over these two big dogs.
Roscoe also frustrated me no end. He was well-trained and knew what to do, but often broke the rules. Usually, it was not funny or entertaining. His habit of eating anything on the ground got him poisoned by mushrooms. Hunting dogs keep their noses to the ground as they are bred to do, but Roscoe ate stuff. If I had a gun in hand, I assumed he was sent-trailing grouse. Without a gun, I worried he was looking for something to eat. It could get messy and sure frustrated me to the point of anger. I never hit Roscoe, but I yelled and cussed him out on occasion. He was slow to cross the yard to enter his kennel. Riley would trot over without hesitation, while Roscoe slowly zigzagged from scent to scent unless I took steps to lead him by his collar. At times, my impatient nature was not a great fit for “a lot of dog.” It was my impatience that I apologized for through tears and half a box of Kleenex.
Catherine and I brought Roscoe’s body home from the veterinarian the night he died. He was a happy, healthy dog until he began to suffer after dinner. His abdomen became like a basketball. We raced to the vet’s office, where we were told Roscoe was suffering from severe bloat and would not live long. We realized he was fading rapidly and had no option to try and save him. The vet alleviated his pain, and within one and a half hours after dinner, he was gone. We hugged and cried, vet included, when he spoke a prayer of gratitude for this dog and asked for our grieving hearts to be eased.
We laid our golden retriever on a rug in the garage till we could bury him the next day. Riley came in doing the tricks she would do to get him to play. A dancing, barking swirl usually worked. When it didn’t, she nudged his shoulder with her paw several times. That had always worked in the past. Next, Riley circled Roscoe’s corpse, sniffing as she went. Catherine and I just cried. When I was alone with him, I got down on the floor at his head, crying hard. I was so sorry for all the times I didn’t take the time to be patient with this wonderful dog. I apologized for the missed opportunities between him and me when I was too busy with whatever. In his death, I became aware of just how far “a lot of dog” had gotten into my heart. My late realization was just painful.
The next day, we prepared Roscoe for burial. Catherine laid out her star quilt that had been with her through decades of ceremony. We placed his body in the center, covering him with sage, sweetgrass, and rose petals. We placed grouse and pheasant wings under his chin. Riley had been outside with us while we dug the hole and was now given a last chance to say goodbye to her companion. We wrapped Roscoe snuggly in the star quilt and lowered the bundle into the grave. We placed his favorite nighttime chew toy and his food dish in the hole before we added a layer of really nice garden soil. We used our tractor to push the mound of clay to fill the hole. Finally, we covered the soil mound with large rocks to prevent wild critters from disturbing what for us is now sacred ground.
In spring, we will plant a rock garden. There is always Spring.
