For our dog Ewing, memories of a life well-lived soften a tremendous loss

Ewing (right) rests with another one of columnist Ron Smith's Great Pyrenees, Sherman. (Ron Smith)

Harry Truman once said: “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

If you leave out “in Washington” and substitute “for life,” it’s the best advice one can get from a president — or anyone else.

Unfortunately, a dog’s life is shorter than ours, so we have to make room for the fact that we may lose our friends all too soon. My wife and I face that fact now with our 12-year-old Great Pyrenees, Ewing.

Ewing suffers from what the vet calls degenerative myelopathy, which affects the spinal cord and results in slow and progressive hind limb weakness and paralysis. There is a human form of the disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis , or Lou Gehrig’s disease. DM is a disease cousin to ALS. The symptoms and the results are the same, even though the species are different. There is no cure.

For Ewing at least, there’s no hope.

We named Ewing after Kansas Civil War Gen. Thomas Ewing , my first biographical writing subject. Ewing came to us in his puppyhood, and we saw him grow to a robust 130 pounds. The DM has set in only the last two years, and the degeneration hurts.

Ewing grew up between two other of our Pyrs — William and Sherman. William died of old age, and Sherman at a young six years of age from bone cancer.

Last October, a young Maremma Sheepdog was abandoned at our front gate, and we brought this new dog into our home . It’s difficult to know what Ewing thought about that, because he wasn’t consulted. We named the Maremma Ollie.

Ewing and Ollie had several loud, scrappy “discussions” about the newcomer’s place in our farm’s dog hierarchy. We have five dogs, Ollie and Ewing being dominant. Both are gentle souls. Ollie was about 12 months old when clipped to our gate, still a pup with a pup’s playfulness. Ewing could see his body was not as agile as Ollie’s. Since that October, Ewing’s degeneration has grown visibly worse.

Reluctantly, Ewing has stepped aside.

Ollie and Ewing are nose nuzzling friends now. It’s as if they both know. A transition is coming.

I’m not sure why the loss of a pet — even one that’s 130 pounds — hurts like it does. But it does. Cowboys and cowgirls that lose horses feel the same. A Mahout in India who loves, trains, and cherishes an elephant experiences loss when the animal dies (although some elephants may outlive their Mahouts).

But Ewing isn’t just a dog. Over the years, we’ve let him become a family member. The breed is used for guarding and protecting sheep herds in the mountains between France and Spain. The breed’s guardian traits were brought to the United States. A friend once told me that when he was a kid, they had 750 cattle in the Konza prairie south of Manhattan, and there were 20 or so Great Pyrenees that guarded the cattle from predators. So being in the cold doesn’t bother them.

We humans tend to let our animal family members inside when it’s cold or during the occasional blizzard. Ewing appreciated the thoughtfulness, but his long white hair and thick undercoat made it unnecessary. He was probably warmer outside than we were under blankets in the bedroom.

A dog’s job can add a bit of structure to our day. In his day — especially at night — Ewing ran to the edges of our fenced lot to bark at the coyotes who gathered out in the nearby corn field. Ewing, like the Pyrenees itself, was an all-weather dog. As he grew older, our barn cats liked to lie on his stomach in cold weather. Such was his sense of meaning and purpose.

Humans instinctively know that the loss of a loved one generates feelings of enormous loss. The same can be true of pets raised in a family, like Ewing, from puppyhood. Grief for an animal friend is not unnatural. The more significant the pet, the greater the pain.

Many people have only one dog in their lives when the dog friend passes. If the dog is a service animal for the blind, for example, for the human left behind, they must come to grips with the huge loss.

Some will advise, “It’s just a dog.”

No. Ewing is not just a dog.

We give Ewing pain pills twice daily. I try to help him stand and move if he can. But that’s based on my ignorant human belief that moving stiff and aching muscles is good for him. The degeneration is clearly there. Sometimes he stands as he tries to eat, but then his back legs give way. Obviously I don’t know what he’s thinking, now into his 12 th year.

I don’t know what the Lord has in mind for Ewing. His time is coming. He has begun to eat less. We don’t know if that is a temporary issue because of any pain, or the beginning of the end. Our vet thinks it may be the latter.

Will Rogers once wrote he prefers to go where God sent the dogs. Ewing will see William and Sherman again. Somewhere. God knows dogs deserve a better heaven than many human beings.

I once read that “while Angels are thought to have wings, the luckiest among us find they have four paws.” Our grief over Ewing’s loss is just the flip side of love.

Postscript: Ewing died July 3, after this column had been written and submitted.

Ron Smith is a fifth-generation Kansan, a native of Manhattan, a retired attorney in Larned, a grandfather several times over, a Vietnam veteran and a civil war historian. Through its opinion section, the Kansas Reflector works to amplify the voices of people who are affected by public policies or excluded from public debate. Find information, including how to submit your own commentary, here .

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