In early July, we had to put our beloved Siberian husky, Ramona, to sleep. We had her for about 12 years, and she grew up alongside our kids.
Huskies are known for their high energy levels, and I’ve learned from experience that a tired dog is a good dog. So we did walks twice daily at a minimum, and explored every nearly hiking trail within an hour’s driving distance, a practice a neighbor once described as “Ramona sees the world.”
At a conservative estimate of three miles a day, almost every day of the year, I’ve probably walked about 12,000 miles during her lifetime that I wouldn’t have covered otherwise. I’m not big on walking, but if anyone could get you excited about going out for a walk, it was Ramona—she’d bark or howl at whoever was slow getting ready, like a coach who’d had one too many energy drinks. It was a symbiotic relationship that benefited both sides—we got the health benefits of exercise and a view of the occasional rainbow or picturesque sunset, while she got health benefits plus whatever she found to eat on the sidewalk.
I loved the solitude of walking alone with her during dark winter nights, exploring the areas around whatever locations my kids needed to be dropped off or picked up at. On one occasion, a fawn popped out of the woods as we were crossing a street in Pennsylvania and seemed to imprint on Ramona—deer eyesight isn’t as good as a human’s—and a latent maternal instinct inside the dog seemed to be at war with her predatory predilections. The fawn followed us for a while, until I pulled Ramona away at a run. I still don’t know if she would have nuzzled that fawn or eviscerated it.
Ramona had many notable encounters with wildlife, including The Great Dog Park Massacre, which began when she sniffed around at a spot that had already attracted the attention of a few other dogs. She dug furiously and soon pulled out one baby bunny after another. With each one, she looked around at the other dogs, sensing potential competition for food, and promptly swallowed the rabbit, more or less whole. It was like watching “National Geographic: Live in Hamilton.”
Over the years, there were encounters with other rabbits, squirrels, groundhogs, mice, chipmunks, possums, and a skunk, most of which ended badly for the smaller animal. Birds proved more difficult to catch, and Ramona never seemed sure what reptiles or amphibians were all about—frogs, toads, and turtles caught her interest but seemed to simultaneously repulse her.
In winter, she twice found what I thought were large sticks but turned out to be frozen deer legs, somehow detached from the carcasses they belonged to. She grabbed them and instantly reversed course and tried to head back to the car, intending to bring her treasure home for enjoyment later.
All of this led to one of her many nicknames, “The Huntress,” but the memorable moments weren’t all violent. There were the times she’d start howling, or “singing,” with another dog at a dog park—usually another husky. It was always amazing to watch, like witnessing a brief, atavistic tribute to their wolf ancestors. At night, she’d leap into our bed and allow her humans to pet her, though it often required a treat in addition to the promise of affection. Her demeanor sometimes seemed regal, which earned two more nicknames: “The Queen,” an appellation that gained even more credibility toward the end, when I’d position an emerald green pet ramp for her to descend from my minivan, and “The Supervisor”—a title earned by the way she’d lie with her front paws crossed, watching the lawn get cut or otherwise surveying her domain.
We took it for granted after a while, but Ramona had one unusual skill that she picked up without instruction: she’d open the back door and come inside on her own when she got sick of waiting for someone to let her in. (We never taught her how to close the door behind her.) When someone opened the back door for her to go outside, she’d often take one piece of kibble with her, a habit I called “one for the road.”
Her food radar and sense of smell were so acute that several times, she discovered food crumbs in the pockets of strangers who didn’t even realize what they were carrying. Over time, her bark evolved into a Chewbacca growl, and then something resembling an owl hoot. Inexplicably, she loved to eat mud—especially mud at a location she’d never visited before—and drink less-than-pristine water from puddles or our birdbath.
In her last few months, the nightly leap onto our bed stopped, and she began to lose weight, which for a dog so driven by food was a sure sign something was wrong. When the numbers for her blood tests indicated her kidney disease was getting worse, I knew it was time to say goodbye. But she was still able to enjoy her walks, so we scheduled euthanasia at home for later in the week, and tried to give her the best few days a dog could have.
It was like a farewell tour, or “This is Your Life” for dogs. We toured the local dog parks so she could see her dog buddies and their owners one last time. We fed her treats, which despite her overall lack of appetite, she sometimes accepted. On one of her last walks, I brought along snacks and threw them ahead of us on the ground, seeding the route with food that she could “discover” along the way.
The end was sad, but peaceful and painless. I delivered the news to those who hadn’t heard, including a bank teller who used to lavish treats on Ramona at the drive-up window. I went inside the bank to tell her, and she broke down crying.
For all the enjoyment they provide and their inherent value as silent therapists, the greatest trade-off with a pet is dealing with their comparatively short life spans. My daughter captured it nicely in a poem she wrote called “The Worst Part About Having a Dog.” But it’s a trade-off I’ve made several times now, and it’s always a bargain in which you’ll come out ahead. Perhaps Ramona’s greatest legacy is that she convinced my wife, who was skeptical about getting another dog 12 years ago, of the ongoing benefits of pet ownership. So we’ll wait a while, and then find a new dog to bring home.
In the meantime, we’ll absorb the loss of Ramona, scourge of small mammals, howler and hooter, eater of mud, drinker of birdbath water, fire starter and door opener. We did much more with her than we ever would have done without her, and we’re grateful she shared her life with us.
(Image created by AI.),
