By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff Writer

We weren’t always friends.

Grizzly would have been 13 had he survived until the next to last day of July; he was half boxer, half deerhound, and all dog. He missed that birthday by a few days.

In his earlier years he didn’t have the personality and attitude that made him so well loved later in life; indeed, he had temper problems that often put him at odds with my dogs.

I say “my” dogs, because Grizzly was never really mine. He was Miss Rhonda’s, born on a hot afternoon that just happened to be her birthday.

At nine months of age, Griz was hit by a car; the veterinarian said it would be best to euthanize him then, since he’d never live without pain in his hips. He proved the vet utterly wrong.

Those old hips were the first real sign that Grizzly was getting old; no longer did he cheerfully jump into the car or the truck for a trip to town. He became more content to laze on the porch in a sunspot, rather than jumping down to greet a visitor.

Greeting visitors was something the bullhound did well; at 120 pounds, with a head like an anvil and shoulders like a good plowmule, he could stand on his hind legs, lean against the side of a pickup, and look the driver in the eye.

He was a good judge of character, too; Miss Rhonda often tells the tale of how I was gone one weekend, and an Irish Gypsy roofer came by the house, thinking he had spotted some easy pickings.

When she told him to leave, the roofer just laughed and said he wasn’t afraid of dogs – he’d just get out and wait. He had started to open his truck door when he discovered his mistake.

With just the hint of a growl, Grizzly shut the door for him, and looked him square in the eye. No barking, slavering, or teeth. This dog was no bark, and all bite, and the bad guy knew it.
Never again was I worried about Rhonda being unprotected when I was out of town.

In later years, Grizzly became the “official” greeter dog at Harmony Hall in White Oak. On weekends he met folks at the gate with a wagging tail and sad eyes, while at night, he let partiers and would-be mischief-makers know there was a big dog in town who didn’t approve of their intentions.

The stories most often told about Grizzly came from those days at Harmony Hall. Griz became famous for escorting a toddler back to her parents one Easter day; the little girl’s cries would end sharply when Grizzly would bump her bottom with his nose, sending a froth of crinolines flying in the spring sun. She hugged her folks, then Grizzly, calling him “my doggie.” The little girl’s parents wanted to adopt him immediately.

An even sharper memory was made one crisp Thanksgiving morning. Rhonda and I opened the door to the caretaker’s cottage just as a six-point buck ran down the lane. Biscuit and Grizzly came within a few inches of actually pulling that deer down. While the younger dog was just a mass of bumbling feet and curly hair, Grizzly was the very picture of strength, muscles bunching every step as he strove to catch the buck.

They were gone for an hour or more that morning, the old dog and the gangly pup. They loved the bottomlands of the river and the pine forests. Nary a trail was left unsniffed by Grizzly and The Biscuit (who was always my dog, despite his affection for Miss Rhonda). I never worried about the two of them, because no matter how far they wandered, a good dog always comes home.

He hung out in newspaper offices, radio stations, and country stores. He went to church so many times Brother Archie joked about adding him to the Sunday school rolls.

Grizzly loved my parents; in fact, he loved most old people. When Papa died, the big dog lay staring at Papa’s chair, waiting patiently. For more than a year afterward, Grizzly would perk his ears when he heard the Oldsmobile crank up.

The big dog and I rode many a mile in that car; the months just before and after Papa’s death were a time of healing, and Griz and I wandered back roads and river bottoms. I’m not sure what I was looking for, but he was happy to be along for the ride.

Grizzly was a grand one for a car ride; not so he could hang his head out the window and look foolish, but so he could howl along with the radio or maybe, just maybe, have a dog biscuit at the gas station, or better still, a cheeseburger. That dog could spot the golden arches from five miles away, and if you drove past without picking up his tribute, you’d receive a disgusted “Hmpph” from the back seat, and those sad, yet accusing eyes in the mirror.

Those big dark eyes started fading with cataracts a couple of years ago; his arthritis became worse, and the winters became harder on his old bones. No more did he chase deer, or offer more than a perfunctory examination of visitors. He no longer escorted little girls back to their parents.

For a long time, he was just a big, mostly healthy, if somewhat toothless, old dog. He was in better shape than a lot of human senior citizens.

But then, as always happens with old dogs, heart trouble and arthritis and other problems came home to roost. He was semi-comfortable lying around, and ironically, when we decided it was time to take him on that last trip to the vet, moving him was too agonizing to consider.
Instead, Miss Rhonda spread his favorite quilt in the moonlight, and we told him goodbye. I had to concentrate to steady my hand, but in the end I gave our old dog the last gift any true animal lover can offer: an end to his suffering.

Then Miss Rhonda and I sat on the quilt in a waxing moon and cried as Grizzly’s children and grandchildren set up a chorus. Another good dog had gone home.

There are some theologians and scholars who will disagree with me, but I firmly believe beloved critters go to Heaven. This may be a somewhat juvenile opinion, and it isn’t based on any specific verse in the Bible. I just feel that way.

And I’m pretty sure Heaven is something like a comfortable old farmhouse in the middle of a field, surrounded by shade trees and a big front porch. You turn down a rutted dirt road, and as chickens run and cats scatter, a big old dog lopes out to meet you. He stands on his hind legs and hooks his front feet over the windowsill, tail wagging.

That’s when you find out for sure that a good dog always goes home – and sometimes, he’ll be waiting for you when you get there.

Weaver is a staff writer at the News Reporter. Contact via telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or by e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.

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