To the Beat of his Owen Drummer

We had this weird black dog. He was born feral, and I had just lost my sweet black dog, and had a baby and a 2 yr old, and my neighbor found this litter of puppies in a field.

So I went over there and there was this scared little black puppy. He hid under tables. He ran away if you looked at him. I tied him to my waist and made him follow me wherever I went. I thought if you love something it will blossom. Right?

Well.

Owen was with us almost 16 years. He was like having a deer for a pet. After a few years I stopped trying to make Owen a regular dog. I just let Owen be who he was, and apologized to people who wondered why he avoided them. But at night Owen found where I was and laid next to the bed.

As he got old and grey, and wobbly, and couldn't hold in his poop, and couldn't hear, he still found where I was and laid down near me. I guess Owen was my dog.

He never was a real dog. But he was my dog. The last few months I was adding leftovers to his food to get him to eat. He stopped wanting to eat the food even with the treats on top. Today I gave him an entire chicken with the bones. He loved the bones. He was very happy crunching those bones. He laid in the sun til he was happily panting. He needed help getting up. He stuck close to Becky.

We brought her with us to the vet. He walked up the street with me. Rickety. Skinny. He was always good on the leash. A baby could walk Owen.

At the vet's, he laid on a soft blanket. He wasn't worried about anything. He had us there with him. The vet gave us heart shaped meat treats. Owen ate every one, and then he ate Becky's. He was happy to have us scratching him as he drifted off to sleep. His heart kept going long after it should have. He had a strong heart. He wasn't planning on leaving, maybe ever. He only weighed 43 pounds.

When things go away I don't know what to do. Even when the dog wasn't really a dog, he was still my dog. Being there at the end is important.

At home making dinner I'm thinking you know, he had safety, warmth and shelter. He had people who loved him. We knew him and we loved him anyway. He gave us his whole life. All his 16 years. No one else got to have him. Only us.

That's the way it is for people, huh. You know your people. You stick with your people. So then in the end it matters, because in the end, like when they're tying up the package of your life, it makes sense. You stayed with your people because you belonged to them. If you give them yourself, and they love you anyway, then you have found a home.

I think it mattered to Owen that he had us. It didn't matter that he wasn't like Becky, or Hank, or every other dog in the world. He belonged to us, and we took care of him. And I have to tell you, it hurts when someone has to go, just the same. Maybe because I could never figure him out, all the way. Maybe I could have done better. I could have tried harder. I felt like not enough time to figure it out. With life and kids and school and work and sheep and laundry and life. But I hope that's the way Owen was happiest. He wanted to be in the family, just quietly there. Just grateful. He had his part. It was a quieter part. Every little thing matters. Maybe there's never enough time.

He stayed as long as he could. Loyally.

All dogs are worth it.