Back to the PawMark Article Menu© 2001-1999 by Ed Presnall
All Rights Reserved
As Published in the Clumber Crier
As children we said it, later we heard our children say it ... "life is not fair". I sit at my desk, alone. My wife is in another state judging a dog show and my son is out doing the things a sixteen-year-old boy does on a clear Saturday morning.
I thumb through a stack of photographs and smile. Here's one when they were just puppies, both happily carrying a glove under the watchful eyes of their dad. Another captures them playing in the yard. Here's one of them training in obedience and another from the day they both earned their show Championships.
She was fine boned and elegant. With a typical
English refined head and long exquisite body. He
was a duplicate of his dad. Big boned, massive head
and structure and a never-ending desire to please.
Both of them had that preeminent quality so sought
for in the breed, a loving temperament. Neither of
them had ever met a face, man nor beast, which did
not set their tails to wagging and their voices to
wooing.She was a sneaker and a thief. She could slink silently around a corner or through a room like a shadow moving across the floor. Stalking a toy or playmate, always wanting to be in on the action. Only a few days ago she had crept through the kitchen behind me and silently stolen the hand towel from its holder. As I finished the dishes and reached for the towel to dry my hands, it was gone ... and so was she. She'd run off to play near the puppies.
Three days later our friend and veterinarian called to say that the intestinal damage was so great, she could not be saved. Without a whimper, so typical of the stoic nature of the breed, she had taken her newly acquired treasure and crept silently from our lives.
He was trained in tracking through TDX and
relished racing through the fields, following the
scent. Through brambles and brush, thickets and
bogs . like his father and their ancestors, nothing
had ever stopped him. I thought an outing with him
would lighten my heart. As he worked the track, my
head cleared and pure thrill of watching him work
eased my burden. Over a fence, through a stand of
woods and along the ridge of a large ravine he
worked. Suddenly he stumbled in the loose dirt
along the crest and fell. He landed with his twisted body slumped over a downed tree. I knew when cried out as I scrambled down the embankment and took him into my arms, that he was hurt. With him in my arms, I marched through the field, like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade, and then raced through traffic to the clinic.
The prognosis was minimal. Fed by multiple crushed or damaged disks and numerous fragments applying pressure to his spine, the paralysis was progressing. After twelve hours of poking and probing by the specialists, the diagnosis was complete. I held him close and stroked his head as we sequestered his pain and sent him to play in the heavenly fields.
At times like these, there are never the right words, but knowing that we have friends in the fancy, we will persevere. But for now, I'll sit here, with tears running down my face, and think back to all of the wonderful times we had. I'll raise a glass and offer a silent toast to Ch. Epic's Treasure of Erin Isle ("Pearl") and Ch. Epic's Summit Intrigue ("Adam").
For the hundredth time I'll question why they had to leave so soon as I mumble to myself that the last forty-eight hours had proven, once again, "life is not fair".
© 2003-1996 - Ed Presnall - All Rights Reserved