Losing Our Ruby Love

In the dark of late night, just prior to sleep, and later when the first grayish hints of dawn begin to pierce the blackness... Those are the times when I most miss our beloved hound, Ruby. That’s when I find myself in the worst throes of houndless desolation.

Every other part of the day is tough as well.

No longer does Ruby charge down the stairs to greet me when I come home. No longer does she lie on her bed at the foot of our bed. No longer do I sometimes groggily awake to see her adorable face a few inches from mine as she anticipates another day of simple canine pleasures. No longer will I receive her unconditional love and her delight at my mere presence.

No more frolicsome outings with the simple joys of chasing a stick, or a squirrel, or even a deer. No more blissful rolls in verdant grass under a blue, clear sky. For now, houndless desolation.

We lost her far too soon. She was not quite nine years old — and we didn’t even get her until she was two. Only seven years total, but seven of the best years any hound owners ever had.

She was our third Rhodesian Ridgeback and the second “rescue.” In this case, it was an owner's “surrender,” resulting from the owners’ divorce. Ruby was from a broken home, but their misfortune turned into our great good fortune.

Ridgebacks are magnificent hounds! Originally bred to hunt lions in packs, they are quite fierce, and they make intimidating watchdogs. Nonetheless, they are usually good with people and make great family pets. They are also very smart and tend to be obedient, as they seem eager to please their owners.

They can be quite aloof, however, meaning they are not as affectionate as, say, your typical slobberingly friendly lab. But Ruby was an exception, and that added to her exceptional qualities.

Her one behavioral issue was aggressiveness toward other dogs when on a leash, a fairly common problem, and as it turns out, one we should have done something about. We had always had big dogs, and they can be physically difficult to handle at times, but I had never been taken down by one — until about eight weeks ago, when Ruby put me in the hospital.

Well, a trip to the emergency room and a subsequent outpatient surgery.

We were coming back from a schoolyard romp. I put Ruby back on her leash, and we had to go down several steps back out to the street. Right when we got to the top step, about to go down, a man walking his dog on a leash appeared on the street. I knew Ruby would react aggressively and want to charge, so I turned around to try and get a hold of her. She managed to slip around me, the leash still tightly in my hand, and she lunged and jerked me so hard I ended up face down, perpendicular to, and on top of the handrail, which I rode to the bottom and hit the ground on my left shoulder.

My collar bone was broken in two places, requiring surgery with a plate, screws and some other parts. And I had to sit around with the broken bone for over a week before I could even get the surgery.

Given the consequences of Ruby’s aggression, I was pretty upset with her, but I never yelled or chastised her. Probably because it hurt to so much as clear my throat. And as her owner, I knew I should have done something to fix the problem long ago. She was just doing what came naturally to her.

But I did have a hard time warming back up to her and it pains me to say I couldn't even bring myself to pet her for at least a week. When I think about that now — now that she’s gone — I almost hate myself for having been that way.

As I sat around the house before and after surgery, nursing my wound, she knew something was wrong. I couldn't sleep in our bed and was camping out on the couch every night, propped up with cushions. Instead of sleeping in our bedroom as usual, on her bed and near my wife, Ruby stayed near me in the living room. She slowly began approaching me again, trying to break the ice, seeking my love and approval. Eventually my heart melted and I welcomed her with open arms.

And I had no idea at that time that her remaining time on earth was to be considerably shorter than my recovery time, which is still ongoing.

I can still hardly believe it. My wife took Ruby to the vet over some relatively minor issues . . . and we got a cancer diagnosis. Our other Ridgebacks had lived to be twelve or thirteen. Ruby wasn't yet nine.

But still, we thought we would at least have a few months. It turned out to be three or four weeks, during which she went downhill rapidly. We tried to make the most of our time with her. We took her by car to all our usual haunts: the woods, the fields, the schoolyard, the secluded walking path of wildflowers and blackberries along a creek.

She came willingly, but she had little energy. She still liked to gently fall on and roll in the grass, though now she didn’t appear to want to get back up. She would just lie there, luxuriating with her eyes closed, green grass below and puffy clouds above, as if content to go ahead and succumb to the sleep of peace.

Her eating became spotty, as well as picky. At times it seemed as if she was having some sort of physical difficulty eating out of her bowl. So we hand-fed her and she especially liked the boiled and messy fried eggs that were in the offing. We cherished every moment of feeding and caring for her.

One day, all too soon, she was having great difficulty getting up and down, and her breathing was becoming labored with any physical activity. We knew the time was near, so we made arrangements for in-home euthanasia.

When that time came, it was lovingly conducted by an angelic vet who makes a living comforting pet owners during their darkest hours. After having all the time we needed to love on her and say goodbye, Ruby was peacefully delivered to her Elysian fields of grass, sun and sky that never end.

All around the house were the things left behind from her life here. Her beds, her food and water bowls, her basket of toys, her dog treats, her leashes, and more. We couldn’t bear to get rid of them, but they’re a constant reminder of our loss. In a moment of disconsolate and blackhearted silliness, we joked that we might have to burn the house to the ground and just move on.

That first night came down so hard. I was in the full throes of houndless desolation. Or to be more specific, Rubyless desolation, for there was never another one like her.

When we love another person, we can never fully understand the mysteries of that person's heart. But a hound is an open book and its love is simple and unqualified. If you love a hound, you will receive it back a thousandfold. That’s the story of our Ruby in a nutshell.

When I look back on the accident, I actually cherish the memory. Because only eight weeks ago, Ruby was still strong enough and spirited enough to put me in the hospital. That's the Ruby I want to remember. And this hardware in my shoulder will be like having a piece of her with me always.

I also have a new favorite song.