If Justice Ginsburg was a dog, she’d be 612 years old. – Barker Ajax
Ragnar Brotha Gonzo was born, I’ve been told, on July 27, 2018. My giant Caucasian Ovcharka, Hagrid Hippocrates Little Bear, passed away three weeks later. Hagrid and I had a bet going, to see who would outlive the other.
I won. Didn’t know he was sick, but I knew we were in the same shape. Big, in our respective seventies, lot of pain all the time. I had been taking our long walks alone the last year or so. Poor guy might’ve been the greatest dog in history this side of Rin Tin Tin only bigger, but his comprehension of canine actuarial tables was lacking.
After Hagrid – who topped out in his prime at a lean 185 – I was thinking of something more portable. Wife has always dreamed about having a loving husband who would travel with her and bring the dogs.
She thought that until we did it a few times.
When we first got Rags he was too small to get up the steps into the house.
He immediately took a liking to our Duke pillow.
And our bed.
We never let Hagrid on the bed.
That would’ve been a bad idea.
He looks innocent, but the squirt gun is there for a reason. The vet who neutered my little boy told me more than once I made a mistake. The implication being RBG may be too active for me. You know, somebody in my condition.
You mean to tell me I’ve been controlling a creature who was bigger than me for ten years and I gotta worry about this guy?
That’s what I’m saying.
Meanwhile, all the vet techs are talking about that Miniature American Shepherd with the biggest pecker they’d ever seen on a little puppy.
You can cut it off but you can’t cut it out, hence the squirtgun.
I like a dog sitting in lap. Good for the blood pressure.
Makes me less homicidal, to tell you the truth.
We can’t find the blue squirtgun.
The first year Ragnar slept in bed with us. Sense-of-security-wise, not the same as Hagrid at the foot.
The Rags took deadly ill. A suspected poisoning of some kind – think bug, bush, snake, lawn care, neighbor, this is Florida – followed by a internal infection. Shaving, surgery, prayers, large vet bills.
Brought him home and put him in his kennel. Think comfortable manger in a red plastic crate.
And the next three or four mornings at dawn, I would get up and I would take a couple of deep breaths and say a prayer, more like a begging of all deities, please let this baby be alive.
I had to pull him out those mornings, but then after another prayer, I opened the door and he staggered into the new day on his own. Believe me, please, when I tell you I am getting all misty-eyed as I type.
The good news is, Ragnar loves to sleep in his kennel quietly all night long.
Without sticking his foot in my ear.
And he keeps me young.
So to bark.