I know there are those of you who have followed my writings about the life, times and death of my beloved Doberman, Rock. For those of you who haven’t, our story is briefly told: he was born eleven years ago at the time of this writing [3/2013], and was abused for the first three of them; then he came to us. Timid and underweight when he first arrived, with our sufficiency of diet, love, and exercise, he fleshed out into a fearless, large, broad-chested, powerful animal with a lop-sided right ear. The left ear stood pointed and proud as any Doberman’s would, but that poor right ear – the result of poor cropping, a beating or a fight – was Rock’s single most identifying feature.
It seems to be a trait of Dobies that they will defend anyone in their household, but they often have a special love for one member of the home. Rock developed a special love for me.
His love was not unrequited.
Then he began to fall and walk with uncertainty. The ultimate diagnosis was ‘Wobbler’s Syndrome.’ Stated simply, when a disc ruptures into a Doberman’s spine, it often presses on the spinal cord resulting in neurologic problems. The mortality of surgery for any single errant disc rupture is twenty percent.
My beloved boy had three such lesions.
If there was no detectable pain, neither was there any hope. So, on May 5, 2011, the vet came by to pay my Rock her last visit. So many seemingly spiritual things happened after his passing, I had two thoughts: Rock was more than a dog, he was our ‘Grigio,’ [And if you want to read an incredible story, look these words up; Grigio and St John Bosco.] My second thought was: Even though he had passed on, Rock was not done with us yet.
On February 13, this year, 2013, that suspicion was re-confirmed.
Every day, my Sabrina takes the pack for six runs up and down our steep two-tenths of a mile driveway. This exercise is healthful for them, they love it, and it burns off energy which otherwise might result in internecine battles.
Each morning, standing in the kitchen, all she has to say is the word, ‘Jeep,’ and they all race to the door, their eagerness for the coming run unmistakable.
On the morning above-mentioned, a strange thing happened: on the third run, instead of staying grouped around the car which they always do, they all ran off into our front yard which abuts our driveway.
Sabrina watched with fascination as the five Dobies barked excitedly, play-pranced, mock-fought and ran. She was perplexed why the five dogs ran off, which they had never done before.
Why? For years, she had run a five Dobie pack, so it took a second for her census to correct itself. Then, with a start, she realized something…
We don’t own five Dobies, we own four… Rock had been the fifth.
As she watched, she realized among them, one large, broad-chested dog who ran and played with the rest, his legs now unencumbered.
He had a lop-sided right ear.
Perhaps eight to ten seconds later, there were but four dogs in the area. The four stopped their gamboling, returned to the car and resumed their runs.
Make of that story what you will; Rock is not done with us yet.
– Lucky Garvin
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