Losing Roux – ‘a Hole in Our Hearts’

  How do I tell you about Roux?

  I could tell you that she was the smartest dog I’ve ever known.

  I could tell you that she she practically spoke English.

  I could tell you how crazy we all were about her and that we  thought she was the best dog ever, of the many dogs our family has owned. But you still wouldn’t know her or how we felt about her. 

  Or how we’re feeling now.

  Our daughter Andie got her from a border terrier rescue group in  Louisiana. They’d named here there, after the sauce-thickener  often used in Cajun cooking.

  She was a puppy then, and at first glance not a lovely sight. Andie had had her flown up from Louisiana. She still had a lot of black puppy fur mixed in with the blonde, had been in a crate all day and looked more than a little bedraggled. We wondered whether Andie had made a good choice.

  It didn’t take long to realize that she couldn’t have made a better one.

  How smart was Roux?

  I wasn’t kidding in saying that she practically spoke English. A partial list of the words in her vocabulary included “walk, leash, drink, treat, sit, busy bee (the name for her stuffed-animal toys) catch, high five, shake, roll over, squirrel, gently (take the treat gently instead of snapping at it), stick, bye bye and some I’ve undoubtedly forgotten.

  If you told her to go from the front of the car to the back seat, she understood and complied. If you told her not to bark, she didn’t. If you told her to fetch one of her toys (she had a large box of them) and corrected her by saying she’d gotten the wrong one, she’d run back and return with the right one. 

  She learned tricks almost effortlessly. She did all the usual ones – sit, shake, lie down, roll over and others – but the most impressive involved a two-part command. Upon hearing the words “stick ‘em up,” she’d stand on her back paws with her front paws raised above her head, as a person would if confronted by an armed assailant. Then, hearing the word “bang,” she’d fall down and play dead.

  Technically, she was Andie’s dog. But because her job requires her to work lots of 12- and 24-hour shifts, my wife and I dog-sat Roux multiple days a week. It felt like she was our dog. 

  It fell to me most evenings to take her for her walk. Borrowing one of the late Patrick McManus’s lines, I enjoyed telling her as we walked that a dog like her should live a thousand years. She’d look up at me as if she understood, and agreed wholeheartedly.

  I took her for a walk the night before she died, never dreaming it would be our last walk. Her death was so sudden, so wholly unexpected. It would have been one thing if she’d been old or sick, but she was only six and seemingly in good health. 

  She seemed entirely normal that day. She sat at the table as usual, begging for a handout during breakfast. She was a polite beggar, never aggressive or pushy; she’d just look up at you with those soulful brown eyes and the scrap of bacon or bit of toast were a forgone conclusion. 

  Late that morning, she whined to be let outside. Again, entirely normal.

  We let her out; she ran around the yard barking, as usual. Running while barking was one of her greatest pleasures.

  A few minutes later, she wanted to be let out again. More running, more barking.

  Then, a third time. That wasn’t usual.

  “You were just out. You want to go out again?”

  She did. 

  This time, she walked to the side of the yard and lay down in a shady spot.

  “That’s funny,” I told Sheila, my wife. “She’s lying in the shade. Usually she likes to lie in the sun.”

  “Maybe she’s just hot.”

  “Yeah … maybe so.”

  Not long afterwards – Sheila, had left for an appointment – I went to let Roux back in the house. She was still lying in exactly the same spot, in exactly the same position.

  “Roux! Time to come in.”

  Nothing.

  I think it was then that I knew. Nothing can describe the sinking feeling. I went to her, petted her and knew beyond doubt. The dog we had loved more than any other was gone. 

  In telling her countless times that a dog like her should live a thousand years, it was because I half hoped she would outlive me. We’ve lost so many dogs during our lives. You can only go through that so many times.

  She should have had another seven or eight years. A vet said that when young, seemingly healthy dogs die suddenly, it’s often because of a heart attack or other major organ failure. It certainly wasn’t because of lack of care, or lack of love.

  I called Sheila to tell her what happened, then carried Roux into the house and held her in my lap until Sheila got home. She took it hard – crying, screaming, hyperventilating. Andie’s reaction was similar. Her cries and shrieks were so loud and heart-rending that one of the neighbors thought a child had been hit by a car.

  I did my best to remain stoic, then excused myself and went to look for some Kleenex. 

  So many Roux memories. But the one that never fails to choke me up was of her riding beside me in the car and putting her head on my shoulder. As a lover would. Roux loved everyone. And everyone who knew her well, and even some who didn’t,  loved her. Andie’s been getting calls from friends as far away as Connecticut, friends telling her how sorry they are and what a great dog Roux was. 

  I don’t think we felt this bad when we lost parents or siblings. Maybe that’s because pets are such a fundamental part of our daily lives. They sleep with us, get up with us, follow us around all day, provide unconditional love no matter what. Not many people do that. Maybe that’s why it’s so painful when we lose them.

  You could say that Roux was just a dog, that it wasn’t like losing a human member of the family. And you’d be absolutely right. It would be worse losing a spouse or a child.

  But she was a member of the family, and she was almost human. She was our companion, our unfailing friend, our most beloved pet ever.

  We’ll get through this. It will just take time, probably quite a bit of time. There may or may not be other dogs – at this point I’d say probably not – but there will never be another dog like Roux. And there will always be a hole in our hearts.

Tim Woodward’s column appears every other Sunday in The Idaho Press and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@gmail.com.