… Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Ollie lived on this earth for fourteen and a half years and a few days. In that time, he seldom gave an inch or a rat’s ass about what anybody expected of him. He left this world this morning.
He spent 13 years and four months of that time with me. Like many of the things about him, his entry into my life was extraordinary. I provided him his third home — the first two not working out because of his hard-headedness. You often hear people say that their cats chose them, rather than the other way around, but you don’t generally hear that about dogs. Never the less, Ollie chose me. I wasn’t even in the market for another dog.
Back in 2004, a couple moved in next door to me. The wife loved dogs. The husband didn’t. Various dogs appeared and disappeared as the wife brought them home and the husband insisted they go.
Then Ollie arrived, along with his 10-year-old owner. The boy and the dog had been living down the block a way, with the boy’s grandfather. The wife next door was his sister. Ollie hadn’t been getting along with the grandfather’s dog. Truth be told, Ollie could be a bit of a bully, despite his small size. The arrangement worked out was that the boy would move in with his sister and keep his dog, which he loved dearly. The sister had another of her dogs in residence, and Ollie’s relationship with that dog wasn’t much better than with his previous roommate.
Through that summer, Ollie developed a habit of burrowing under the fence between our yards to visit with me anytime I was outside. I enjoyed his company, and my dog of the time, Floyd, was big and Ollie couldn’t dominate him, no matter how he tried.
That was the summer of hearing raised voices and smashing crockery coming from the house next door. The marriage was troubled (to say the least) and I couldn’t blame Ollie for wanting a little respite.
Then, one day in September, there was a knock on my door. There on my front porch was the boy, holding Ollie and in obvious distress.
“Lady, you want to buy my dog?”
Well, as much as I liked Ollie, I wasn’t about to enter into that sort of transaction without talking to an adult, so I went next door and asked what was going on. I learned the husband had announced that Ollie was going to the pound if they didn’t get rid of him some other way.
I handed over $50 and Ollie and I became family. I added a proviso to the agreement that the boy could visit Ollie anytime he wanted.
He did for a while, but within a year or two, he moved away to live with other relatives. The couple next door divorced and moved away. I saw the boy again five or so years later when he came back to visit the grandfather, then again last November when he was a young man and I didn’t even recognize him. I’m glad he got to see Ollie one last time.
I could write thousands upon thousands of words about the 13 and then some years Ollie and I shared — maybe even a “Marley and Me” type of book. There was always something to say about Ollie, who was whip-smart and a model of steely determination. He wasn’t always the “good dog.” In fact, he could be a handful. A lot of dog experts say you shouldn’t take on a Jack Russell terrier unless you have a firm enough hand to keep it in line. That is a statement I will not disagree with.
But the day I adopted him, I promised him that this was his forever home. I’d stick by him to his last day, no matter what.
Ollie was self-interested. One New Year’s Eve, when I bought a rawhide chew for each of the family dogs who was coming to our party (IIRC, it was five that year) to keep them occupied and out of the chip dip, we noticed about two hours in that nobody had a rawhide chew. Ollie had waited for each dog, in turn, to lose focus on the treat and collected all the chews and put them in his crate. After each addition, he closed the door to make sure nobody could get their chew back.
Ollie was fearless. He got right up in rottweillers’ faces.
Ollie was an extrovert. He made friends quickly and cultivated a fan club among the neighborhood children.
Ollie was a ladies man. He particularly enjoyed the company of big bitches (female dogs). He was neutered, but nobody ever convinced him of that. He had a relationship with one of my brother’s dogs, a Brittany spaniel mix, who was easily five times his size. They played together and curled up together. We always said he had a thing for tall blondes.
Ollie was a rebel. The dog in residence when Ollie arrived was Floyd, who was well-behaved and lived his life to serve his people and his pack. Floyd had strong opinions about how a dog should behave. Ollie did not share them and did not accept Floyd’s authority to impose rules. Ollie loved to harass dogs through the fence. Floyd thought that was hooligan behavior. Ollie persisted, Floyd kept trying to herd him away from the fence. They did this dance for many years. Then, in 2013, Floyd left us. The relationship between the two had always been testy. But when Floyd was gone, Ollie was devastated. It took months for him to snap out of his funk. And he gave up barking at the fence altogether. Why? I can’t see inside his mind, but I suspect he had been using Floyd as a bodyguard. If anything ever went wrong, if the other dog ever got through the fence, Floyd would have defended and rescued Ollie. And Ollie knew it. When Floyd died, Ollie lost his wingman.
After a while, I brought Monique (standard poodle), into our family. Ollie’s relationship with her was entirely different from Floyd’s. I picked a female on purpose because Ollie always had friendly relationships with female dogs. They got along famously. He took her under his wing, though she quickly outsized him.
When Monique was just a pup:
I don’t think Monique understands what has happened yet, but I fear she’s going to be devastated when she figures it out. Ollie has been her rock for the four years of her life.
I’ve known for six months that Ollie’s time with us was nearing its end. His health has been declining. He’s been getting slower and slower and gimpier and gimpier. He’s gone deaf and last week, the vet informed me that he was mostly blind. I hadn’t noticed that because he never walked into things. He had his environment memorized so he could even run around without hitting anything. When he wanted to, he could still move like greased lightning. It was just that recently, he seldom wanted to.
Yesterday, he wouldn’t eat or drink. He couldn’t walk more than a few steps without lying back down. He’s been in treatment for congestive heart failure for a while and doing quite well, but I could see that he was in distress, so I wrapped him in a towel against the cold outside and took him to the vet.
The vet wanted to keep him overnight and give him IV fluids. He thought he might be able to get him back up at least for a little while, so I left him and hoped for the best.
I got the call a little while ago. He made it through the night but collapsed this morning.
I knew he was going to go. I have just one regret. That day back in 2004 when he joined my family -- I promised him I would be with him until the end. I wasn't able to keep that promise. He faced his last moments among strangers. I wish I'd taken him home last night. It might have been harder for me, but it would have been better for him.
But then again, Ollie was fearless. He never met a foe he didn’t think he could best. He held onto life the way he held onto that chuck-a-duck in the picture at the top. He doubtless went into his last battle certain he was going to win and be back home in no time.
Farewell, old friend.