On Monday, June 9, I received an email from the owner of the Dog Camp where Pete was staying. It's a family owned and run farm where they train, board and otherwise care for dogs.
She had been trying to reach me, as Pete refused dinner and seemed in severe pain. She gave him pain medication and wanted my approval for a sonogram and blood tests, as they feared he had a tumor in his stomach. We okayed all the testing, knowing we would likely learn the worst and have to make a hard decision.
I woke up Monday night/Tuesday morning at 1am to the repeated vibrations of Kyle's phone. It was the farm. I had missed six calls all in a row. I think I knew what was coming. I called back. I sat down. "Shelby. I am calling to tell you that Pete has died overnight. I am so sorry. He had pain medication. He was in a resting position when I found him. I think he went comfortably in his sleep. I am so sorry for your loss."
I was stunned. I was sad.
But, as it does, life kept right on going, "Frau Crockett, it's 7am here and it's going to be 32 here today (about 90 degrees Fahrenheit). I need to know what you want--how do you say it in English...?--burn him up? You want that I burn him up and then I give you his-his-his...burns?"
"His ashes," I say. "You want to know if I want him cremated and to be given his ashes." I couldn't help but smile at how the language barrier was making this a little bit funny and ridiculous.
People were so kind on Facebook (Read their comments here). I find that I hang onto these thoughts:
My Mom said, "But not for you, Pete would have died at the hands of harm. You are what stopped that from happening when you rescued him."
My brother-law-Lonnie said to me as I said down next to him at Sophie's fifth grade promotion, "You did right by Pete, Shelb."
Pete was not an easy dog to rescue. He came to me severely abused (including a broken tail that the previous owners shut in the door repeatedly in a cruel attempt to dock it), with food aggression and anxiety of every form. He left us as a loved, docile, old man that allowed Evy to squeeze and even gnaw at the pads of his feet without so much as lifting his head. An old dog that still made it to the top of the hill to the Falkenstein Castle the day before we left for the US.
Rest in peace, Pete Francis Bupp. I am thankful for you. You were loved and you were the first member of the family we have created.
sbc
