Rusty: My Happy Thing

 

February, 2013

If you are anything like me, you might need to relax before you read this blog post. I wouldn't recommend doing so on your work break or while you sit at a drive through. I don't expect you to be overcome with emotion by my incredible writing techniques, but rather by the story of the best dog in the world.

I was in seventh grade when I began hassling. Now, I consider myself a very good hassle-r (ask Michael), but I must have been a childhood prodigy, because I carried out a successful "I want to get a dog" campaign around the Taylor household. I had wanted to get a dog for a few years, mostly because we occasionally got to babysit our friends' dogs and because I was having a hard time with my friends at school (seventh grade, right?) and liked the idea of having a buddy. But, alas, I was out-reasoned each time I brought it up by my parents who insisted that we couldn't have a dog while our house was under construction. After two years (and a LOT of construction) there was a new section of house...and no dog. Each day, I dragged a white board easel into the center of the brand new living room and spent about a half an hour writing out "I want a dog" in various scripts and colors. The easel was well-stocked with dry erase markers, since I was the daughter of a teacher, and I had perfected the "wet paper towel technique" which allowed me to make polka dots; these were rather impressive examples of passive hassling. I started this at the beginning of the school year and by Thanksgiving (quite to my surprise) my parents gave in.

My dad visited me in my room while I happily stuck American Girl Doll stickers all over my bed and he gave in. He just said, "okay." And I've been hassling ever since. My mom told me, on Rusty's last day, that getting him was still the best idea I've ever had. She's right.

We got Rusty from the local Humane Society. We like to go there. I remember liking him because he wasn't barking, and he let me put his leash on before flying out of the pen. Some of the other dogs were a bit overwhelming for all 90 pounds of me. When we took him outside, he chased my dad and sister and I all around the exercise field. I remember that we sat on a short concrete wall and he put his front paws up on it so we could properly admire and pet him--and so that he could get closer to kiss our faces. When we put him back into his pen, he sat down and put one paw up on the chain link. I've blogged about that before.

We were too late to adopt him that day, so we came back the next day. I remember being very mad at my dad, because I was sure that someone else would get him before we could come back. But, we got Rusty. I named him, while my dad filled out the adoption paperwork. We got him a red and black collar and a black leash, some milk bones, and a fleecy beige-colored bone.

Someone had brought Rusty to the Humane Society, which seems crazy to me. He had been there for a very long time-- about four months-- which was longer than most other dogs. One family had adopted him and brought him back. This all seems outrageous to me, but at the same time somehow fated, because I can't imagine my life without him and I'm going to bet that no family could love him as much as we did. I know there are many other people who know and love Rustle. My parents and sister, obviously, but I feel like every single person who has been important to my in my life has known and loved Rusty. He was a therapy dog for my college roommates far from home, the hiking companion of my high school friends who called him "Rusty, Rusty, Rusty" while he hunted gophers on Mt. Olympus, Michael's good friend, Moose's role model... essentially, everyone in my life has a relationship with Rusty.

On Monday, my mom took Rusty to the vet, because he wasn't eating very well. The doctor prescribed antibiotics and thought it may be doggy flu. By Tuesday night, Rusty hadn't eaten anything and was having a very hard time breathing. My dad and I drove to the pet instacare, where we learned that there was fluid around Rusty's heart, making it impossible for him to breath easily. This was probably due to a cancerous tumor or growth that had burst a blood vessel. There were options: surgery, chemo therapy, but no cure. Although, it was terrible to say the words "let him go" out loud, it was even worse to watch him pant and look up at us with scared eyes. Less than a week before, Rusty had hiked to the top of Milcreek canyon with my mom. He never had to be sick. He never had to be old. Despite his 15-16 years, Rusty trotted whenever someone lead him outside, jumped into the back of my parent's Escape, and never passed up the opportunity for a walk. I sit here wondering how a happy, healthy puppy could take such a turn so quickly, but I also feel lucky that he was able to have such a healthy life. Outside of the occasional incident with fudge or turkey carcasses, Rusty was never sick. He was never in pain.

Especially after spending time with Moose, who manages to fall over if he stands up to quickly, my strongest impression of Rusty is his grace. I think of his careful foot placement while the two of us hiked over the shale at the top of Mt. Timpanogos. He always leapt onto the couch and reversed into a spot right in between two of us, where he would pant and smile at us while we watched TV. He would lunge from the basement stairs into the back screen door, putting his two front paws on the latch, to escape into the backyard. He even learned how to let his nephew (Moose) out by going through this process twice. My dad and I took Rusty climbing once and when we reached the top, we looked down to find that Rusty had completed the first pitch, about 25 feet of the ground and was standing on a ledge looking up at us and wagging his tail. We used to go rollerblading down the big hill at Cottonwood park. I would climb to the top, get a running start and then race him down, letting go of his leash. He would always beat me by a few paces and then loop back so I could pick up his leash. We went backpacking in the Uintah mountains last year after a lot of flooding. While the rest of us were tumbling over fallen trees and trudging through swamps, Rusty would find the easiest way (teaching us all to start following him) and on the way back, he'd remember his secret passages perfectly.

I think that Rusty entered and exited our lives gracefully. I could tell thousands of Rusty stories, as I'm sure many other people could. But, I just want to say thanks to my Bubba for being my happy thing everyday for 14 years.

I have some recent pictures, that I've posted below.

July 2012, Dog Lake

 

July 2012, Dog Lake

 

Summer, 2006

 

August, 2012, Wheeler Farm

November, 2012, Holliday Lions

Yurting, June, 2012

December 2012, Holliday Lions

January 2013, Helping Paint the Bathroom

December 2011, Milcreek Canyon

December 2011

June, 2012, Farmer's Market

Winter 2011

June, 2012, Wheeler Farm

December 2011

August 2011, Teaching Moose about Tanner Park a few days after we got Moose

Summer 2010, City of Rocks

December 2010

December, 2012

Summer 2010, City of Rocks

June, 2010

Summer, 2010

December, 2012

Summer 2010, Uintah Mountains

2008, Cottonwood Park

2008, Hangin with Charley

December, 2012

April, 2011, Southern Utah

April, 2011, The Wave Hike

April 2011, The Wave Hike

January, 2008 (Michael and my 3rd date)

 

Summer 2010, hunting at the Yurt

April 2011, Southern Utah

 

Saying goodbye. February 13, 2013