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Goodbye, Mr. BearApril 17, 2006 I met Bear exactly three years ago. Bear -- and I confess, I'm partial to the name because Rhodry's dad was a woolly Alaskan Malamute named Bear -- was a long-haired, black-faced German shepherd. One ear stood at attention; the other canted toward it. This gave him a bit of a goofy look, like a 50-something corporate exec wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, but Bear had dignity. Bear pulled it off. Bear played ball, but only on his terms. Bear's favorite ball was a big red Jolly Ball. Jolly Balls are meant for horses, but I've never seen a horse play with one the way Bear played with his. He'd trot along, head up, Jolly Ball handle in his teeth. At first I'd volunteer to throw the ball for him. He had no interest in this. The only way to get him to drop the ball was to find a second ball. Toss the second ball and he'd drop the first to go after it, whereupon you could give the first a good kick and he'd go after that. You could play this game up the driveway and through the woods. I always got tired long before he did. He was too much the gentleman to act disappointed. Bear was nine when I met him. Rhodry was eight. Three years later, Rhodry at eleven seems younger and spryer than Bear did at nine. Bear was a German shepherd, and he had German shepherd hips: curses on all the human breeders who faddishly bred for that classic crouched stance. In the last three years Rhodry and I have horse-sat quite a few times at Stonehedge Farm. The number of horses in residence ranges from four to seven; the number of cats is a constant one; the number of dogs is usually two, and Rhodry makes three. Rhodry is chronically alpha. Bear didn't mind yielding to the interloper most of the time. The exception was two years ago, when puppy Tillo arrived. Bear was so devoted to and protective of Tillo that he would have challenged Rhodry the chronically alpha in order to keep him away from her. Had they actually fought a duel, I'm pretty sure Rhodry would have won, so for several weeks Rhodry stayed in the truck whenever I stopped by. When Bear decided that Tillo no longer needed protection, then I let Rhodry out again. The three of them worked it out; they got along fine. Bear taught Tillo his ball-handling technique. Now she's the one that trots along with the ball handle clenched between her teeth. Only way she'll give it up is if you put another ball in play. Over the last year or so, Bear's hind end has given him more and more trouble. He was unsteady on his hind legs; he became incontinent. Still, he'd come out to greet me, woofing huskily, whenever I drove up, and he, Rhodry, Tillo, and I would go for walks in the woods after the horses were taken care of. He always brought a ball along. Sometimes Tillo would steal it. Sometimes I would steal it back. A week or so ago Bear stopped eating. He settled in one of the horse stalls. He was alert, he wasn't in pain; he just wasn't moving around any more. I was by Wednesday night. I stopped in to say good night. He raised his head. He recognized me, I'm pretty sure. I scratched his head and kissed him between the eyes and said "Good night, Mr. Bear." Bear's people were going off-island to spend Easter with family members. Rhodry and I were coming to look after the horses. The whole thing was touch and go. Saturday around noon Elaine called me to say that the vet had just come out to euthanize Bear. Rhodry and I showed up a few hours later. Tillo seemed uneasy. I'd been invited to a friend's to make and listen to music; I decided better not. Bear was gone, Tillo's people were away; Tillo needed some friends around. Rhodry sniffed around on Sunday -- looking for Bear, I'm pretty sure. Tillo knows where Bear went, but I'm not sure she told Rhodry. We hung out together and played Bear ball games.
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