Friday Dogs: Artie

This one is special (fit for Friday the 13th, I guess). There's a story, but the photo is more important.



This is my late dog Artie, and me at age 17 or 18. This photo is a perfect representation of our relationship.

Artie was a yellow lab/German shepherd mix. He was born at the wildlife rehab sanctuary where I used to volunteer all through my teenage years. There were nine puppies in the litter, and the mother neglected them horribly. One of the puppies died after she stepped on it. Colleen, my dear friend and the owner of the sanctuary, asked if I could foster some of the puppies — she barely had enough time in a day to go to the bathroom, much less bottle-feed eight puppies every 2 to 4 hours. With my mother's permission, I took home four of them, one of whom was destined to become Artie.

Two of our neighbors adopted two of the puppies, and my parents decided to keep the chubby little blonde male, whom my sister named Artie, after a character from the old Nickelodeon show "Pete & Pete".

He had the worst hip displaysia that the orthopedic vet had ever seen. At less than a year old, he had a hip replaced; while he was recovering from that, he slipped on the kitchen floor and busted his knee on the same leg; after another surgery to correct that problem, he knocked the same knee on the doorway as he was going outside. By this point, the vet only charged us for the anesthesia and did the surgery for free.

He proceeded to become the happiest, most tender-hearted dog on the face of the planet, and he flat-out worshipped our older golden retriever, Katie. Tug-of-war was his favorite game, and he had very well-toned shoulder muscles because of it. He was a gorgeous dog. His nickname was "Handsome" and he answered to it.

I cried when I left him to go to college.

That first Christmas when I came home for break, on the first night, Artie stood at the door to be let outside. I let him out, and he immediately asked to come back inside. He looked at me oddly, then stood at the door again. This repeated multiple times, until finally I understood that he wanted us to be outside together. It was a full moon (I can't make this stuff up), and we romped in the yard together, just him and me. This is one of my fondest memories of my life so far.

Twenty-four hours later, he was dead of gastric torsion (bloat). He was six.

Occasionally I think that Rufus might be his reincarnation (and my mother agrees, despite her not being entirely certain whether she believes in reincarnation at all). While I very much love Rufus just for being Rufus, it's a comfort to think — even to just wonder if — there's a little piece of Artie in him.