Man's Best Friend Makes for Bittersweet Memories

It was only our second or third date when my husband, Cowboy, brought his best friend to meet me.

As I peered into the cardboard box nestled into the cab of his truck, I was greeted by a fuzzy brown and black face with a big wet nose looking back at me.

"This is Rush," Cowboy told me.

Rush, just a puppy at the time, was one-fourth lab and three-fourths pit-bull. I didn't know what to make of him at first.

Rush wasn't a pretty dog, at least not in the way that collies or poodles or dachshunds are pretty.

Rush was 100 percent dog -- and a Republican dog at that, named after the windy and rotund Rush of talk radio and television.

Being somewhat afraid of dogs with a reputation -- you know, Dobermans, rottweilers, and pit bulls among others -- I didn't take to Rush immediately.

Rush didn't seem to notice much or mind though. He'd pay me a polite nod or sniff, but he was Cowboy's dog in every sense.

As Rush grew up, I still feared him a little but was constantly impressed by the devotion he showed Cowboy.

You could tell easily by the look in his dog eyes that Cowboy was his world.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that when Rush was a pup, he contracted the Parvo virus and nearly died.

Cowboy set out with the determination of a miracle worker to nurse him back to health, caring for his friend day and night, feeding his tired body the electrolytes it needed to get better.

I think Rush was always grateful.

Cowboy was always proud of his dog, who followed his every step, every command. With wide shoulders and muscles that protruded like a weightlifter's, Rush was every bit a man's dog -- Cowboy's dog.

Though he had jaws strong enough to tear the limb right off a tree -- or I suspected maybe even a person -- Rush knew Cowboy was his master, and he would answer each command to sit, lay down, stay, with only the fierce wagging of his tail to show that he was eager to play.

I don't think any dog was ever happier than Rush, with Cowboy rough-wrestling with him in the grass.

While he would bark or emit a low growl to others who may tease him or try to take his food, with his master he was a pussycat.

Cowboy could take a piece of meat right out of Rush's mouth with Rush just waiting submissively for him to give it back -- never offering even a dirty dog look. He was Cowboy's dog completely.

The more I got to know Rush, the more I began to trust him. While I'd never bother his dinner dish or put my hand to close to his colossal jaws, I did begin to feel a little safer knowing Rush, a fantastic watch dog, could protect me from harm.

I knew I had come to care for Rush when one day, afraid he would follow me from the farm across a busy highway where my husband was working, I opened the car door and invited Rush in.

He didn't have to be asked twice. Rush sat in the passenger seat of my Pontiac polite as pie as we made the trip. In fact, once we arrived across the field, Rush decided he didn't want to get out. Cowboy had to call him before I could get his hefty body out of my car.

The only time I ever really got angry at Rush was a few weeks ago when my husband was working on our new house, ready to put the windows into our sun room.

He had them laid out on the floor, ready to install, when Rush strolled in the open door and made himself at home by walking right across the panes.

As soon as I saw him do it, I screamed at him to get off. CRACK! There went the first pane under a big hairy foot.

The more I screamed, the more Rush danced around, apparently confused, taking another window paine with him before Cowboy could get him back outside.

It wasn't a banner day for Rush in my mind.

But only a week or so later, with the angry wheels of a busy highway, Rush was taken from Cowboy's world.

Cowboy knew there was nothing he could do -- no electrolytes could save Rush this time. So he sat with him.

Though Rush was so badly injured, he still never offered to snap at Cowboy, as many hurt animals might have. He put his head on Cowboy's lap and looked up at him with the look that only a loved dog can reserve for his master.

And he died.

Only those who have had the God-given fortune of a cherished and loyal pet can understand how equally heartbreaking the loss can be.

Cowboy -- tough and ornery like his dog -- doesn't like to let his feelings show, but I know.

And if I could bring Rush back, I'd knock out all those sun room windows myself.