I’ll Love You Forever… Remembering Ruckus
October in Southern California generally means hot, dry days and cool, damp nights. Yes, that’s fall here. But, it’s still not how I equate what autumn should be. There are no leaves changing, no sweaters and scarves. But there are pumpkins — pumpkin-flavored-whatever-you-like.
But this October will stay in my memory for the rest of my life, and not a happy memory either. October 1 was the day Brianna and Cody decided that our beloved 11-year-old black Lab mix Ruckus was ready to cross the Rainbow Bridge. His quality of life had reached the end of its days — he wasn’t living anymore, he was merely existing, as if he didn’t want us to hurt anymore than we already were.
Putting your pet to sleep is one of the most difficult and emotional decisions of its owners’ lives. The realization that the joyous days with your furbaby are concluding is enormously painful.
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So, now is the time to remember back to October, 11 years ago…
It’s also the time of year we usually head southeast to the higher elevations, to one of my favorite towns, Santa Ysabel. The town serves as a gateway to the mountain areas of southeastern San Diego County. More like a hamlet, it sits at an intersection with no stoplight, only a four-way stop sign. But it’s heaven on earth here at these four corners. There’s a General Store, an eclectic antique shop, a rock shop and gift shop, Dudley’s Bakery, and the Julian Pie Company. There is a rich history too. In 1878, the town of Santa Ysabel began with only a store, owned by C. R. Wellington, and grew to include a hotel and a blacksmith. By June 1889, it had acquired its own post office.
It’s also where we acquired Ruckus, our lab-mixed-with-who-knows. We pulled into the parking lot for Dudley’s — they sell the best bread on the West Coast. John went in to peruse their diverse selection of baked goods and said he’d get a few things, and then he would head across the street to the antique store and rock shop. Brianna and Cody were intrigued by a young girl sitting in front of Dudleys with a large cardboard box, with a sign that she was selling Spaniel puppies for $50, and I sternly warned the kids, “Do NOT buy a puppy. We already have two dogs,” and I headed off next door to get our Thanksgiving pies.
It’s always a chore to decide what to purchase at the Julian Pie Company. They offer not only the most delicious apple pies but every other flavor imaginable. To please the family’s diversified palate, I bought three frozen pies — an apple, a pecan, and a strawberry rhubarb.
I came out to find the car was empty and assumed the kids had crossed the street to explore the antique store’s treasures. But, to my shock and surprise, they were standing about 50 feet away with a tiny black puppy on a thin, blue leash. They had disregarded my warning and had spent $50 for a puppy that was most certainly not a Spaniel, more of a Lab mix — a mutt.
Fast forward several years. Brianna and Cody moved out into a small, one-bedroom apartment. This meant no large dogs, so their dogs stayed with John and me — Grammie and Grampie. Ruckus came into the family with welcoming sniffs and licks from our other two dogs Hunny, an overweight Chow-Akita we had adopted several years prior. She’d been a well-trained service dog for an older woman who was losing her vision. We also had Kona, a small, year-old female Pitbull that Bree and Cody had purchased as a tiny, weeks-only puppy the summer prior.
The three “fur-siblings” all had unique personalities, with Hunny being the mellow, intelligent oldest “child” and Kona being the smart and athletic one. Ruckus was the clumsy, not-so-smart one, who “had a heart the size of Texas,” I used to describe him.
We said goodbye to Hunny several years ago, and it was devastating, but losing Ruckus was more difficult for me. All during the pandemic, when I was working from home, he rarely left the floor of my office, content to lie in his dog bed, watching the birds out the window, or just dozing. He taught me that love could be unconditional. When I would yell or cry, he would come and lean on my leg or put his head in my lap. Then he would look up at me with those dark eyes, as if saying, “It’s going to be OK, Grammie, I’m here.”
Now I must go on without him. Just as we grieve for the humans we lose to death, we must allow time for the process for the animals and pets we love too.
They say all dogs go to heaven. For sure, my Hunny and Ruckus are enjoying dancing, jumping, and playing with their soft, white feathery wings waving behind them.
