Farewell to Rags, our great-hearted sheepdog

MAY 7

Most dog owners tend to think ours is the best dog in the world, and, of course, all of us are right.

 

We bought him nearly 14 years ago in Seattle and named him Winston Ragsdorf – a suitable British moniker for a pedigreed, Old English sheepdog puppy. He bounced around our living room, wiggling his rump and his nonexistent tail as he made friends with our golden retriever, Kaylee. He'll grow into his dignified name in time, Lee and I told each other. He was bred to be a large, responsible, herding dog, in charge of protecting and guarding his flock. Soon, our curly-haired, gray and white clown would mature and become an example to the older, excitable Kaylee. Winston would show Kaylee how to walk on a leash in a stately, docile manner – instead of mimicking her headlong sprint around our neighborhood, zigzagging to sniff every tree and telephone pole along the way.

This, of course, did not happen. Instead, the three of us – a small woman, clutching a double leash and being towed by an exuberant puppy and a manic dog – drew slowdowns from drivers and grins from passersby as we careened down the block. But I was grinning, too. I loved our dogs' joy. And what was the harm in letting little Winston bound onto my lap at night and settle in, cat-like, while I read? How could I know he would continue this tradition long after he had topped 80 pounds?

On Winston's first Christmas Eve, our family left to attend an evening service. We returned to find our little sheepdog, hunkered down under the library table, with a partially gnawed loaf of sweet bread between his paws. I had left two loaves cooling on a kitchen counter and hadn't considered our puppy's athletic ability. Finally Lee and I accepted reality and rechristened our sheepdog. He was Rags, as adorable as a big, living stuffed animal, buoyant of spirit, loyal and loving of heart, and lacking even one mean – or dignified – bone in his body. We reserved the stern call of “Winston!” for rare times when he did something unsafe – lunging at his only enemy, the UPS truck, for instance.

When we bought a house on two country acres in Kingston, a ferry ride away from Seattle, Rags and Kaylee believed we'd moved them to dog heaven. We hung up the leashes and let our dogs run free, chasing each other down the lane every morning as we collected the daily newspaper, and again in the afternoon for the mail. Long after dark every night, those two would eye each other and race to the back door. We'd let them out and hear them racing down the trail, barking with joy, in pursuit of trespassing (or possibly imaginary) deer, raccoons, or bears. They'd return, bright-eyed and unharmed, ready for their nightly treat and lavish praise for protecting us from wild beasts.

Rags was four when Lee and I were given a tiny, black and brown kitten, with the don't-mess-with-me attitude of a Rottweiler. Kaylee was horrified; Rags, delighted. Our big guy could have flattened that little upstart with one swipe of his large paw. Instead, he allowed Benjamin BadKitten – no other name would suit the trouble-prone fluff ball – literally to climb all over him. Their friendship grew and endured until the final morning of our good dog's life. Those two adored each other, seeking each other out for comfort and support. When the Winter Olympics were on TV, the huge dog and baby cat loved to watch figure skating together. Rags would lie on the floor, staring intently at the moving skaters, and Benjamin would perch over the edge of the TV, watching the action upside-down. As Rags grew older, he and Lee watched Seattle Seahawks football together, but we suspected our sheepdog's heart still belonged to the sequins and skates.

When we moved to Moscow six years ago,he easily cleared the four-foot backyard fence to find us in the front yard. He didn't run away; he wanted only to be near us. Our sheepdog never wanted to be the alpha dog. He deferred gladly to Kaylee – and to his BadKitten. Lee was the true leader of the pack, and I was Ragsy's first sheep. He guarded me fiercely (unless someone actually entered the house.) Our brave dog hid behind me only when confronted by water (he couldn't swim and feared the bathtub) or by any dog who was not Kaylee. When our three young grandchildren arrived, Rags whimpered if they scattered or resisted being herded. He always chose first to protect the smallest, the one he felt needed him most.

I keep a mental picture of him in his “Ragsy pose,” lying on the couch, with his chin resting on his front paws, floppy, white hair in his eyes, and black nose gleaming. I see him gallumphing around our backyard, crashing against my side in the garden and slurping my cheek. I see him bounce up with joy when Lee came home, to begin their nightly bear hug and wrestling match. I hear Rags sigh patiently as the BadKitten waved his tail across his buddy's nose. Our shaggy dog loved us with all his great heart. The final act of love we could give him was to let him go peacefully into the beyond. Rest now, Ragsy, and then jump a fence and race Kaylee down the lane. You were the best dog in the world.