Requiem for a rottweiler – Life with Jack

It has been over two years since Jack's been gone. Only now can I write about it without tears shorting out the keyboard. And maybe not even yet. It is difficult to eulogize Jack without sounding like the sappy opening lines from "Love Story", something like: "What can you say about a rottweiler who loved warm autumn days, unripe pears, and me." But I will try.

We first met Jack at the Fairfax County animal shelter when looking for a lost german shepherd. Jack came with a story penned by a prior adopter. The prior adoption had failed because the other dog in the home resented Jack's arrival, but the would be adopter couldn't say enough good things about Jack. The shelter attendant said that Jack didn’t know he was a rottweiler. Actually, Jack knew all there was to know about being a rottweiler, and then some. Jack sat right next to the shelter attendant and leaned against her so she would pet him. He was cordial to me, but was most interested in the person he knew and wanted every bit of human contact he could get from her in the few minutes he was out of his run. I'm a sucker for that kind of devotion and filled out an application to adopt.

The day after a reference from our vet in lieu of the required home visit from Animal Control, Jack rode home in Clay's little sports car, a Toyota MR2. A little cramped for a rottie, but Jack knew he was out of the shelter and he didn't care how he got out of there.

Jack immediately made himself at home and managed to win over most everyone he met. Our mothers were both somewhat skeptical when told that we had adopted a friendly rottweiler, but Jack knew when he had someone to win someone's trust and he knew how to do it. When my mother came to visit, he climbed onto the sofa next to her and just laid his big head on her lap. That was all it took. I often think Jack missed his true calling as a therapy dog, because the human need for, and benefit from, the tactile experience of petting was completely understood and reciprocated by Jack.

As long as I'm extolling the virtues of rottweilers, allow me to digress to the subject of the new pope. In a slander on the breed, Ratzinger has been referred to as "God's rottweiler" apparently for his fierceness as the "defender of the faith." That is bullshit. Rottweilers will never tell you what to think or what to believe, except to believe that it is dinner time. Rottweilers will never tell you who or how to love; they give their love unconditionally and give their kisses freely and without reservation. Ratzinger is nothing like a rottweiler, he is merely a pig in a dress.

Jack was also the gentlest dog I've ever known. He had one toy for most of his life with us. He carried it around; he slept with it under his chin; he never chewed it. When we got the cats, Franklin and Eleanor, as kittens, we were concerned, but when finally allowed into their room, Jack laid down in the center of the floor with his little stub of a tail wagging like crazy and let the kittens come to him. And they did, rubbing up against his face, head, and paws. They remained Jack's biggest fans and he tolerated every annoying thing they did, including taking over his bed on occasion.

They told us that Jack was six years old when we adopted him and we were blessed with another seven years with him. Although we didn't have him for his whole life, he was already "the perfect dog" when he came to us-- housetrained, well socialized, and with a solid understanding of how to handle humans. Like most rescue dogs, Jack knew that he needed a home; and like most mature dogs, he knew how to fit in.

Jack was my shadow, my constant companion. He would follow me from room to room and kept me company in my home office while I worked. When I was working on something outdoors, he'd pick a spot in the center of the activity and plop himself down. He thought that box turtles were ambulatory chew toys with a soft, creamy center. He taught us to play Rottweiler Ball (a spectator sport for humans), and he loved those hard, unripe pears that grew on our tree. He would jump up to get the pears that he could reach. He would engage a more agile dog to jump up and pull down a higher branch. When all else failed, he would just sit under the tree and wait. He was either waiting for one to fall, or waiting for one of us to come find him, and then reach up and get him a pear. Jack would even check in with the tree when it was not in season, always hopeful that the pears would appear. Jack's pear tree didn't bear fruit for two years after he died.

During the last months of his life, Jack could no longer manage the stairs to the second floor. The saddest thing I ever saw was him standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at me. I brought his bed and a spare mattress downstairs to the front room so we could still sleep together.

Many, many rottweilers owe their lives to Jack. Our very first foster dog was a rottweiler and we have rarely been without a foster rottie or two over the past eight years that we've been engaged in rescue work. This is Jack's legacy. Giving life, love, and promoting understanding, that's not too shabby. Something we could all aspire to.