Strand 3: Gunner

When I was eight years old, my parents bought a four year old rottweiler. When we went to pick the dog up, the owner let me hold the leash. The rotty never tried to pull me or runaway; he was the gentlest animal my young being had ever come into contact with. Gunner was trained by his owner to be extremely obedient, he would sit, lie down, and stay for however long you told him too. He let me dress him up in a wedding veil one time and would gently wrestle with me. You were also able to walk him with no leash and he would never leave your side.

I remember the last days Gunner spent with us. How it eventually came to be that the one hundred and fifteen pound Rottweiler got stuck under the kitchen table because he could not stand. Our pastor Dave came over and helped my father lift Gunner onto a blanket and carry him out to the car. The same car I drive today, a green Ford Mercury Sable. I watched them drive away as I ran to the stairs that led to the Connecticut River. I made it to the forty third step out of eighty-six stairs before the shock wore off and tears began to stream down my face.

I knew they were taking him to the vet to put him down. To put an end to his uncomfortable body and suffering eyes. As I walked along the beach, the stench of low tide filled my nose. I remembered how I would bring Gunner to swim with me; he didn't swim all that well and never left the shallow water. His version of swimming was to slap his paws on the surface of the water, splashing it everywhere as he clumsily tried to gulp all the water out of the air. His goal was to drink the river dry; we had to leave him tied to the deck of the house he had to pee so often.

There would be no one to wear my crazy costumes or to wrestle with over a tennis ball stuffed in a sock on my bedroom floor. My parents and I would have to walk around the grounds in the evenings alone, but it wouldn't be the same. There would be no snuffling of leaves or long pauses to sit and look at the stars. Who would chase me on my sled in the winter as I sped down the hill behind the dining hall? I realized that there would be no one to talk to, or cry with, being able to bury my face in his furry neck. I knew that there would be no one to save my life if I was walking alone in the woods like he had done before, giving me nightmares. That was when the panic attacks started. When those big, brown, knowing eyes had stared me down and brought me back from the edge of an easily broken neck.

I wish I knew where Gunner's ashes are. We had him cremated and in the move to Maine he was transferred to a box. I don't know where he is now. I wish I could have him with me but it would be unfair to all those who knew him. Everyone who knew Gunner misses him terribly. He was the best dog we ever had. It might have been because he was the best trained or the sweetest. But I think it is because of those eyes of his. They seemed able to see straight through you, down to your soul. And he accepted you for who and what you were. He didn't try to change you, he just loved you.