Lou’s View

By Lou Bernard

Fourteen years ago, my boss called me up and asked if I’d like to take in a small pug. Now, we already had three dogs at the time, so I was not immediately inclined to bring home another one. But she had this tiny pug, maybe a few months old, that had shown up on her lawn. We figured the little dog had escaped from a puppy mill someplace.

I agreed to keep the dog until we could find a new home. Again, that was fourteen years ago.

Last week, that little dog died in my arms.

I never intended to keep her. When I told my wife that we were temporarily taking care of a tiny pug, she said,”Four dogs isn’t that many.” Then when we got down to my boss’s house, this tiny little pug leaped into her arms and licked her face. And I thought,”Well, okay, we have four dogs now.”

My boss had already named the puppy Guinevere, because she acted like a little princess. That got shortened to Gwen before too long, and then like her name, she stayed small. Gwen was always much smaller than average for a pug, so her name became “Baby Gwen.”

She was a loving little thing. Baby Gwen wanted attention from everyone; she adored the world. She liked to lick peoples’ faces; she could go for hours doing that. She was a sweet, kind little animal, unless she thought you were after her food, and then she turned into a tiny military tank with fur.

It was actually funny, the way she defended her food from the other dogs. To call Gwen “food-aggressive” would be like referring to the Susquehanna River as “a little damp.” If Baby Gwen so much as thought one of the other dogs was coming for her food, she would attack. The other three learned to steer clear of her food bowl. Gwen was much smaller than them, and yet she bullied them into submission.

She would sit on my lap a lot while I was reading or watching TV. If I walked into the kitchen, she’d follow me there. If I opened the refrigerator, she would definitely follow me there.

When we adopted my son, Baby Gwen was the most loving pet any little boy could ever ask for. It took her a while to get used to the baby—She’d walk up and sniff him, but if he moved, she’d jump out of her skin, startled. Once she adjusted to this little crying thing we’d brought home, though, she loved him, and she played with him as he grew.

On the morning of April 6, I woke up when Gwen fell out of the bed. This was not an uncommon occurrence. I realized that she wasn’t moving, and I got up to check on her. She was lying on the floor, unable to stand up. The vet later said that she’d probably had a heart attack.

I got my wife, and we drove her to the vet. Halfway there, she died in my arms.

My heart is breaking. After a year in which we’ve had to consider the possibility of death daily, to lose my little pug is almost too much. Baby Gwen was a sweet little dog, and I’m having a hard time living without her in my home.

She was fourteen, which is old for a dog. I know that. She lived a long, full life, and I understand that, too. But I still can’t quite come to terms with it. I still can’t believe that she’s gone.

At least I was holding her at the time. At least she knew she was loved.

I miss Baby Gwen very deeply. I’ll always miss this little pug who never grew very big….But still occupied a huge space in my heart.