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In remembrance of a four-legged force By Sharon Johnson Oct 09, 2022 12:30 AM A A As dogs go, he was not remarkable. A 16-year-old, mid-sized, mixed-breed canine who ambled quietly through his final days, sniffing more selectively, sleeping more deeply, eating less. It was remarkable, however, that Oliver’s dog mother was a dachshund, his dog father a German Shepherd. When he was born, his human mother, my sister, who also happens to be a veterinarian, shared information about his Humane Society birth with the family, as well as her impulsive decision to adopt a not-very-attractive puppy that no one else seemed to want. She is not usually impulsive, so I recall being surprised. Add to that, my sister’s husband does not even like dogs all that much. But he adores his wife and, as my husband said at the time: “He knew she was a veterinarian when they got married. It will be fine.” My animal-loving sibling is prone to occasional exaggeration, so until I actually met Oliver I was suspect about his reported heritage. On my first encounter, I should not have been gobsmacked by the regal German Shepherd head firmly implanted on a sturdy, wiener-dog body. But I was. And there is also this reality. That uniquely constructed body — for reasons no one was able to fully understand during his lifetime — smelled. It was a sour, musty odor that you got used to after a while in his presence, but not completely. My sister would say it was “his only flaw,” and despite her veterinary training and efforts to bathe or medicate it away, his odor became his signature. Oliver was not aware he smelled. He liked himself — he was a self-confident dog. He seemed undeterred by the actions or reactions of those around him, animal or otherwise. He was cool, calm and collected — a four-legged force. The arrival of young grandchildren excited him momentarily, but he soon would find a comfortable spot on the floor nearby and snooze to the sounds of their antics, obliging them when they wanted to dress him up in a costume or try to teach him tricks. As happens with aging, Oliver had end-of-life issues. His later-in-life dementia often caused him, at times, to stand and stare into space. To deter a trance, he had to be physically relocated or redirected (no small feat, for he was quite a stout fella until his final year). Oliver’s vision problems and near-total deafness meant he could walk down a hall and bump into the leg of a person coming from the other direction. In his final months, he had a large protruding tumor on his liver and, in his final-days, incontinence. But he was always a force. After his death, all eight grandchildren were reported to have said they were sure “Oliver liked me best.” The littlest ones who lived close by incorporated his bag of “stuffy toys” into the toy chest residing at their grandparents’ home. They made him goodbye signs and cards. There was a final meal in which everyone told their stories, Oliver’s stories. Like your dog and mine, Oliver was unconditionally loved. Well remembered. His life celebrated. May that be true for all our pets — and all of us. Sharon Johnson is a retired Oregon State University associate professor emeritus. Reach her at [email protected]