"Why did you give her a gypsy name?" This was my grandfather's reaction to hearing that we had named our newest addition to our family Ruby. It was suggested (for reasons I honestly still do not know) that we name her after a type of stone. Quartz was a bit bland, and Diamond was stripper-esque, so we settled on Ruby. She was a pure-bred German Shephard, the offspring of two beautiful dogs whose name I can't remember. Her father was an enormous and powerful dog, but incredibly obedient. We met her for the first time in a kennel and decided that the sable-coated pup with a hot pink collar would be part of our family. Very early on, we could see that she was not the type of dog we were accustomed to. Mutley, our mixed breed dog who was still alive when Ruby arrived, was the embodiment of "chill." It's my sad contention that the arrival of such a young, energetic dog might have hastened Mutley's departure, but Mutley lived a long life and for the most part they got along.
Ruby was not "chill." She never harmed a person intentionally, though I am absolutely certain that she would have if she felt that we were being threatened by one. One of my earliest interactions with Ruby was provoking her into a frenzy that is typical of young dogs, which involved her running around the room and jumping on everything she could in a big circle for about twenty seconds. Sometimes, these episodes would last a little longer and be a little more intense than expected, and she was liable to cause serious damage if she couldn't be stopped. Like the budding eight-year old genius I was, I decided to play with Ruby the morning that I was scheduled to take my third grade class picture. Now immortalized in glossy glory is a testament to what a young German Shephard is capable of: a frowning 8 year-old me with a large scratch under my eye, hating every single moment of that particular day.
She was not a big dog, particularly for a German Shephard. She was sable-coated and, though her ears would later prove to be an issue, a genuinely beautiful animal. She was relatively small for her breed, but stocky and muscular. Another early encounter I had with Ruby involved her chasing after our cat for about twenty feet, with me attached by way of a leash. That dog dragged me (probably over one hundred pounds at the time) a fair distance with relative ease. Once she had realized what she had done, she was clearly distraught, both by nearly killing me and by not catching that damned cat.
Ruby's general hatred of anything that moved on four legs (or wheels in some cases) is one of her enduring legacies. Her violent tendencies toward other dogs came to our attention in "doggie day-care," which my mother hoped would foster some manners in the young, instinctual Ruby. Instead, it only served to prove that where we lived was probably the only place a dog like Ruby would be able to function: in the middle of the woods. She was never entirely at ease, always alert and prepared for any real or imagined threat to her flock. To my eyes, she seemed most in her element watching intently over the forest while we worked in the garden or on other projects around the house. She did not always see things that struck her as worthy of her full attention. When she did, the gentle, caring dog we knew became the wolf from which her breed has decended.
I do not remember the first time Ruby killed a deer because it happened relatively often. I honestly believe that Ruby saw the care which we took to make our garden and our home worthwhile projects and felt obligated to keep hungry woodland creatures away. This sentiment would play perfectly into her prodigious territorial instincts. I don't use the word prodigious often, but in this particular situation, it fits. She had taken an unspoken vow to protect her home and family, and she would honor it her entire life. Yes, Ruby once chased a full grown black bear up a tree and would not let it down until we forced her inside. To her, any fauna within sight were plotting to not only eat our beans and collards, but kill us, take our money, use our toilets and leave the seats up. I can tell you that as a person living in the Pocono Mountains, I have become fairly familiar with the sight of dead animals on the sides of our roads. Watching a German Shephard make a meal of a full grown deer, however, is glimpse into the primal instincts of a natural predator.
The next chapter of the Ruby saga begins somewhere deep in the forest, where an exceedingly charming dog successfully courted the fierce princess. During her periodic romps through the woods after deer, Ruby scheduled several rendezvous with this charming dog. A few months later, our house became a puppy kennel overnight. I distinctly remember my fifth grade teacher approaching me during class to tell me that my mother had gone home because Ruby had "given birth." Seven healthy puppies would become the talk of the house for a few months. Ruby was the protective, firm and gentle mother that we all expected her to be. We of course decided to keep the largest of litter, who was by far the laziest, and named him Shep, after the suitor with which we had originally intended Ruby to pursue a romantic relationship. As the other puppies went their separate ways, Shep seemed unaffected by the commotion, content with eating, sleeping, and generally being the clumsy, lovable dog that he still is today.
Understandably, Ruby began to lose her characteristic physical vigor after Shep and his sibblings arrived. Although she still managed to wrangle a few deer (perhaps trying unsuccessfully to teach her fierceness to her son), more and more she would only chase other animals to the edge of the property. She remained muscular and tough throughout her life, but running appeared painful as she aged. Her ears were a chronic problem, and constant draining of fluid from them left them collapsed and wrinkled, eventually creating such an issue that we decided that her best option was to have them cropped off. I always sensed that this was extremely embarrassing and demoralizing for her, and that such a proud dog could never survive long in so depressed a state.
She eventually developed several inoperable tumors, a possible product of either her food or even the water that she drank. I can remember going to the veterinarian's office several times, embarrassed by Ruby's behavior and incredibly sad as I began to understand that she would soon be gone. In hindsight, her health deteriorated very quickly. She suffered a stroke following one of her visits to the vet, and the tumors multiplied quickly after that. Of course the visits were necessary, but I know that putting a dog like Ruby in such a stressful, uncomfortable situation at her age did little to help her.
The night before her final visit to the veterinarian, we all said our goodbyes. She always sensed when something was wrong with us, and though I honestly believe that she knew what was going on, she remained stoic. Unshakable. She had stared down animals five times her size ,and it seemed so ridiculous to me, as I think it probably did to my sisters and my parents, that she should meet her end in a veterinarian's office. The next morning it was over in barely an hour. "I'm sorry" was the last thing my father said to his beloved dog. I can certainly romanticize about a noble death at the place where she had lived and protected her flock for her entire life, as I know this was what my father wanted for her, but it was not to be. Burying her was the most difficult part. My mother stood and watched, freezing to death in the cloudy December weather as my father and I made the grave. We laid her to rest on the same rug that she laid on for years in front of the fireplace, and wrapped her in a plaid jacket we used when we worked outside. When the work was finished, we took turns to say our last goodbyes. I wept like I have very few times in my life.
Much is made of the connection between pets and their masters. The concept of dogs in particular creating a special bond with their caretakers is well documented. In my experiences, however, there still exists a great emotional and intellectual divide between most animals and their owners. As a student of social sciences, I could certainly make a historical correlation between the subjugation and emotional detachment from other living things and our modern concept of household pets. That is to say, we have learned to not listen to other animals much in the same way we have learned to not truly listen to each other. Despite the fact that by any serious estimation most other species have existed far longer than humans have, little credence is given to their natural wisdom and intellectual endowment. Popular sentiment seems to dictate that animals, particularly those that are domesticated, only provide mankind with entertainment, sustinence, and perhaps quiet companionship, but little more. I can only say that my time with Ruby disproved this. Animals may not speak languages common to human ears, but they communicate knowledge constantly in ways that have been deemed insignificant. They understand things we as humans can never hope to understand, but since they do not look like us and sound like us, they are altogether separate from us, and certainly can not contribute anything of substantive value to our lives. To call an animal noble or caring or brave, however sincere, is generally considered symbolic. Real nobility and bravery, as most understand it, are attributes that are worthy of genuine recognition when they are used to describe humans. I felt this way when I was young. The beautiful Shepherd that was a part of my life for ten short years forced me to rethink my relationship with other living things, including other people. She showed me that everything, be it a dog, a person, a blade of grass or a drop of water, can be learned from and appreciated, and therefore has value. She embodied the spirit of the name given to her breed. She was the Good Shepherd. She taught me as much in her short time on earth about things like dignity, bravery and loyalty as any person ever has. I loved her and I miss her very, very much.
