I look at this picture and I know something was up with Ike. His eyes in this picture are not the eyes I’ve been looking at.
This morning I had Norman and Rita out, Bubba in his crate and Ike in the family room. Rita hit the French Doors and they came open. I jumped up in time to see Ike in a very aggressive stance heading out to Norman. By the time I ran through the house Norman had him down. Ike was still trying to fight but his ass was kicked. I sat in the vet’s office crying. As recently as yesterday I’d had discussions with Doberman guru friends of mine. I felt something was going on with him and it might be time. After last week’s acupuncture appointment he’d lost another two pounds. His eyes were dull. And it was going to be a small fortune to fix his torn up head. The vet examined him thoroughly. She agreed that his behavior was cause to look for something physical. She noted the wasting that could be Wobbler’s or cancer. She suggested his flip flop behavior might be the result of a brain tumor, since he was being such a love with us. I’d thought of brain cancer too. He’d become unpredictable. Or predictable in his unpredictability.
It’s always surreal when this happens early in the morning. I’m sitting here thinking “Did that just happen?” But my family room is spattered with blood and pretty much looks like a crime scene, so it must have.
I’ll miss him. He was the only dog I’ve ever owned that could come out in the front yard and not step off the curb. He’d sit and watch other dogs walk by and not do anything. He loved going out to get the mail with me. And he loved me. I did the best I could for him. I think his poor breeding finally caught up to him. So I held him, and I told him he’d been a good dog and that he wouldn’t hurt any more. And I let him go.