Anyone who has had the privilege of loving a Lhasa Apso knows what I mean when I say that Ernie was a special boy. He was obstinate, demanding, vocal, hilarious, loyal, protective, and cuddly. He would cut you if you dared to touch his front feet, but had absolutely no problem accepting 24/7 belly rubs - the only way to earn kisses.
He went by Ernie, Ernest, Ernesto, Ernesto Umberto Luigi Montalban, Ernie Ernie MacInnerny, Flop Flops, Panda Bear Dog, Moo Cow Dog, Mookie, “Ernie, stop barking,” “Ernie, stop eating your feet,” “Ernie, get on the grass,” and “Sweet Jesus, Ernie, can I get five minutes of peace?”
He was very clear about what he wanted, and when. He had us trained within a matter of weeks. His commands to us went something like this:
“BARK” - “I want on the couch.”
“BARK” - “I want off the couch.”
“BARK” - “I want back on the couch.”
“BARK” - “I want on my chair.”
“BARK” - “I’m ready for bed.”
“BARK” - “Time to get up, already.”
“BARK” - “I want down for water, I don’t care if it’s 3:30 AM.”
“BARK” - “I don’t want that water, I want the other bowl.”
“BARK” - “I want very, very, very fresh water, not this only very, very fresh water..”
He would yell at me through the bathroom door to get him whatever he wanted, at that exact moment. He had no respect for personal privacy or the benefits of occasional silence. Sometimes, when we were really beside ourselves, we gave him the finger, and then he would really double down. He took no prisoners.
He loved being outdoors more than any dog we’ve ever had. He would often take his sweet time patrolling the perimeter. When I tried to get him to come in, he would flop dramatically and defiantly into the fresh, stinky, dirty bark dust, where he would have been happy to spend an entire afternoon.
He did a lot of flopping, in fact. When he walked, his feet flopped, like he was slapping them down. When he ran, he got even floppier, and he would often pin his ears back, in aero mode. Even at his age and with his cancer, he would get puppy crazies/zoomies on the regular. And when it was mealtime, he would buck with excitement, like a very strange, uncoordinated bronco.
He would sleep so deeply, that I could pick him up, and he’d flop his head on my shoulder, like a child. He snored like a lumber jack with a deviated septum. He often slept glued to me, and it was the best. In truth, he tended to follow me everywhere (flop flop flop flop). And if I was on the couch, he’d insist on coming to lay down next to me. It felt like such a privilege. Nap time with him was heaven.
He had the softest fur, and the sweetest, most expressive medium-brown eyes. He had breath that would melt lead paint (we weren’t able to address his teeth issues, because of his tumor). He gave the softest, most gentle kisses, though - which were a stark departure from the Cujo persona he donned when he felt the need to defend his territory. He yelled regularly at the multiple threats coming from the TV. He was the “get off my lawn” of dogs. But give him a bath, and his bad boy act dissolved into very, very dramatic, high-pitched screams.
He enjoyed wooing all of the elderly ladies at my mom’s care home, including a 99 year old who called him “Gooby.” He was a different dog there, as if he knew they needed him. He also loved stealing socks, trying to get the other dogs to play with him, sleeping in “his” chair (a brand new McGee & Co. chair that we humans were never able to use), sleeping on (and shredding) sheepskin, and cuddling with both of us. He would also cuddle with Walter, and I can tell Walter misses him.
While the events of that day were horrible, and my guilt knows no bounds, I am so grateful that both Beto and I were able to be with him as he took his last little breaths. We held him, and hugged him, and told him how much he was loved, and what a good boy he was. As we have done with other critters we’ve lost, we gave him the list of animals and loved ones to find on the other side. Imagining them all together brings me such peace.
He was only 11. Not even 11 and 1/2. He deserved more time. We deserved more time with him. Adopting him (and his homicidal sister), from my mother, was never our plan. But, our lives and our hearts were better for it, despite the circumstance; we are so grateful to have had the time we did. We miss him desperately. The energy in the house is just not the same; it feels like a ship without a captain. We will love him forever, and I hope he felt that while he was with us, and that he knows it now.
Rest easy, little man. I miss you.
