His name was Rusty

“The loss of a loved one inflicts the heart, beat by beat." Dr. BLR

Sometimes I sit in front of my computer and wonder, “What will I write about today?” Often, when something interesting is on the news, I get lost in rabbit holes and do a little research. But today was different. I searched my mind and decided to go down memory lane, landing in the year 1969. 

This year was both very special and sad. Although my memory is a bit foggy, the moment that stands out most is when my father abandoned our family, leaving a young mother to care for her four children. I will always despise my father for this cowardly act, but I have learned to move on and understand that something truly meaningful happened that profoundly impacted my life. 

At five years old, my godparents, Mr. and Mrs. Williams, asked my mom if I could be the ring bearer at their wedding. I didn't understand everything, but when I was given a stylish black tuxedo to wear, I was all in. It was their special day, and they wanted me, of all people, to be part of it. 

I’ve looked at a few pictures from that wonderful day, and I must say, I looked quite sharp. But that wasn’t the best part. In the days that followed, my brother and I received a mixed-breed, male rust-colored puppy. It was an incredible gift, and as a kid, my world changed. The responsibilities of walking and cleaning up after him fell on us, but I didn’t mind because he brought so much joy into our lives.

We later named him Rusty because of his shiny, rust-colored hair. To say the least, he was a bit of a troublemaker. I mean, this little guy kept pooping everywhere, but that’s probably normal for a puppy. At the time, we lived in a three-bedroom apartment, so Rusty slept at the foot of our bed. When we woke up, he’d already be awake, ready to play, and of course, hungry. I wanted so badly for him to be only mine, but that wasn’t the arrangement. 

After a year, we moved into a four-bedroom house, and Rusty’s sleeping arrangements changed. He grew in size, as most one-year-old dogs do, and we set up the basement with more space to fit him. That meant that when I woke up in the morning, I’d run downstairs hoping to get him up, but his scratching on the door indicated he wanted to play, eat, or go outside for a walk to relieve himself.  

Over the years, Rusty developed his own routine. The days of physically walking him were over. Honestly, back then, we never picked up his poop. I know, but we were just kids. Early each morning, my brother or I would go to the basement and let him out the side door. He’d scamper out and be on his own for about fifteen minutes before coming back to eat his meal for the day. Let’s say it worked for all of us.

Like most kids who grew up dealing with neighborhood bullies, Rusty faced similar challenges. Several stray dogs roamed the streets and would challenge Rusty. It was some primal territorial stuff, but Rusty always came out on top—that is, until he ran into my neighbor’s dog, Rex. I didn’t know Rex's breed, but he was definitely the alpha male, and we had to accept that. 

Over the coming years, we all grew older, including Rusty. I learned that dogs age about seven years for every human year. As I grew bigger, he slowed down, and his rusty coat started to turn grayer. I hadn’t realized he was nearing the end of his life due to normal aging. Why is life so unfair to dogs? They should have the same lifespan as humans. 

One day, while working at the local pizzeria, I received a call from my mom telling me to come home quickly because Rusty was sick. As I write this, I still feel overwhelmed with grief over what I was about to see. The pizzeria was just around the corner, so when I got home, someone had placed him in the garage. Words cannot describe what I saw or how I felt inside. Rusty was breathing heavily and had a raspy cough. He struggled to breathe, and his eyes were slowly losing their shine. I knelt and held him as tightly as I could because I knew his end was near. I needed him to see that I was there. My mom came out and told me she had called the local animal rescue to come and eventually retrieve him. I knew there was nothing that could be done. He suffered from colic, which I guess we didn’t catch in time. 

I returned to work, ran to the back, and broke down crying uncontrollably. My bosses came to comfort me, but nothing could help unless they had some magical power to make Rusty better. He died later that day, before the animal rescue arrived, so when they got there, they recovered his dead body. He was 13 years old. I’ve been told that he lived longer than most dogs his size. 

My life has changed forever, and it’s been 43 years since he passed away. I never got another dog because I didn’t want to go through that pain again. However, since having my kids, I want them to experience the joy I did, so I’ll make it happen. Continue to rest in peace, Rusty. I truly miss you, buddy.