a man's best friend.

I always laughed at those people who seemed a trite overly-dramatic at the death of a beloved pet.
But now I know. I understand now the devastation of losing an animal dear to my heart. After more than ten years, Duke, our big, sweet, harmless, and faithful Great Dane passed away. Duke proved the old saying that a dog is a man's best friend to be more than myth or legend.

Duke was always waiting at the door with a warm, delightful, tail-wagging welcome for me. And for the first time, he wasn't there when I came home.
Duke took with him both a part of me and a part of my childhood. For as long as I can remember, my big black and white playtoy was always there to be ridden like the miniature horse he was (or rather, what I thought he was), to be hugged and pet, or he was waiting at the family dinner table hopeful of the scraps that would "accidentally" fall from my plate into his mouth. He didn't like to be forgotten and would remind us, lest we forget him, during the day with a conscious bark, groan, or whine, and even at night with unconscious snoring. And, boy, could that dog snore.
He could bite a tennis ball in half or swallow a sock (yes, that fact is one of many that made Duke Duke) faster than you or I could say Jack Robinson. But this was just one of his many talents. He could also patiently watch a game of wiffle-ball in the front yard - and only snag a few balls for himself every now and then.
He always let me lug him around as my cow when we played prairie in the backyard. He was protective of we kids and never took his eyes off of us. He was a great listener. He let little Sam (his best friend) sleep on his pillow sometimes and endured Macy's rowdy playfulness with quiet patience.
I was about 6 when Duke first came to live with us. Some friends of ours had told us about an ad in the paper for a free Great Dane. When Dad and Jamie went to pick him up, they found him tied to a truck and as skinny as a rail. When we took Duke home, he refused to walk inside. He was terrified and trembling all over and had obviously never set foot indoors anywhere. When we finally got him inside, he wouldn't go back out. Eventually, he was comfortable going inside and out. And soon enough, he had learned to open the backdoor and would let himself out whenever his little heart desired. Unfortunately, he never learned to shut the door.

As I grew older, so did he. I grew taller, he grew fatter. My hair got longer, his got more gray. He even conquered heart worms and various other health issues veterinarians had warned us of. But while I was away at camp, he showed his age more and more. He lost weight, became weaker, and found it hard even to perform menial tasks such as eating, drinking, and walking.
My Dad was forced to make the executive decision to put Poor Duke out of his misery. On Tuesday morning, we said our goodbyes; one of the hardest goodbyes I've had to say, though I'm sure I'll face harder.
Duke lived to the ripe, old age of 77 in dog years (11 in human) and lived what I believe was a full and happy life filled with a warm bed, good food, and a family who loved him - still does and always will - dearly.