Pepper (2011 - 2023)

This post was originally published on Substack at The Ink Smudge on March 10, 2023

I put my dog down today, and I am heartbroken ¹ . She developed an aggressive cancer on her neck that progressed into her throat which caused her difficulty in eating and breathing. But I don’t want to focus on her death. I want to take this opportunity to celebrate her life. She led a good life, and that’s how we (my wife, Laurie, and I) want to remember her. Some of my subscribers knew Pepper, too, so I thought I’d share her story so you can join us in celebrating her life.

Shortly after we lost our last dog, Gus, we decided to adopt another dog. I was traveling a lot for work and Laurie spent a lot of time home alone. As every canine lover knows, there’s nothing like a dog for companionship and security. Laurie rescued a beautiful puppy (a husky-lab mix) from the local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA). She picked up the new pup, went to a pet store to buy some supplies. The dog had a massive seizure and died right there in the store ² . It was a very traumatic event. The director of the SPCA felt terrible about it, and gave Laurie the first pick of any new puppies that became available for adoption. It didn’t take long before we got the call. There was a new litter of black lab x German shepherd puppies from which Laurie was given first choice. When she arrived at the SPCA, she was immediately inundated by a litter of cute little puppies vying for her attention; all except one. One of the puppies was a pensive female that held back from all the excitement, looking far more reserved and hesitant than the others. The caretakers at the SPCA named her Pepper ³ .

Laurie liked her name and her demeanor, and adopted her on the spot. It was only after our first visit to the vet that we learned that she wasn’t a German shepherd at all—she was a cross between a black lab and a border collie! She was a water-loving, food-snarfing Tasmanian devil! And she was so smart.

Pepper was born in captivity on June 21 and adopted by us on October 3, 2011. We spent the next year house training and going for endless leash walks. We loved to walk in the forest, especially along rivers where Pepper could channel her inner black lab. She loved to swim. In fact, she’s still the only dog we’ve ever known to put her head completely under water to blow bubbles through her nose.

Pepper never had a problem claiming her own space. She was a creature of comfort and preferred sleeping on the bed even as a puppy; maybe especially as a puppy.

She only spent a year in northwestern Ontario before we moved three provinces west to settle in southern Alberta. I’m not sure who thought it would be a good idea to move 2000 km across the Canadian prairies in the dead of a winter with a young puppy «looks in mirror», but thank goodness for empty hotels and puppy-loving night managers!

To say she was energetic would be a wild understatement. We used to call her “unwalkable;” not because she was bad on a leash, but because she had limitless energy. A simple walk, no matter how far, could never burn the stink off her. So we bought a running leash and she became my trusty running partner. Eventually we were running up to 12 km, and she still had energy to burn! When she ran, she was all business with her head down, ears pressed flat against her head, and her tail stretched out straight behind her. Nothing could distract her when the running leash was on—not even ground squirrels.

Ever since she was a puppy, she loved going on bike rides. All we had to do was say, “Bike!” and she’d walk right up to her spot on the bike and wait to be hooked up. She always set the pace, sometimes getting up to 20 km/h or more. And when she needed to stop or slow down, she let you know by nudging your foot. More people stopped us to talk about our dog-biking apparatus than anything else. The bar, which was fastened to the bike’s seat post, prevented her from running in front of the bike or getting too close to the pedals. It also had a spring inside it, so if she pulled away from the bike the spring took most of the shock. She mastered bike riding as a puppy and continued with it for the rest of her life.

As she got older, she became more adventurous. Leash walks turned into walks in off-leash dog parks. Off-leash walks turned into hikes, and hikes turned to snowshoeing in the mountains. She loved being outside, and she loved camping.

She particularly loved drying off and warming up by the campfire before retiring into the trailer where she had the whole bed to herself for a few hours.

She always enjoyed her creature comforts—even when we were camping. When we first started camping, we had a very small trailer. So small, in fact, that I couldn’t lie down flat in the bed. Three of us in one bed was a bit tight, so we bought a bigger trailer thinking that Pepper could have her own place to sleep. But she never used it. She slept at the foot of our bed and hogged all the blankets.

Pepper was a curious dog. Wherever and whenever we went for walks, she always had her nose to the ground, smelling the smells and exploring the world as a dog. She often let her nose lead her to strange and sometimes dangerous places—like the business end of a porcupine!

Pepper was a highly intelligent, friendly, and very playful dog. She was also an excellent communicator. Over the years we came to understand ⁴ her various vocalizations and gestures that she used to communicate with us. She had a deep and low, “Whoof!” that she used as a warning call, like when magpies flew too close to the yard. She would issue a sneeze-like snort to express joy, especially when we were playing. Loud throat-breathing, almost like a soft snore, was used to express her happiness and affection. She used a range of different barks. Just recently, we realized that she had a very specific bark for her best friend and neighbour, Baroness von Franz (Bear for short). It was high pitched with a slight guttural whir. Whenever we heard it, we knew that Bear was somewhere close ⁵ .

And there was no mistaking it when she declared that it was playtime!

She was also a very affectionate dog. Although she wasn’t a small dog, she wasn’t a big dog, either. She loved to climb up into my lap and sit with me either until she got too hot or I lost blood flow to my lower extremities. When we left her alone in the house, she slept on our clothes which seemed to give her comfort.

Although Pepper was a very well socialized dog, as far as we are aware, she only had one boyfriend: Ryland, whose human was one of my star graduate students. Whenever Pepper was around Ryland, she seemed to have a smile on her face.

Pepper has only been gone for a few hours now and already I miss her more than I ever thought I would. I will miss her enthusiastic greetings every time I walked through the door; the very same greeting whether I’d been gone for a month or an hour. I will miss group hugs, where she would run up to Laurie and I hugging to get in on the action, jumping up and placing one paw on each of us. We’d yell, “Group hugs!” and she’d howl right along with us (we had one just yesterday). I’ll miss her constantly monitoring our conversations for key words like “walk,” “bike,” “cheese,” “pizza,” and “nachos.” I’ll miss our nightly playtime, even though one such playtime landed me in the hospital for over six hours to have my eyelid glued back on (long story).

Pepper was a rescue dog. We rescued her and gave her the best life we could. When she and I first started running together, she was just a puppy. At first, we ran only short distances. But it was apparent that she was a natural runner, and she really seemed to enjoy it, so we started running different routes. On one occasion, we were just about to complete a run around a small lake. All we had to do was cross a bridge and we’d have just a short jaunt to get home. As soon as we got to the bridge, she came to a complete stop and wouldn’t go another step, while traffic whizzed by. I tried to gently coax her onto the bridge, but she started pulling away. I thought she was going to pull her collar right over her head, get loose, and get hit by a car. So I picked her up and carried her across. She started flailing about in my arms about halfway across the bridge until we got all the way to the other side.

Obviously, there was a danger here. She had to overcome her fear of bridges. So I brought her back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Each time she panicked. But each time her panic was less than it was the day before. It took several bridge crossings before she finally settled into my arms and remained calm as I carried her across. Over time, she got better with that bridge, and eventually she could cross it safely on her own.

Years later on our various hikes it became apparent that Pepper was still hesitant around bridges. If we encountered a bridge that she didn’t want to cross on one of our many hikes, she’d just jump in the water and swim across. Bridges didn’t seem to be that much of a big deal. At least they weren’t, until we encountered a bridge in the mountains crossing a torrential river.

She tentatively stepped onto the bridge, splaying all four paws as widely as she could, stepping cautiously and gingerly as she tried to creep her way towards my voice encouraging her across. Inch by inch she tried to cross as best she could, until she became paralyzed with fear about halfway across. She could neither walk forward nor backward. So she laid down right in the middle of the bridge and waited for me to carry her across, like I did when she was a puppy.

It took many bridge crossings for Pepper as a puppy to finally trust me enough to get her across safely. Over the years, that trust grew—not just her trust in me, but her trust in both Laurie and me. We were a pack. When I approached her lying in the middle of that bridge, her eyes were asking me to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way. She stayed completely calm in my arms right to the end.

So, yes, we rescued Pepper. But she rescued us, too.