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Ronnie Polaneczky: A loving farewell to Blackie, our dog with a healing touch

OUR BELOVED family dog, Blackie - a female mixed border collie/Labrador - died on Sunday evening after a sudden illness.

Blackie's fierce looks and bold bark were misleading, for beneath them was a gentle and tolerant pet whose loving nature rounded out the family in the most endearing of ways.
Blackie's fierce looks and bold bark were misleading, for beneath them was a gentle and tolerant pet whose loving nature rounded out the family in the most endearing of ways.Read more

OUR BELOVED family dog, Blackie - a female mixed border collie/Labrador - died on Sunday evening after a sudden illness.

The swiftness of her passing is a shock. She was old, yes, and slowing down. But only a month ago she rolled drunkenly in the clover at the dog park near our house, acting so puppylike it was easy to believe that the white hairs on her snout were a fluke, not a sign that foretold old age and decline.

I was so overcome with tears as she died, I was unable to properly tell her all the ways that her life had made mine better.

So this is my thank-you letter to Blackie, the first dog I ever called my own.

Thank you, gracious friend, for picking us, nine years ago, when I told my colleague Stu Bykofsky that we wanted to get a dog for our 4-year-old daughter.

"Have I got a dog for you," Stu told me, explaining that he and his then-wife had recently taken in a young, exceptionally friendly pup that had been abandoned at Marconi Plaza, Broad Street and Oregon Avenue, in South Philly. The Bykofskys had rejected several potential families for you, who they dubbed "Blackie," because you didn't seem enthused until you met us.

Your instant, obvious love for my family gave Stu and his wife confidence to hand over your leash. We felt then, and always have, that we'd always been waiting for you but didn't know it.

Thank you for tolerating the way we claimed that you had magic "healing powers." See, not long after you came into our lives, we discovered that our daughter's bumps and scrapes didn't hurt her so much once we had her press the injured area into your warm, shaggy coat. Soon, she was telling her young friends to use your powers when they were hurt, too.

Over time, we realized that those powers were not a parent-created myth but a true ability. When my husband and I were distressed about something, you'd sense our upset and quietly lean against us in solemn comfort.
 
Thank you for letting us dress you as a bee on Halloween.

Thank you for never - ever - chewing our shoes into jerky.

Thank you for skulking off the sofa - the one place you were forbidden to lounge - when you heard me coming, then looking guiltily over your shoulder to see if I'd caught you in the act.

Thank you for protecting our home and all who slog through its happy clutter. I never worried about intruders while you were with us: Your chesty bark could make potential ne'er-do-wells fear they'd be killed if they so much as looked menacingly at the doorknob.

The same growl protected us from the mailman, every day. Lord knows the harm that

might've befallen us, had you not repeatedly kept him from climbing through the mail slot.

Thank you for having a gentle spirit that belied your fierce appearance. The first time my husband took you to the schoolyard to retrieve our daughter from kindergarten, a few of the parents pulled their children away in fear of your wolfish looks. Within moments, you were sprawled on your back, a portrait of maternal contentment as a dozen tiny hands rubbed up and down on your belly.

Thank you for your tolerance of your four-legged housemates. You put up with one prickly cat until his death at 19. You endured the addition of two kittens, who tried to nurse at your row of tiny teats. And then you gamely allowed the latest member of the family, a tiny Yorkie with a brain the size of an M&M, to use your belly like a trampoline, grabbing at your ears and snout while you lolled placidly on the floor.

Through all of it, you'd look at us with world-weary affection, as if to say, "These little ones, eh? Waddya gonna do?"

Thank you for letting us know, every day, that we were the adored center of your world. You were never bored by us, or angry, or disappointed. The honeymoon was always in full swing when it came to your crazy love for your human family.

You made it clear each time we walked through the door. Whether we'd been away for two hours or 10, you'd react like it had been years since you'd seen us.

And thank you for forgiving us when we sometimes got impatient with all that love - the jumps, slobbers and yelps.

What I'd give to have it all back again. I'd look into your kind brown eyes and tell you, face to face instead of in this letter, that you were the most noble, loving, admirable friend and protectress I ever could've hoped for when I agreed, nine years ago, that a dog would be a good thing for my little girl.

Thank you for being good for all of us, for rounding out my family in joyful ways I never knew were necessary until the day you loped through our house like you already knew its rooms.

We were there with you at the end, at Penn's veterinary hospital, to sob goodbyes and stroke your soft, dark fur as you peacefully slipped away from us. The doctor had told us that the illness in your lungs was slowly suffocating you and had caused an enlargement of your heart.

I didn't know how to tell him that your heart had always been that way.

E-mail polaner@phillynews.com or call 215-854-2217.
For recent columns: http://go.philly.com/polaneczky. Read Ronnie's blog at http://go.philly.com/ronnieblog.