We got him when I was seven. When we went to the family who was selling their pups, there were two left. I actually wanted the black & white one, but my mum and two sisters had already fallen in love with that playful, active little beige one. And at least the beige on didn’t poop and pee all the time, like the other one did. My mum and the man made arrangements, she would go and pick him up on Saturday. I had a football game that day, so when I left I already couldn’t stop talking about the dog we were getting. I forgot what the score of the game was, but I remember coming home and seeing the entire family smiling around a huge cardboard box. I hurried there, and there he was, looking a little confused at his new family. He was no bigger than my dad’s hand, cuter than the cutest cutie was cute.
I never came up with a good name (my preferences as a seven year old all revolved around words like Flappy), I think it eventually was my oldest sister who recommended Guusje. It had a nice ring to it, and we could vary. Guusje as the standard name, a more powerful Gust when he did something wrong or needed to listen.
It was amazing how quickly he became part of the family, and how he was like a little baby, and we all were the proud parents registering all his “firsts”. The first time he managed to pick up the little ball we got him to play with, but that was simply too big for his tiny little mouth those first couple of weeks. The first time he hopped on the couch. The first time he jumped on the terrace from the yard, which is about half a yard upwards. The first time he didn’t eat at the same time we ate, which made me think there was something wrong with him and he would die of hunger. But he just picked up his own pace, and from thereon just ate when he was hungry.
When he was about one year old, my dad decided he was actually no good as a watch dog, even though he barked every time he noticed something suspicious. But he wasn’t even a foot tall, so no real danger came from him. My dad then got an Irish Wolfhound, named Qalis. I think Guusje could fit five times in Qalis. They quickly became buddies, but make no mistake: Guusje was boss. He was the eldest of the two, this was his turf, and Qalis better listened. They were sort of the odd couple. We would often see Qalis run after Guusje all the way out back where they were beyond our sight, and then when they came back, it would be Guusje chasing Qalis maniacally. Qalis only stayed with us two or three years. We couldn’t really take care of him. He couldn’t go in the house because he would knock everything down (h was very wild, and I think, a tad retarded too), and he didn’t like the doghouse we put him in. He could howl for nights straight. One time, he somehow escaped from the doghouse and caused mayhem at the bakery’s, close to our house. There were racks of bread put outside to cool off, and Qalis knocked áll of them down. Expensive joke, and soon we found a farmer’s family where he could run freely, go indoors and such, where he would have a better life. A couple of years later, he developed cancer and died.
By then, Guusje was about 7 years old, and the entire neighbourhood knew him. He would go for walks well beyond our turf, say hi to all his girlfriends nearby, piss everywhere to make sure no dog forgets who rules this town, and then come back. He could stay away for hours straight. In many ways, he was more of a cat than a dog.
One evening, my dad and I took him with us to a pasture well out of town, where some of my dad’s horses were grazing. He disappeared. After looking around for about an hour, we headed back home, there was nothing we could do. I couldn’t sleep the entire night. What if we didn’t find him? We were going on holidays to the Greek island of Kòs the very next day! I was already 14 then, but I cried like a baby all night. When I went downstairs the next morning, my sister Michelle and my mum were carrying him up. Apparently, he found our house somewhere during the night. My mum found him sleeping before the door. He was dirty and exhausted, he must’ve had a rough night. But he was back, and went to some friends for the ten days we were away, and of course, stole all their hearts.
A year or two later, I really thought I was seeing him dying before my eyes. It was summer, and Peggy came to take care of our horses, because dad was out of town. Peggy has this giant dog, I forgot the name of that breed, but really huge. Guusje always barked at him, he wás a trespasser, and this time, that dog had enough. He picked Guusje up and tossed him around. We were alarmed by Peggy’s screams to let go, hurried to the stables, and there I saw that dog pick Guusje up again. His mouth was almost as big as our beloved little doggy.
The dog could’ve killed him easily. One real bite and Guusje would be perforated. I think the dog just wanted to teach our little guy a lesson. He let go, Guusje crawled behind my feet. He had some flesh wounds from the bites, and he was shaken and stirred, but he was okay. He never learned the lesson though, but his, uhm, arrogance never came back to haunt him again.
About the same time I started college, we began to notice the first real signs that Guusje was getting old. He always had an amazing health, if we took him to the vet for a check up she was always amazed at the quality of his teeth, which was beyond good for a dog his age. But now he began to get sick more often. His bones began to show signs of rheumatism, his blather kept causing him problems. But every time he got sick, he also got better, and even though he slept more and more and played less and less, he could still be incredibly active, running around the house, and he was always equally excited, every single night, when my dad went outside to put the horses in their stables. He just had to mention the word “horses”, and Guusje knew what would happen. He would rush out with my dad, and bark at the horses like he was bossing them around. The horses never cared much, they always got used to him real quickly.
But you can’t stop age, so when two months ago he got réally sick, it wasn’t even such a surprise. But it was his worst time yet, and I was pretty sure he would die. He did come really close to dying, that weekend. But he survived it, got better and thanks to the painkillers we gave him, kept running around pain free. But it was still clear he wasn’t going to last much longer. Like he was that little puppy again, he had trouble jumping in the couch, I always had to give him an extra push on the butt before he could crawl between my arm and my body, and he started peeing in the house again, something he hadn’t done since he was very little. But still, he was active enough, even more so when we got him off the medication. He did become more and more attached to us by the day, couldn’t spend a second without us unless he was sleeping, and followed my mum or me everywhere we went. When sister Isabelle came to visit yesterday, she was amazed just how jumpy Guusje still was.
My mum found him in the coat closet, his favorite place in the entire house, where he spent most of his nights, surrounded by coats and warmth and a gentle darkness. He died in his sleep. I always woke up when I heard him at night, my room was exactly above him, and I didn’t wake up last night. He probably didn’t have a lot of pain, there were no traces of urine. Before, when he was in pain, he kept leaking a little. No, all signs indicate that Guusje died pain free, very harmoniously, in his sleep, and in his favorite place in the whole world. He turned 14 the week before.
This was a very, very special guy. He saw me grow up. He was there the entire time. I remember the last two dogs we had before him, German Shepard Flash and stray dog Tripp, but I can only recall them as them just “being there”, there are very few real memories I have of them, the day Flash died is my strongest memory, because my big brother was so incredibly sad and in shock about it. Guusje has been around for the biggest part of my life so far. I have lived more years with him than without him. He was there throughout my puberty, my adolescence, the whole thing. Especially the last 5 years, we became real buddies. Before he kind of was Michelle’s favorite, she’d spoil him rotten. But she left, and then it kinda became me. And mum, of course. He was her dog, always had been. But even more so, he was just part of the family. The first one to greet you in the morning, always equally enthusiastic, always like he hadn’t seen me for months. He felt it when you were sick, and he would take care of you. Usually when he laid next to me in the couch, he would lie in the same direction as me, facing the television. But when I was sick, or when he just wanted to say an extra hello, he turned, head facing my head, and then put his head on my shoulder.
He loved two things more than life: caressing his belly, and rubbing his ears. His favorite dish was spaghetti Bolognese, his favorite toys were the empty rolls of toilet paper. He loved to chase the chipmunks in the yard, even though he could never catch them. He forged a compromise with the jackdaws that swarm our yard every evening in the summer. The lawn they could have, but one step on the terrace and they’d be dead. I think he loved the horses even though he always barked at them, and I think the horses didn’t dislike him either. He did, however, hate the neighbour’s cat.
