An ode to Uzi

“Mummy, Uzi died!” began today’s conversation with my teenage daughter.  We were attending my nephew’s bar mitzvah when she called.  A virus kept her at home, and her job was to watch the dogs.  She couldn’t get Uzi to come to eat his breakfast, and he wouldn’t move.  After the call, I told her to retreat to her room and I would come home.  Two hours later my neighbor and I were taking Uzi to a 24-hour clinic for his final visit.

Uzi found his place with us when my son decided he wanted a large dog as a graduation present from eighth grade.  He did not want the usual computer games.  He wanted a giant schnauzer. We were a seasoned rescue family, so I contacted a giant schnauzer rescue.  We would do a mitzvah.  Sometimes mitzvahs are hard to do.

Giant schnauzers are not large minis. In Europe they are police dogs. They are called the “dog with the human brain.” Our boy came from an excellent breeder in California.  Her dogs were shown at Westminster and his father was an international champion.  My son was in love, and I knew the dog found his forever home. I knew that eventually he would be my dog.

Our trial with him would be never ending.  I should have gotten the hint when I was told we would be his third family.  His second family called him  “Blackie.” His first family called him “Ares.” He did not favour either name. Perhaps a name change would help.  As he was destroying the first of many “indestructible” toys, I looked at him and said, “Uzi.” He lifted his head and the name stuck. It was a name that fit him.  He was strong, proud, protective and loyal.

Uzi was surrendered by two families because he was difficult and too much to handle.  Both owners had invested a small fortune in training for the dog, and they had both given up. Uzi might have had a lot of training, but it was clear he was not a talmid of the “Dog Whisperer.”  He would become our dog, but on his terms.  Nothing was safe.  He could open the dog gate and grab anything off a counter or table.  When caught, he would flap his jaw to say, “I’m sorry” and wait for you to leave the room so he could do it all over again.

I learned to invent new dishes for Shabbat.  When he polished off thirty egg rolls while I welcomed guests, I gathered ingredients for a salad.  When he ate the challah that was cooling on the rack, we made another one, or found one in the freezer.  We lost roasts and chickens while turning our backs.  He was supposed to sit and stay, but those things bored him.  We learned to deal with it.

He loved to play but he didn’t fetch.  That was for dogs. He was family.  I played with him like he was a rambunctious boy.  I would don an oven mitt over my arm and he would make me his toy.  When he was upset with me for not spending enough time with him, he would go after my shoes, and only my shoes. He loved patent leather. He left my walking shoes intact, so we could go for our walks.  The first mile he would pull me, the second he would “heel” and the third, I would pull him.  People would pull over or stop to tell me he was a beauty.  He loved the attention and at that moment, he would sit as if he were trained as well as Lassie.  Then he would yank on the leash and we were off. He knew when to be a ham and a poster child for the breed.

I knew the end was near when he stopped greeting me at the door.  He was starting to slow down and we both knew it.  Fortunately, he left us the same way he came to us, on his own terms.

This Shabbos was different.  Uzi didn’t come for his challah, and we didn’t have to watch the table. I held the clay imprint of his paw and cried a lot. I hope he is happy on the other side of the bridge.