I was 8 years old when a middle-aged couple walked into my house in Ohio with a Bouvier puppy (a type of Belgian sheepdog) in their arms. He was a black puppy with expressive elegant brown eyes and enormous pupils popping out. His name was Buford, named after a type of hamburger. The name was too radical and unkosher (not fit for the Jewish dietary laws) for a rabbi's household. My mother, who was a musician, wanted to name the dog after a famous composer. Seeing as the famous movie star dog name of Beethoven was taken, my mother settled for Mozart.
Mozart instantly became part of the family. Mozart was a natural in our family with his sheepdog instinct. In most countries, sheepdogs are used to herd sheep. They must be firm, tough, powerful and, most importantly, protective.
The minute anyone new stepped into our house, regardless of how close they were to anyone in the family, Mozart would bark ferociously and coldly at them, his barks filling the entire house and deafening our voices. This would go on for the entire visit, regardless of our pleas for quiet.
However, when I played with him, he would nuzzle against my shoulders and face and smile widely, his eyes at ease and a look of serenity and joy cast in every muscle. He had many nicknames from the family, including Moe, Mozzie, Bubbha and Bubbie. He'd play with us outside, while ripping apart the deck and old shack in our backyard, bark at the neighborhood kids because they would taunt him and run in circles around us. Truly his own man, I respect and love Mozart because he is free in a way that most creatures are trapped. With his wild long untamed and black and silver fur that covers his eyes completely and make him look massive, he shocked most kids.
Mozart fell into depression and lost a significant amount of weight with our family's losses but when his time to mourn passed, he comforted everyone with his passionate playful ways.
At age 11, when Mozart was taken to the veterinarian, his liver was not functioning anymore and his blood count was low. It was concluded that Mozart had some form of cancer.
I became scared. While I was at Ball State University, I listened to other student's pet stories, eager to seek comfort about Mozart being sick. Student's showed me pictures of their dogs, excited to tell me their dog's stories and the personality of their pet. It was a simple connection I made with other student's that seemed pivotal in any friendship.
I came home a month ago after the semester had ended, eager to spend as much time with Mozart as possible. Shaking the leash, he'd run around me in circles, wagging his tail, barely sitting still to let me hook it onto his blue collar. However, after a few seconds, he would stop, hunch his back and hack up his lungs. He attempted to catch his breath but it took at least three minutes before he jumped up again and pushed me out the door.
He would tug me in every direction, sniffing and sniffing a realm I could not see. Every once in awhile, after gazing in all directions, he would hunch back over, gasping for air, choking, while staring at the ground. I would scratch behind his ears and pet his sides, where his lungs were protruding from underneath his silver and white fur. All of his fat was vanished and there were lumps all over his stomach. He would gasp and gasp until his breathing would go back to normal.
But Mozart tugged me forward once again and I led him towards the creek, where he examined the plants and rocks happily. We eventually sat down on the grass, and Mozart lifted his head up towards the sun, closed his eyes and smiled a relaxed, joyous smile, his nostrils widening and opening.
I took Mozart out last week and his legs collapsed from underneath him before he made it to the end of my front lawn. Ignoring his immobile legs, he simply laid in the grass, panting heavily, but smiling his huge smile, his pink tongue hanging out, with saliva drooling off the sides. I let him bask in the sun for 45 minutes, where, although his breathing became so heavy I could hear it through my blaring headphones, and I could literally see his lungs heaving in and out from underneath his now short fur, he pulled himself together and appeared to love every second of his time outside.
On Friday Mozart only made it out the front door onto the front steps. But still smiling, he enjoyed the summer air.
At 2:30 p.m. Saturday, Mozart collapsed after a walk, his eyes rolling around and bulging, he made a few last attempts to breathe, then died.
Write to Meira at mbienstock@bsu.edu
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