Our Dasha

It has only been six hours since our Dasha passed away. Tammy and I found Dasha — part German Shepherd, part black Labrador, part Alaskan Malamute — at a pet adoption center just a few years into our marriage. She was just a month or so old. And it was long before we bought our first home. Before we had kids. Before we had much of, well, anything.

Dasha — named after the daughter of Tammy’s favorite figure skater, Ekaterina Gordeeva — went everywhere with us. In the car. On hiking trips. On walks down Hennepin and Lyndale. To the park. She even loved going for dips in the Mississippi River. We were living in Minneapolis, two states away from our nearest family members. So Dasha was our family. She was our world — within minutes of coming into our lives.

Then, the trip to the vet.

Out of nowhere, before Dasha’s first birthday, she began dragging her back legs around. She’d whimper whenever she tried to stand up. She just couldn’t get her legs under her. A quick trip to the vet turned into a referral to the University of Minnesota’s College of Veterinary Medicine. Dasha had severe hip dysplasia — in both hips. It was so bad that the doc told Tammy and I most people in our situation actually opt to put the dog down. There was no guarantee the surgery would work. Even in a best-case scenario, with a pair of successful surgeries, she would probably only live eight or so years before unbearable arthritis set in. On top of all that, the surgery was expensive … and we had next to no way to pay for it.

But … we never gave a moment of consideration to putting Dasha down. Dasha was ours. She was the only thing that was ours. And we were completely committed to doing whatever it took to give her a chance. So I took a second job at a BBQ restaurant in Uptown to pay for the surgery. Three days per week, for or a handful of years, I drove immediately from my day job as a reporter at a community newspaper to my evening shift, where I served up BBQ. I worked there until midnight or so, then got up and did it all over again.

The surgeries were successful and, after several months of excruciating stretches and rehab, Dasha was a healthy, happy pup, ready to fill our lives with years — more than 100 years in dog years — of memories. As I flip through our many photos of Dasha, the memories are rushing back.

Look at those ears. When we brought Dasha home, she had floppy ears. Then, one morning, just a few short months later, Tammy and I woke up to find a set of pointy ears sticking up at the end of the bed. Over night, Dasha’s German shepherd ears shot up like antennas.

Then there was the time, early on, when we learned Dasha was fearless. Tammy was driving home with the windows down on a hot summer day, with Dasha in the back seat. And the pup decided to test her leaping skills — as in, right out the window of the moving car. Thankfully, no damage was done. But the story was an instant classic.

And the road trips. Who could forget the road trips?

Dasha went on countless road trips with us, including our first RV trip from Minnesota, through the Dakotas, Wyoming and a few other states en route to Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. We snapped pics of Dasha in the Rocky Mountains, in the Badlands, at Wall Drug, state line welcome signs … even in front of our blown out RV tire in the middle of nowhere Wyoming.

But, perhaps the most legendary of all of Dasha’s road trips was the multi-week RV adventure from Illinois to Niagara Falls, through Upstate New York, to Cape Cod. And then up the East Coast to Acadia National Park in Maine. Dasha was with us in the RV, got out to stretch at every pit stop, was beside us at the evening campfires, in the Adirondacks and atop Cadillac Mountain. I think she even sampled a blueberry pie in Bar Harbor. And you could always count on Dasha to hunker down on the RV couch for a nap under the fleece Harley-Davidson blanket.

But the real fun started as our family continued to grow. The photo to the left is one of my all-time favorites. Dasha would go nuts trying to snatch a plush bone wrapped in rope out of my hand. Every time she snapped at it, Maya — then just a year old — would roar with laughter.

Eventually, we moved to Arkansas, where our youngest daughter, Willow, was born. And the girls grew up with Dasha — dressing the poor dog in princess costumes, fitting her with tierras, using her as their playschool student, leading her around the yard … around the house … around the neighborhood … on hikes through the woods. Dasha was their buddy. Their protector. Their “whatever they wanted.”

I could seriously go on forever. But I’ve gotten choked up several times tonight looking at this particular photo. It’s from Dasha’s 14th — and final — birthday. Tammy and I knew when we snapped it that there was a good chance it would be her last. But what a moment. The dog that veterinarians said may need to be put down at less than a year old or — best case scenario — live to age eight or nine … she made it beyond her 14th birthday. And shaped our lives in ways we never could have imagined.

RIP, old buddy. You will NEVER be forgotten.