There are some times in a gamer’s life that the real world asserts itself in a way that cannot be ignored.

Monday was one of those days.

Our faithful hound of 7 years passed away Monday morning May 12 2008. His death came suddenly, somewhat unexpectedly, and left a painful void in our lives. No more 120+ pounds of love to greet us when we came home, no giant face shoved under our arms while we gamed. The lumbering gentle giant who officiated at our LAN parties will be sorely missed.

After our first year of marriage, my husband and I made the decision to have a furkid–not just any ordinary furkid, but the biggest of them all. We adopted Dill on June 10, 2001 from the Great Dane Rescue of North Texas. He was the last candidate of a trio of Danes that we interviewed during an adoption event…during the days when GDRNT did adoption events at local Petsmarts. Ironically, we almost didn’t meet Dill…the 2nd Dane we interviewed had nearly won us over. But I prodded hubby to give the last dog a look…and I think that was one of the decisions we ever made.

It may be hard for some people to comprehend the grief that a furparent experiences when their furkid arrives at the Rainbow Bridge. But Dill was one of those special furkids, possessing exceptional virtues that endeared him to many people, including staunch dog-intolerant types. He made new friends easily, with his quiet unassuming way of slipping under peoples’ hands as an icebreaker. His calm demeanor surprised many people who never expected this temperament from a dog of great size. But Dill epitomized the “gentle giant” and the finest qualities of the Great Dane breed–even though his exact parentage and origins remained a mystery to us.

Dill treated every creature with kindness and respect, from the smallest rabbit to the hissing, dominant tabby cat that ruled our end of the street. He tolerated screaming, shrieking children and basked in their adoration and attention. His easy-going nature gave him access to many aspects of human life that dogs were otherwise barred from. When permitted, he accompanied us everywhere: from parks to hotels to stores and restaurants, on road trips to Athens, Austin and Padre Island. I was certain that wherever we led, he would follow–his trust in us was absolute and complete.

His love was evident in the classic way that all Danes showed their affection: he leaned his entire weight into you while standing next to you, he rested his head on your knee and sometimes hid his face in your groin (ouch). He climbed into bed with you even though the bed couldn’t possibly fit one more. His happy tail could have left bruises on you after all the times he was glad to see you–in fact he had whacked his tail into our walls one too many times requiring it to be docked. He shadowed us everywhere, from room to room, and would only be parted from us when we left for a day of work or went where he could not follow.

He was especially devoted to his furdad. I told hubby that Dill was his greatest fan and his most ardent supporter–on him Dill heaped all unconditional love. Whether in a crowded room or an unfamiliar place, Ron was the star that Dill oriented on–he needed no other compass to guide him. He worshipped at the altar of Ron and would have no other god before him. It was this fondness, this selfless dedication, that made Dill more than “just a dog”–and better than many humans I’ve ever met.

So it is with great sadness that I write of his passing. My biggest regret was that he suffered quietly in his final hours…and it is this knowledge that grieves me the most. He asked nothing in return for the time on earth he spent with us; I only wish we had given him a better exit that befitted his standing with us. My only consolation was that he spent his last hours in the same room with us and not in some cold distant cage. He deserved much more than that, perhaps much more than what we gave him.

So it is with a sense of indebtedness that I pen this. Dill wove a brightly colored thread into the fabric of our lives. It was too short–but he left his mark on us, on our families and friends. All I can do to honor our fine boy are some pictures, many fond memories, and the heartfelt words on this page to remember him by.

I’m trying to cope with the loss of our wonderful boy. All I managed to pen were these words that I emailed to www.danerescue.net.

Need some time away. Will post back when able.