Bye-Bye Boris

Six years ago on Good Friday, my sister Maggie and my friends Claudia and Andrea sat with me in Monty's Restaurant, by the side of the highway in Whitbourne, Newfoundland. We had fish and chips but couldn't resist- even with it being Good Friday, Fries, Dressing and Gravy were ranked high on our menu.

We were killing time before we drove to Bellview to pick up my puppy. He was an itty bitty bundle of fur with little tiny toenails and the sweetest puppy breath. He drove back to St. John's in the backseat with my friends while a debate raged in the car. I was determined his name should be Boris. Maggie hated it. She consented to Bor in the end. It's very easy to add an is to Bor when Maggie isn't around. So we both won.

He has been a ridiculously funny dog. The first time he met Daniel, Boris was about one and Daniel had just turned 5. To say they were about the same size is more than fair. Boris out weighed Daniel, and likely would have been taller if he was physically designed to stand on two legs. We were at my house in Mount Pearl, Jamie and I had only been dating a short while, so there's a possibly we were flirting like new love causes you to do, in the house while Daniel played with the dog in the yard. There may or may not have been a BBQ in the equation, even though it was very cold. Suddenly, I hear horrible screams from the yard and as I raced through the door to see what was the matter, I see my dog dragging my new boyfriends son across the yard by the arm. A passerby may have thought that a coyote was dragging his prey in from a hunt. However, after a careful assessment it became clear that in trying to steal a mitten from Daniel's hand, he had snagged his coat sleeve and was pulling all of it, in an effort to free the mitten. Daniel lived and so did Boris.

Now keep in mind the kerfuffle that resulted from the mitten issue. Boris needed something else to hunt. He moved onto socks. I have a few times in my life fancied myself a runner. I interval train for about 3 workouts, getting so in shape that I can beat most people by running for one minute, gasping for two minutes, then walking for five. If it's a particularly good workout, I repeat.

But I digress. Boris moved onto socks and on one such workout, I thought that I would move to the trails at Cuckolds Cove, in St. John's. Well we had run walked about 1/28th of a kilometre when Boris needed to stop for a poop. I waited, and waited. Then a jogger happened by, doing a cool down. We small chatted for a few minutes, he admired the dog for a few more, then he became amazed at how long it took him to poop. Frankly, I had never timed him, so I wasn't sure. So after the man's heart had recovered to his typical resting heart rate, he had stretched all body parts (including his tongue) and we had discussed all facets of Newfoundland weather and politics, I was still waiting. I stepped in to examine closer, only to come to the earth shattering realization that Boris had eaten a pair of panty hose. Not only are these things 5 feet long to start with, but have the capacity to stretch to the moon and back times times before showing any wear and tear.

I won't tell you how it ended, but I am now a vocal advocate for keeping all of ones undergarments safely out of reach of dogs.

He has been a source of amusement, great hugs and furry clothes for the last six years. I love him as much as it is possible to love any beastly. Long before Bridget was thought of, he was my baby. My first born. My fur baby. However, he can not bring himself to tolerate Bridget. He has become a grumpy old man in the year that he has had to share his home with her, and it makes me nervous to hear him growl as she approaches. He steals her belongs and runs away from her. I am a firm believer in 'better safe than sorry.' It has become time to make sure the safe part is enacted. I love him, and will miss him, but it's necessary.

So I have an incredibly heavy heart tonight. It is Boris' last night here in my house. I never thought I would be saying that, unless he had terrible hips and we had decided to let him go to the dog park in the sky.

Instead, Boris is moving to Lloydminster. Yes, Llyodminster, Alberta. All the way from Bellview, Newfoundland. Because I love my daughter more than I love myself, and because I love my dog more than I thought possible, I have done what I never would have thought possible. I have decided to let Boris go live on an acreage with a family who have other dogs, 4 teen aged boys, and enough space that he won't have to worry about a nosy toddler cramping his style, pulling his fur, or getting into his food when his back is turned.

I have had a good cry. Felt guilty, sad, and conflicted. I have thought this through from ever vantage point I can think of and I really think this is the best thing that can happen to him. I am grateful to his new family for taking him. They seem like a dream, too good to be true, but I have to trust them. They are adopting my first born. I will miss Boris more that I can imagine, I know. Even before he leaves, I am devastated. For me. But I have to be happy for him. He is going on a big adventure. To a world with more space, to house with more people who have more time for him. With no nosy toddlers to pull his fur and get into his food. I know he will love it.

So with a sad heart, but a contented mind, I bid farewell to my baby Boris. I wish him every bird he can hope to chase, every sunny day he would like to spend roaming fields, and every stroll in the countryside he can dream of. I will miss you Boris. Goodbye Boris, I love you.