Good dog, Rowdy. You will be missed

We knew it would happen, sooner or later. It happens to the best of them. Saturday morning, it happened.

Our precious Rowdy died. We heard him bark about 6 a.m., and as is typical, if we don't get up to let him out right away, he usually settles back in for a while. Around 9, not hearing another peep, Mike went in to let him out.

"He's gone," he said. "Rowdy's dead." I came in to check, and he was not breathing. His body was still warm, but his eyes were fixed. The moment had come.

Rowdy was our son Michael's first dog. We told him as soon as we had our own house, he could have a dog. That day came a couple of months after he turned 8. We saw this cute black pup at Petsmart on a Saturday. But, alas, the pup, named Michael, was the last of a litter of strays and another couple had already claimed him -- was filling out his paperwork. Our search would have to continue.

For whatever reason people do things, we stopped into Petsmart again the following day, after church. And he was back. The couple had returned him. They had a husky, and the established dog tried to attack the puppy. It takes patience and knowledge to introduce dogs. They didn't have it. I had just one stipulation: I already had two Michaels in the house. The dog would have to have a new name. And that's how he arrived.

Quiet, shy, frightened. The puppy spent a first night whining. His boy went out to check on him, and within a few nights, the crate was moved to his room. Hoping he would grow into the name, we decided on "Rowdy." Rowdy Rockwell Kenny, getting his middle name from my parents' amazing Norwegian Elkhound. Rowdy's big paws and mixed lineage belied a big dog, so a friend gave us a crate large enough for a brute. And Rowdy grew -- a little. He ended up about as big as a cocker spaniel. A cocker's ears, the long body and fur of a long-haired dachshund, and the tail of a German shepherd. But Michael couldn't have loved him more.

He learned sit, speak and down. Even roll over. But fetching a ball was something he never did. He would run after the ball, then look at it and come trotting back. "Just pet me and cuddle me," he seemed to tell us. And we did. Through the addition of cats to our home. Through Michael's school years, graduation, college and work. Then a nasty bout of vestibular disease.

We thought he had endured a stroke. His eyes flashed. He wouldn't eat. And he walked in circles. Fortunately, our vet, Dr. Franks at PV Pet Clinic, knew exactly what it was. She gave him fluids. And predicted he would be over it in 2 or 3 days. And he was fine within the week. But later, with reduced hearing and vision, it would come back. No flashing eyes. But always circling. Then we noticed that he wasn't walking well. Slowly, Rowdy started his downhill progression. Michael moved out, but Rowdy always perked up and couldn't wait for his boy to return.

In the final weeks, Rowdy had trouble standing for any length of time, as a degenerative condition affected his back and hind legs. He had accidents or couldn't go when he was outside. We started talking about his pain, his quality of life. Michael came to visit and told him it was OK, if it was time, he was ready. But no one is really ready.

We called him and told him that it had happened. He was at work and would come over as soon as he could. We promised not to do anything until he had time to see him. He sobbed. This was his brother, the closest thing this only child had to a brother. How could he say goodbye? He touched his fur, held his ear. We removed his collar and tried to let go.

Rowdy will be cremated. Michael will keep some ashes. He wants a paw print tattoo. I snipped him a lock of fur. We have pictures and lots of memories.

We bring our pets into our homes for companionship. We follow our instructions in Genesis to have dominion over them, but compassionate, gentle dominion. We are their caretakers. But in the process, we love them. We become their pack; they become our family.

In honor of our fallen 19 firefighters

My grandfather was a firefighter. My father was a firefighter. I can still picture them in their formal picture, the volunteer firefighters of a small Wisconsin town.

Tonight, it's another group of firefighters in a portrait. The Granite Mountain Hotshots. A much younger group in a less formal picture. They saw a lot more action than my dad and his dad. During fire season in Arizona, they were on the front lines for weeks at a time.

But I'm sure their wives and mothers felt the same way my grandmother did every time that siren went off. She would put on the scanner. We would run down to the station to listen to someone at the radio desk. Hopefully, it was someone burning off weeds that had let their fire get a little too large, rather than someone's home. But worry crossed her face, worry only relieved when they returned home.

Tonight, my husband and I went to a concert. My heart dropped when I saw the news on Facebook: 19 firefighters unaccounted for in Yarnell. Then, moments later, 19 firefighters dead. The news traveled quickly through our section. Then the man next to me got a message and left his seat. When he returned, he had tragic news of his own -- his sister's home was one of 250 structures lost in Yarnell.

Through 15 years on the newspaper staff, fire both frightened me and fascinated me. I had friends on the various fire departments. A big fire was a solid news story. I would listen on the scanner and try to be on scene before the fire departments knocked the flames down. Many times I would return to the office or my house smelling of fire.

My husband never worried. I wasn't in any danger. But we knew plenty of folks who lived it, every time that alarm sounded. With the job came a certain amount of worry for their families.

Tonight 19 families received word that their firefighter isn't coming home. The wind shifted and blew the fire back on top of them, and none of them survived. Other firefighters will come, and soon they will contain it. Condolences are already arriving from the governor, even the president. And as Prescott celebrates its World's Oldest Rodeo and Fourth of July, a sadness will overlay this week.

It will take a long time for Yarnell to recover. The memories of this Hotshot team's tragic end are burned into our community for life.