A Dog Named Elvis

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A Dog Named Elvis

Post by Devon Cro » Wed, 11 Oct 2000 11:26:23



Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

October 8, 2000

My dog is gone.

Thir*** years ago, I plucked him from a litter of golden retriever puppies,
tumbling over one another in a box. Why him? The usual reason. Because he
nuzzled against me and***ed me wildly and I was convinced that I heard a
little ruff-ruff voice saying: "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

The thing is, he was. The one for me. I liked to run; he liked to run. I am
excitable; he tried to tackle people when they entered the house. I liked to
throw; he liked to catch.

The one for me.

His fur was golden; his eyes were sympathetic. I named him Elvis, so I could
say, "He ain't nothing but a hound dog." In the early years, he went with me
everywhere. To Florida. To California. I would wait for his crate at the
oversized baggage claim, a voyager meeting a loved one at the dock. He jumped
wildly when he saw me and I'd say, "Hey, boyyyy . . ."

Once I took Elvis in a rental car to my family's farm in Pennsylvania. That
night, we leashed him to a tree and went out for dinner. When we returned, the
leash -- and Elvis -- were gone. I panicked. "Where'd he GO!"

And then we saw him. He was sitting on the roof of my rental car. I don't know
how he got up there. Or why. I suppose he figured, "Hey, I don't know where my
man went, but he's not leaving without this thing."

The one for me.

Growing up together

I trained him. Did I mention that? Hours and hours walking the streets of
Farmington Hills, tugging on a leash and saying, "Heel!" ("Yeah, right," I could
hear him mumbling. "You're talking to a dog. Who's the heel?")

I taught him to sit, stay, lie down. The best part was when I said the release
command, "OK!" and he would rush me and jump me and do, well, you know what male
dogs do. (I could never get him to quit that, even after he was fixed. My leg,
it seemed, was the love of his life. So be it.)

He was with me through my bachelor years, through my first house. When kids came
over, they rode him like a pony. He never barked, never snapped. Everyone loved
him. "The perfect dog," they all said.

And he was mine. He often came with me to a morning radio show I did. And in the
hallway, when he heard my voice over the speakers, he would jump up to the glass
and peer inside the booth, his paws and his nose pressed against the window
pane.

The years passed. I got a bigger house; he got a bigger lawn. I got married; he
got less attention. I got busier; he got fewer reunions at baggage claim.

Looking back on that book cover now, I realize how much I changed in those 13
years.

And how much he did not.

The final days

Every morning, sleep in my eyes, I would pour food in a bowl as Elvis ran
circles in e***ment. Then last year, something happened. One morning, we found
Elvis in a pool of sweat, panting and frothing. A brain tumor, they said.

He needed an operation. The best doctor was across the country. The kindest vet
I have ever known, Joyce Obradovich, accompanied him and stayed with him. That
may sound unbelievable, but she wasn't the first woman to fall in love with an
Elvis.

He came home, weeks later, a zipper scar between his eyes. They said recovery
would be complete. The truth is, Elvis never quite came back. He was slower. The
jumping stopped. His left eye grew weak. His legs failed him on steps.

We tried everything. We tried everyone. I would stroke him hopefully under his
front legs, because, in the old days, that would immediately lead to him rolling
on his back, paws up, seeking the ultimate: the stomach scratch. "Keep going,"
he'd say with his eyes, "keep going, keep going forever . . ."

I could, but he couldn't.

Elvis died last week.

I sit here now, looking at his picture, and I finally feel the physical need for
my dog that he seemed to feel for me all the time. I want to tug under his ears,
scratch his head, rub his belly, feel that golden fur, race him, wrestle him,
kiss his snout. I want to call his name and run across the lawn with the tennis
ball inches from his teeth . . .

He was just this little puppy, who said, "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

The one for me is gone.

What do I do now?

 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by Alli » Wed, 11 Oct 2000 04:00:00


What  a lovely  tribute  to  a  wonderful  pup .  I'm  so sorry for  your
loss  :o(   Maybe  someday u  will  open  your  heart  and  home  to
another  who  may  suprise u  and begin  to  fill  that  hole  in  your
heart   hugs  in  your  time  of  sorrow     allie

Quote:
> Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> October 8, 2000

> My dog is gone.

> Thir*** years ago, I plucked him from a litter of golden retriever
puppies,
> tumbling over one another in a box. Why him? The usual reason. Because he
> nuzzled against me and***ed me wildly and I was convinced that I heard a
> little ruff-ruff voice saying: "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

> The thing is, he was. The one for me. I liked to run; he liked to run. I
am
> excitable; he tried to tackle people when they entered the house. I liked
to
> throw; he liked to catch.

> The one for me.

> His fur was golden; his eyes were sympathetic. I named him Elvis, so I
could
> say, "He ain't nothing but a hound dog." In the early years, he went with
me
> everywhere. To Florida. To California. I would wait for his crate at the
> oversized baggage claim, a voyager meeting a loved one at the dock. He
jumped
> wildly when he saw me and I'd say, "Hey, boyyyy . . ."

> Once I took Elvis in a rental car to my family's farm in Pennsylvania.
That
> night, we leashed him to a tree and went out for dinner. When we returned,
the
> leash -- and Elvis -- were gone. I panicked. "Where'd he GO!"

> And then we saw him. He was sitting on the roof of my rental car. I don't
know
> how he got up there. Or why. I suppose he figured, "Hey, I don't know
where my
> man went, but he's not leaving without this thing."

> The one for me.

> Growing up together

> I trained him. Did I mention that? Hours and hours walking the streets of
> Farmington Hills, tugging on a leash and saying, "Heel!" ("Yeah, right," I
could
> hear him mumbling. "You're talking to a dog. Who's the heel?")

> I taught him to sit, stay, lie down. The best part was when I said the
release
> command, "OK!" and he would rush me and jump me and do, well, you know
what male
> dogs do. (I could never get him to quit that, even after he was fixed. My
leg,
> it seemed, was the love of his life. So be it.)

> He was with me through my bachelor years, through my first house. When
kids came
> over, they rode him like a pony. He never barked, never snapped. Everyone
loved
> him. "The perfect dog," they all said.

> And he was mine. He often came with me to a morning radio show I did. And
in the
> hallway, when he heard my voice over the speakers, he would jump up to the
glass
> and peer inside the booth, his paws and his nose pressed against the
window
> pane.

> The years passed. I got a bigger house; he got a bigger lawn. I got
married; he
> got less attention. I got busier; he got fewer reunions at baggage claim.

> Looking back on that book cover now, I realize how much I changed in those
13
> years.

> And how much he did not.

> The final days

> Every morning, sleep in my eyes, I would pour food in a bowl as Elvis ran
> circles in e***ment. Then last year, something happened. One morning, we
found
> Elvis in a pool of sweat, panting and frothing. A brain tumor, they said.

> He needed an operation. The best doctor was across the country. The
kindest vet
> I have ever known, Joyce Obradovich, accompanied him and stayed with him.
That
> may sound unbelievable, but she wasn't the first woman to fall in love
with an
> Elvis.

> He came home, weeks later, a zipper scar between his eyes. They said
recovery
> would be complete. The truth is, Elvis never quite came back. He was
slower. The
> jumping stopped. His left eye grew weak. His legs failed him on steps.

> We tried everything. We tried everyone. I would stroke him hopefully under
his
> front legs, because, in the old days, that would immediately lead to him
rolling
> on his back, paws up, seeking the ultimate: the stomach scratch. "Keep
going,"
> he'd say with his eyes, "keep going, keep going forever . . ."

> I could, but he couldn't.

> Elvis died last week.

> I sit here now, looking at his picture, and I finally feel the physical
need for
> my dog that he seemed to feel for me all the time. I want to tug under his
ears,
> scratch his head, rub his belly, feel that golden fur, race him, wrestle
him,
> kiss his snout. I want to call his name and run across the lawn with the
tennis
> ball inches from his teeth . . .

> He was just this little puppy, who said, "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for
you."

> The one for me is gone.

> What do I do now?

 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by mtsa » Wed, 11 Oct 2000 04:00:00


Devon, I am so sorry for your loss, and grateful for your eloquent eulogy to
your one.  Elvis has left the building, but he'll never leave your heart.
In fact, although I've never met him or you, your Elvis will never leave my
heart either.

What do you do now?  You mourn.  You say thank you.  You remember.

Best wishes,

--
Mare (please remove spamless to reply directly)

Quote:
> Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> October 8, 2000

> My dog is gone.

> Thir*** years ago, I plucked him from a litter of golden retriever
puppies,
> tumbling over one another in a box. Why him? The usual reason. Because he
> nuzzled against me and***ed me wildly and I was convinced that I heard a
> little ruff-ruff voice saying: "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

> The thing is, he was. The one for me. I liked to run; he liked to run. I
am
> excitable; he tried to tackle people when they entered the house. I liked
to
> throw; he liked to catch.

> The one for me.

> His fur was golden; his eyes were sympathetic. I named him Elvis, so I
could
> say, "He ain't nothing but a hound dog." In the early years, he went with
me
> everywhere. To Florida. To California. I would wait for his crate at the
> oversized baggage claim, a voyager meeting a loved one at the dock. He
jumped
> wildly when he saw me and I'd say, "Hey, boyyyy . . ."

> Once I took Elvis in a rental car to my family's farm in Pennsylvania.
That
> night, we leashed him to a tree and went out for dinner. When we returned,
the
> leash -- and Elvis -- were gone. I panicked. "Where'd he GO!"

> And then we saw him. He was sitting on the roof of my rental car. I don't
know
> how he got up there. Or why. I suppose he figured, "Hey, I don't know
where my
> man went, but he's not leaving without this thing."

> The one for me.

> Growing up together

> I trained him. Did I mention that? Hours and hours walking the streets of
> Farmington Hills, tugging on a leash and saying, "Heel!" ("Yeah, right," I
could
> hear him mumbling. "You're talking to a dog. Who's the heel?")

> I taught him to sit, stay, lie down. The best part was when I said the
release
> command, "OK!" and he would rush me and jump me and do, well, you know
what male
> dogs do. (I could never get him to quit that, even after he was fixed. My
leg,
> it seemed, was the love of his life. So be it.)

> He was with me through my bachelor years, through my first house. When
kids came
> over, they rode him like a pony. He never barked, never snapped. Everyone
loved
> him. "The perfect dog," they all said.

> And he was mine. He often came with me to a morning radio show I did. And
in the
> hallway, when he heard my voice over the speakers, he would jump up to the
glass
> and peer inside the booth, his paws and his nose pressed against the
window
> pane.

> The years passed. I got a bigger house; he got a bigger lawn. I got
married; he
> got less attention. I got busier; he got fewer reunions at baggage claim.

> Looking back on that book cover now, I realize how much I changed in those
13
> years.

> And how much he did not.

> The final days

> Every morning, sleep in my eyes, I would pour food in a bowl as Elvis ran
> circles in e***ment. Then last year, something happened. One morning, we
found
> Elvis in a pool of sweat, panting and frothing. A brain tumor, they said.

> He needed an operation. The best doctor was across the country. The
kindest vet
> I have ever known, Joyce Obradovich, accompanied him and stayed with him.
That
> may sound unbelievable, but she wasn't the first woman to fall in love
with an
> Elvis.

> He came home, weeks later, a zipper scar between his eyes. They said
recovery
> would be complete. The truth is, Elvis never quite came back. He was
slower. The
> jumping stopped. His left eye grew weak. His legs failed him on steps.

> We tried everything. We tried everyone. I would stroke him hopefully under
his
> front legs, because, in the old days, that would immediately lead to him
rolling
> on his back, paws up, seeking the ultimate: the stomach scratch. "Keep
going,"
> he'd say with his eyes, "keep going, keep going forever . . ."

> I could, but he couldn't.

> Elvis died last week.

> I sit here now, looking at his picture, and I finally feel the physical
need for
> my dog that he seemed to feel for me all the time. I want to tug under his
ears,
> scratch his head, rub his belly, feel that golden fur, race him, wrestle
him,
> kiss his snout. I want to call his name and run across the lawn with the
tennis
> ball inches from his teeth . . .

> He was just this little puppy, who said, "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for
you."

> The one for me is gone.

> What do I do now?

 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by David Modin » Wed, 11 Oct 2000 04:00:00


Quote:

> Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> What do I do now?

Wonderfull dog.
Wonderfull description of him
What to do?
Get yourself another dog ASAP.
I was in misery when I lost my 15 year old mixed golden/collie/??
She was with me every single day till she was about 13.
She went with me to work every day.
Everyone loved her.
She was great with strangers, & especially with children
When she was gone I had incredible grief I thought would never pass.
I got a new puppy. The pain started to subside. I begin to remember the good times
with Maggy without crying.
I laugh & play with my now 2year old KIKI every day now.
Life goes on.
Get another dog ASAP
David Modine
 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by mtsa » Thu, 12 Oct 2000 13:51:27


I don't agree.  Getting a new dog ASAP is not for everyone.  I think each
individuals heart knows best.  We just added to our family - anticipating a
future loss - and have gotten a new dog soon after a loss, and waited.  Each
time, we listened to our hearts and knew when the time was right.

--
Mare (please remove spamless to reply directly)

Quote:


> > Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> > What do I do now?

> Wonderfull dog.
> Wonderfull description of him
> What to do?
> Get yourself another dog ASAP.
> I was in misery when I lost my 15 year old mixed golden/collie/??
> She was with me every single day till she was about 13.
> She went with me to work every day.
> Everyone loved her.
> She was great with strangers, & especially with children
> When she was gone I had incredible grief I thought would never pass.
> I got a new puppy. The pain started to subside. I begin to remember the
good times
> with Maggy without crying.
> I laugh & play with my now 2year old KIKI every day now.
> Life goes on.
> Get another dog ASAP
> David Modine

 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by G.t. Scheenaar » Fri, 13 Oct 2000 04:00:00


What a wonderful tribute to Elvis.  How lucky you both were to have each
other.  I don't know the answer for you.  I also had my One.  Tye has been
gone for 7 years now and I still want to scratch behind his ears. He was my
best friend.   I waited a number of years before getting another dog and
while I love the two I have now Tyson remains my #1.  I was the lucky one to
have him choose me and will always be grateful for the time we had together.
Take care,
Karen

Quote:
> Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> October 8, 2000

> My dog is gone.

> Thir*** years ago, I plucked him from a litter of golden retriever
puppies,
> tumbling over one another in a box. Why him? The usual reason. Because he
> nuzzled against me and***ed me wildly and I was convinced that I heard a
> little ruff-ruff voice saying: "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

> The thing is, he was. The one for me. I liked to run; he liked to run. I
am
> excitable; he tried to tackle people when they entered the house. I liked
to
> throw; he liked to catch.

> The one for me.

> His fur was golden; his eyes were sympathetic. I named him Elvis, so I
could
> say, "He ain't nothing but a hound dog." In the early years, he went with
me
> everywhere. To Florida. To California. I would wait for his crate at the
> oversized baggage claim, a voyager meeting a loved one at the dock. He
jumped
> wildly when he saw me and I'd say, "Hey, boyyyy . . ."

> Once I took Elvis in a rental car to my family's farm in Pennsylvania.
That
> night, we leashed him to a tree and went out for dinner. When we returned,
the
> leash -- and Elvis -- were gone. I panicked. "Where'd he GO!"

> And then we saw him. He was sitting on the roof of my rental car. I don't
know
> how he got up there. Or why. I suppose he figured, "Hey, I don't know
where my
> man went, but he's not leaving without this thing."

> The one for me.

> Growing up together

> I trained him. Did I mention that? Hours and hours walking the streets of
> Farmington Hills, tugging on a leash and saying, "Heel!" ("Yeah, right," I
could
> hear him mumbling. "You're talking to a dog. Who's the heel?")

> I taught him to sit, stay, lie down. The best part was when I said the
release
> command, "OK!" and he would rush me and jump me and do, well, you know
what male
> dogs do. (I could never get him to quit that, even after he was fixed. My
leg,
> it seemed, was the love of his life. So be it.)

> He was with me through my bachelor years, through my first house. When
kids came
> over, they rode him like a pony. He never barked, never snapped. Everyone
loved
> him. "The perfect dog," they all said.

> And he was mine. He often came with me to a morning radio show I did. And
in the
> hallway, when he heard my voice over the speakers, he would jump up to the
glass
> and peer inside the booth, his paws and his nose pressed against the
window
> pane.

> The years passed. I got a bigger house; he got a bigger lawn. I got
married; he
> got less attention. I got busier; he got fewer reunions at baggage claim.

> Looking back on that book cover now, I realize how much I changed in those
13
> years.

> And how much he did not.

> The final days

> Every morning, sleep in my eyes, I would pour food in a bowl as Elvis ran
> circles in e***ment. Then last year, something happened. One morning, we
found
> Elvis in a pool of sweat, panting and frothing. A brain tumor, they said.

> He needed an operation. The best doctor was across the country. The
kindest vet
> I have ever known, Joyce Obradovich, accompanied him and stayed with him.
That
> may sound unbelievable, but she wasn't the first woman to fall in love
with an
> Elvis.

> He came home, weeks later, a zipper scar between his eyes. They said
recovery
> would be complete. The truth is, Elvis never quite came back. He was
slower. The
> jumping stopped. His left eye grew weak. His legs failed him on steps.

> We tried everything. We tried everyone. I would stroke him hopefully under
his
> front legs, because, in the old days, that would immediately lead to him
rolling
> on his back, paws up, seeking the ultimate: the stomach scratch. "Keep
going,"
> he'd say with his eyes, "keep going, keep going forever . . ."

> I could, but he couldn't.

> Elvis died last week.

> I sit here now, looking at his picture, and I finally feel the physical
need for
> my dog that he seemed to feel for me all the time. I want to tug under his
ears,
> scratch his head, rub his belly, feel that golden fur, race him, wrestle
him,
> kiss his snout. I want to call his name and run across the lawn with the
tennis
> ball inches from his teeth . . .

> He was just this little puppy, who said, "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for
you."

> The one for me is gone.

> What do I do now?

 
 
 

A Dog Named Elvis

Post by Tim » Mon, 16 Oct 2000 04:00:00


Wow!  Well written.

Devon,

I feel your pain very much.  I can relate since we recently lost three
Pomeranians (siblings that my wife and I helped deliver) that we had for
fif*** years.  All three died within nine months of each other.  They left
a big ole hole in our hearts.  We said  NEVER would we own another dog.
But, one day, driving alone down the interstate with tears in my eyes, a
song came on the radio and I'm convinced it was a sign from them to me.  The
song was Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds".  I hope you have a chance to
listen to it.

What I'm saying is that life goes on and if you love pets as you appear to,
it would be a crime to not have another one.  No dog can ever replace Elvis
as no dog can ever replace Sugar (my favorite of our litter) but after
hearing "Three Little Birds" I made up my mind instantly to give it another
try.  We are currently looking for two female Poms (siblings) to bring the
joy back to our lives.

Good luck and thanks for sharing a most moving story.

Tim

Quote:
> Mitch Albom: Elvis has left ... and what do I do?

> October 8, 2000

> My dog is gone.

> Thir*** years ago, I plucked him from a litter of golden retriever
puppies,
> tumbling over one another in a box. Why him? The usual reason. Because he
> nuzzled against me and***ed me wildly and I was convinced that I heard a
> little ruff-ruff voice saying: "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for you."

> The thing is, he was. The one for me. I liked to run; he liked to run. I
am
> excitable; he tried to tackle people when they entered the house. I liked
to
> throw; he liked to catch.

> The one for me.

> His fur was golden; his eyes were sympathetic. I named him Elvis, so I
could
> say, "He ain't nothing but a hound dog." In the early years, he went with
me
> everywhere. To Florida. To California. I would wait for his crate at the
> oversized baggage claim, a voyager meeting a loved one at the dock. He
jumped
> wildly when he saw me and I'd say, "Hey, boyyyy . . ."

> Once I took Elvis in a rental car to my family's farm in Pennsylvania.
That
> night, we leashed him to a tree and went out for dinner. When we returned,
the
> leash -- and Elvis -- were gone. I panicked. "Where'd he GO!"

> And then we saw him. He was sitting on the roof of my rental car. I don't
know
> how he got up there. Or why. I suppose he figured, "Hey, I don't know
where my
> man went, but he's not leaving without this thing."

> The one for me.

> Growing up together

> I trained him. Did I mention that? Hours and hours walking the streets of
> Farmington Hills, tugging on a leash and saying, "Heel!" ("Yeah, right," I
could
> hear him mumbling. "You're talking to a dog. Who's the heel?")

> I taught him to sit, stay, lie down. The best part was when I said the
release
> command, "OK!" and he would rush me and jump me and do, well, you know
what male
> dogs do. (I could never get him to quit that, even after he was fixed. My
leg,
> it seemed, was the love of his life. So be it.)

> He was with me through my bachelor years, through my first house. When
kids came
> over, they rode him like a pony. He never barked, never snapped. Everyone
loved
> him. "The perfect dog," they all said.

> And he was mine. He often came with me to a morning radio show I did. And
in the
> hallway, when he heard my voice over the speakers, he would jump up to the
glass
> and peer inside the booth, his paws and his nose pressed against the
window
> pane.

> The years passed. I got a bigger house; he got a bigger lawn. I got
married; he
> got less attention. I got busier; he got fewer reunions at baggage claim.

> Looking back on that book cover now, I realize how much I changed in those
13
> years.

> And how much he did not.

> The final days

> Every morning, sleep in my eyes, I would pour food in a bowl as Elvis ran
> circles in e***ment. Then last year, something happened. One morning, we
found
> Elvis in a pool of sweat, panting and frothing. A brain tumor, they said.

> He needed an operation. The best doctor was across the country. The
kindest vet
> I have ever known, Joyce Obradovich, accompanied him and stayed with him.
That
> may sound unbelievable, but she wasn't the first woman to fall in love
with an
> Elvis.

> He came home, weeks later, a zipper scar between his eyes. They said
recovery
> would be complete. The truth is, Elvis never quite came back. He was
slower. The
> jumping stopped. His left eye grew weak. His legs failed him on steps.

> We tried everything. We tried everyone. I would stroke him hopefully under
his
> front legs, because, in the old days, that would immediately lead to him
rolling
> on his back, paws up, seeking the ultimate: the stomach scratch. "Keep
going,"
> he'd say with his eyes, "keep going, keep going forever . . ."

> I could, but he couldn't.

> Elvis died last week.

> I sit here now, looking at his picture, and I finally feel the physical
need for
> my dog that he seemed to feel for me all the time. I want to tug under his
ears,
> scratch his head, rub his belly, feel that golden fur, race him, wrestle
him,
> kiss his snout. I want to call his name and run across the lawn with the
tennis
> ball inches from his teeth . . .

> He was just this little puppy, who said, "Me. Pick me. I'm the one for
you."

> The one for me is gone.

> What do I do now?