There’s a saying about Bernese Mountain dogs that goes
Three years a young dog,
three years a good dog, and
three years an old dog.
As David Sedaris put it, there are cheeses that last longer than these dogs. (He was referring to Great Danes, but he could have been talking about Berners.)
I recently read that the current lifespan for Bernese Mountain dogs in the US is 6 to 8 years, which sparked a few conversations about how long much longer we think our Jessie will last. At 8, her hips and elbows are often sore and she has started bowing out of hikes she knows are excessive. She’ll be gone before too long because that’s her nature, and she’s such a fine dog that Bob thought we should build a big pyre and light her up for a bonfire party–really celebrate her passing. Which sounds reasonable to me because I had a female Bernese before and can have one much like her again. Their gene pool is about a quarter inch deep.
Here’s a Berner from the 1800s,
and here are three from the other day (a woman visiting a neighbor brought two, so we went up to a meadow to get some pictures). Jessie is the good-looking one lying down.
Mutts are one of a kind. If you get a great Heinz 47 dog, you’ll never see its like again. But a female Bernese is like the Dalai Lama, always the same good egg.
Here is the 13th Dalai Lama,
and here is the 14th:
Berners and the Dalai Lama: Cheerful, loyal and brave, every time.
From the time my dog was very young, Jessie’s mantra has been: good dogs get treats and a place by the fire, while bad dogs get the short end of the stick. She has worked this angle her whole life. She was the star of her puppy class. She’s the only dog in town with manners enough to sit outside the door at the bakery doing tricks for treats. She can walk a few inches from me, fast or slow. She knows good dog english, including “out of the garden”, “go for a walk” “out of the road”, “where’s the bear” “ride in the car” ”bakery” ”get the deer” “want some food” “go swim”. She had the world wired… until recently.
The day the chicks arrived, I left Jessie in the office with the kiddy pool, and came back to find two chicks dead on the floor. I think she took them in her mouth and shook them, breaking their necks. Poor dog was punished all day: no car ride, no good times, and every so often I’d hold a chick corpse right in front of her face and call her a bad bad dog. She was mortified.
A week and a half later, and she can still barely bring herself to look at them.
When I specifically ask her to look the chick in the eye, she will, but given her druthers she wouldn’t be within 20 feet of them.
The truth is, this blog has been a hard stretch for her. New rules for an old dog takes a lot of concentration, and she’s been knocking herself out getting things right. First she’s not allowed to chase the deer and wild turkeys, and now she’s not allowed to touch the chicks.
If not for the bear, she wouldn’t be having any fun at all.
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