Around mid-1990 I and my family moved into our new home in the middle of a large tract of woodland. I, my wife, and two sons decided that we needed a guard dog to make our new home complete. So, we went dog shopping.

After searching several dog pounds and pet shops, we ran across an advertisement in the classified section of the newspaper, offering free puppies. The puppies were a Shepherd/Labrador mix, and the fellow that was giving them away said that he was breeding them that way because it "made such good dogs". We picked out a beautiful black female with a white streak on her chest and took her home.

I asked my two young sons, Luke and Jesse, to think of a name for our new pet. After some deliberation, they decided on the name Thunder, just because it sounded like a good name. Thus was the beginnings of our new family member.

Thunder immediately fit right in to our family. We had already decided that she would be an "outside" dog, and so I built a doghouse for her out of some leftover materials from the construction of our home. The trim of the dog house made it look like a small extension of our home. I didn't think that Thunder liked it at first, because she preferred to sleep on the porch in front of the door. However, cold winter nights would usually find her curled up warmly on the hay inside of her dog house. It wasn't that she disliked the dog house, it was just too far from her new family.

I remember one time about a week after Thunder arrived, when I was working underneath my car in the garage. I was laying flat on my back with my head poked under the car when Thunder walked in, laid down next to me, and went to sleep. I had been accepted.

Thunder grew quickly, as most puppies do. She ate enormous quantities of dog food, but she would quit eating when she was full and maintained a strong healthy body. For the first year or so, Thunder belied her name, having never made a sound. We were beginning to believe that she was incapable of barking, but finally she began with a few small "woofs" and worked her way up to a loud "Awooooo!" whenever she was especially happy, which was quite often. Although she was an "outside" dog, we allowed her in the house at times to eat, get a milk bone, or just get out of the weather. She never needed housebreaking, as she seemed to instinctively know not to mess up the house. In fact, when outside she would always "go" in the wooded area surrounding our house, rather than mess up our lawn.

Throughout her entire life, Thunder never lost the playful qualities that she had when she was a puppy. She absolutely loved to play "fetch" with anything small enough to throw. In the beginning, we would throw one of the rocks that lie in abundance on our property, and she would go bounding off noisily to bring it back. I would impress my friends by picking up a stone at random, scratching an "X" on it with my pocket knife, and hurling it into the woods. Thunder would immediately jump into action, and would almost always return with the very rock that I had marked, finding it by smell, I suppose. We had to make her quit chasing rocks, however, when we noticed that it was wearing her teeth down. We bought her some tennis balls instead, and she would carry one around and play with it for hours. If you hit the tennis ball with a baseball bat, she would run full-tilt to retrieve it, and then beg you to chase her and take it from her to hit again.

Rocks and tennis balls were not her only toys by any means. Once I was cutting firewood with my chain saw and, just for fun, I cut a large disk out of the trunk of the tree I was working on. This disk was about two inches thick, fifteen inches in diameter, and probably weighed at least ten pounds. The disk was no match for the mighty Thunder, however, and she returned it to me in short order when I threw it. From then on I couldn't cut firewood without making her a big "wood biscuit" to chase and chew.

One of her favorite games was kick the milk jug. Someone would throw an empty milk container on the ground and try to kick it back and forth with someone else, trying to keep it from Thunder. Usually, it would be only seconds before she would snatch it and run away, with the other participants gleefully chasing after. Only when they quit chasing did she relent and return the milk jug for another round.

Thunder was an incredibly smart dog. If she did something that she shouldn't have, such as growl at our pet ferret when he got to close to her food bowl, one stern NO! was all that it took to make her never do it again. At times, I would feel sorry that I reprimanded her because of the sorrowful look that she would apologetically give me when I did. Once she knew that a particular behavior was not acceptable to us, she would never exhibit that behavior again.

Teaching her things was a breeze. I tied a loop of nylon webbing to the screen door, and in no time taught her to use it to open the door and go in or out of the house by herself. We always kept a box of milk bones in the pantry, and she would help herself to one and take it outside to eat it. Sit, stay, and lie down were almost instinctive.

On the evening of Friday, August 15, 1997, a friend of mine brought his two sons over to do some target practice with one of my sons. They lived in a subdivision, and didn't have the luxury of being able to practice their shooting in the yard the way we do. My oldest son was visiting a friend of his for the night, and was not with us. We all sat out in the driveway with our 22-gauge rifles and plinked at some tin cans placed a few yards away on an old tree stump. When I heard the cry of pain in the weeds on the other side of the target, my heart skipped a beat. I rushed to the sound, mustering all the hope I could that it was not what I thought it was. But my hope faded when I found Thunder, crumpled and whining beside a dead tree. I bent down to pick her up, and her blood soaked my clothing. I carried her back over to the driveway and laid her down. Her tail, normally wagging any time anyone was near her, didn't move and was limp. She tried to stand, but the rear half of her body just wouldn't respond. I looked for the wound, and found it - the bullet had lodged in her spine.

I sent my son to the house to get help, while I held my hand on the wound to try and stop the bleeding. By now it had begun to get dark, and the local veterinarian had gone home from his office for the day. My wife called his emergency number, and then came down to where we were with a wooden plank to use as a stretcher. We gently placed Thunder on the plank, lifted her into the back of my friend's car, and rushed to meet the vet at his office.

The veterinarian examined Thunder, and gave her an injection to ease the pain. He started an I.V. and told us that he wanted to keep her for the night, to try and stop the swelling in her spinal cord. We left her there, with a promise from the vet that he would call us at any hour if there was any change in her condition. He offered some hope, although in retrospect I believe that he was just trying to ease us into the fact that her spine was irreparably damaged. We returned home in a state of shock, not wanting to believe that this had really happened.

The vet called us at about 8:30 Saturday morning. He told us that her spine would never heal, and any attempt to prolong her life would only be torture for her. I hung up the phone, realizing that we were about to lose a loved and cherished family member. We sadly climbed into the car and drove to the vet's office to tell our beloved Thunder good-bye.

They carried her into the room where we were waiting, and I'm sure that she would have wagged her tail if she could have. She was heavily sedated, but I feel that she knew what was about to happen and why. The vet gave us a few moments alone with her, and my young son left the room, it being too much sorrow for him to bear. Shortly, the vet returned with a large syringe, and injected it into Thunder's I.V. bulb. As I held and stroked her head, she closed her eyes, and died.

I am writing this two days hence, and though I bring all of my will to bear against it, the recollection of these events still causes my heart to break. I am told that the emptiness left by Thunder's passing will fill, but it will take a long time.

There are those who would wonder about my grieving so much over the loss of a family pet. After all, they would say, Thunder was, well, just a dog. But anyone that knew her also knew that she was much more than just a dog. She was a friend, confidant, and trusted family member. She guarded the house as we slept, raised our spirits when we were sad, and never once complained or asked for anything in return. Yes, we will get another dog. But there can never be another Thunder.