Three years ago today, our beloved Bronco passed away. We miss him very much. Below is a snippet from my book about his passing. Warning, it might be sad reading.
Bronco (our Leonberger) was very old for a Leonberger, and his health had been badly failing him for months, including his first heart failure, as well as other issues. It seemed like the time had come for him to be put to sleep. This is an extremely difficult decision for any dog owner.
In the wee hours of the morning on June 16, 2020, Bronco collapsed. He was no longer able to get up or hold himself up even if we lifted him. His legs were like spaghetti, and his breathing was heavy. We called our veterinarian as soon as the clinic opened. She spent quite a bit of time with us over the phone trying to figure out what was going on. The preliminary conclusion was that he most likely was experiencing another episode of heart failure.
We decided, all of us, together with our veterinarian that it was time. Our veterinarian knew Bronco extremely well: she really cared for him, and she was not afraid to tell us how she felt.
Rachel and I would take Bronco to the clinic, where he would be put to sleep. Claudia would stay at home with the other dogs.
Rachel, Claudia, and I lifted him into the car—all 142 pounds of him. It was the first time he could do nothing to help. But once he was inside the car, he was able to rest his head on the center console, between the armrests of the front seats, and sometimes he lifted his head so that he could see out.
He was exhausted but very curious about what he could see out the windows. We had some extra time before our appointment, so we took him for a car ride instead of driving straight to the clinic. He seemed to enjoy it: he was looking at things that seemed to interest him, but he did not make a sound, and he didn’t move much. After a while we turned around and started heading toward the clinic. We dreaded what was coming, but it was time.
Our veterinarian was waiting for us. The staff put Bronco on a stretcher and rolled him inside. Seeing my best friend lying on a stretcher being rolled into a clinic and knowing these were his last moments on earth was surreal. Our veterinarian checked him to verify what was going on. His blood pressure was extremely low, and his heart was not pumping normally. It was indeed heart failure. Rachel was FaceTiming Claudia so she could talk to Bronco. We did everything we could to comfort him.
Our veterinarian and her assistant had taken care of Bronco for around ten years, and we had visited them quite often toward the end of his life. They both knew him really well, and they truly cared for him. The veterinarian had told us that Bronco was the oldest big dog she’d ever treated, and they both said that he had become like family to them; he wasn’t just another patient. The situation was upsetting for them, too. Putting him to sleep was not an easy thing for any of us, but it was the right thing to do.
We all petted him, and Rachel and Claudia spoke to him to comfort him. I was not able to say much—it was just too difficult—but I made sure Bronco heard my voice a few times and that he could see me. The room was somber but peaceful and filled with love. First he got a shot that put him to sleep, and then after he was completely asleep, the veterinarian gave him a drug that stopped his heart. It stopped beating less than fifteen seconds after the injection. Bronco had passed across the Rainbow Bridge. The room was quiet, but human hearts were not.
Bronco was cremated, and we picked up the box containing his remains and his paw print the next day. The veterinarian and her assistant also wrote us a beautiful card that will forever stay with us.
Bronco had a long life and a big heart. He was loving, caring, protective, and brave. So it’s almost fitting that heart disease ultimately caused his death. This calls to mind the legend of Sven Dufva, the fictional Finnish hero who was shot in the heart in the Finnish War of 1808–1809. In the epic poem The Tales of Ensign Stål, Dufva’s commanding general stands over his body and proclaims:
That bullet knew what course to take, it must acknowledged be. . . .
It knew far more than we.
It let his brow be spared in peace, the weaker, poorer part,
And chose the portion that was best—his noble, valiant heart.
The rainbow bridge
According to an article in the Washington Post,* the Rainbow Bridge is “a mythical overpass said to connect heaven and earth—and, more to the point, a spot where grieving pet owners reunite for good with their departed furry friends.” It’s also a poem of unknown origin that spawned a pet-bereavement movement and even a worldwide Pet Remembrance Day, August 28. The poem in its entirety follows.
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing: they each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.
Leonberger Life 