Thurmonster

My brother almost named him Dammit. He thought it would be the perfect expletive to yell in a dog park during a lively game of fetch.

"Dammit, SIT."
"Get over here, Dammit."

I could see the good Catholic mothers shooting glances of disapproval as they raced to cover their children's ears.

However, common sense won out. Perhaps the first and only time.
Stephen eventually settled on the name Thurman. And Thurman was instantly weaved into the fabric of our family.

We had always grown up with dogs. Stupidity and large size were prerequisites. Clancy was a clinically retarded golden retriever with an overactive pituitary gland. Maggie was a black lab rescued from the shelter. She wasn't very bright, had an abnormal fear of cars and sewer grates, and could bark the happy birthday song. And then there was Thurman. He was completely entertained with games like... "Find your Tail!" and "Eat the Stick!". To be honest, I think Stephen was fascinated with these games, too.

And while it could be argued that he suffered from an extreme lack of intelligence, Thurman was fearless. He had no reservations about stepping in front of a freight train to rescue a tennis ball. What he lacked in smarts he made up for with personality. We always said that if Stephen was forced to make a life and death decision between the family or Thurman, our shit was toast.

As fate would have it, Stephen won't ever be faced with that. Thurmonster had a severe seizure on Friday that ended with a final visit to the vet. Aside from a few tears at his own wedding, I don't think I've ever heard my brother's voice waver so much. Stephen said he went peacefully, chomping on his tennis ball until the end.
When he called me to tell me the news, I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. All I could do was look at our two golden retrievers and feel like I was on borrowed time.