Requiem for a Featherweight: Tyler, 1991-2001

This story is dedicated to Tyler Risemberg and to all those who have lost a wonderful friend and companion, a pet that was dedicated to his owner, family and friends with unconditional and unlimited love as well as reciprocated feelings. He was a Yorkshire Terrier who weighed only ten pounds as an adult; it is hard for me to believe that such a little package had such an impact in my life and that of those who got to know him well who were many. He came into my life when he was only ten days old, at a time when I had already decided never to bring another pet to our house.

My son Adam wanted a dog and brought him in to see if he could convince me to accept this little creature that could fit into one of my hands. This was early in June of 1991, and I guess this must have been a match made in Heaven because it was a case of love at first sight for both of us. My son never got his pet because Tyler and I bonded together for life and he never did leave my home. When a few years later both of my younger children went out on their own, he stayed with me and became my best friend and companion and we did practically everything together.

It was not until much later that I realized the enormous influence he had in my life. I had used to go jogging every day but had long since abandoned it; it was Tyler who made me start again. Most of the people in the neighborhood who saw us became my friends, because Tyler was a real charmer and introduced us. He would wait patiently for us to finish our conversations during his walks, but only up to a point. he would give us about ten minutes to wind it down, and after that he would stand up and yap at us that our time was up. Everybody would lighten up and say: "OK Tyler, I know, it's time for you and Lee to go now". Tyler would look at me out of the corner of his eye, as if saying: "We'd better go now or you will have to suffer the consequences," and believe me I did not dare contradict him!

My next door neighbors, Roz and Arnie, had been just that, good neighbors for 15 years, until Tyler changed everything and got us into each other's houses nearly every day. Thanks to him, we became best friends. He bonded with Arnie very quickly, but it took him some time to get Roz over to his side. One day Roz was lying on a couch watching television when Tyler found their garage door open and decided to go in and see her. He went over to the TV room, climbed on the couch, then on her chest, and kissed her all over her face. From then on, Tyler could do nothing wrong as far as Roz was concerned.

He was so fond of Roz and Arnie that we built a stairway for him to go up and down our block fence so that he could visit them any time he wanted to; all we had to do the first time was to show him the stairway and tell him once what it was for and he used it several times a day from then on.

He trusted them so much that for a while it became a problem. If they were in different rooms, he would stay in the hall, halfway between them in the dark, and would not move because he knew that they would not step on him on purpose--but of course it happened accidentally a couple of times, and he learned to get out of their way very quickly. He "knew" that he owned both houses and that the three of us belonged to him, so he was happiest when the four of us and their female Yorky (his girl friend} were together.

As part of our ritual when I came back from work, the moment he heard my car sounds and I opened the door he would start talking to me saying: "It is time for us to go walking" (he used a particular vocalization for that). And he wouldn't stop talking until his leash was on and we were heading out the door, unless when I came in I would say: "Tyler let's first watch some TV and eat before we go out". The he'd stop talking immediately--but start again as soon as I turned the TV off. He also did that when I was working with my computer: as soon as he heard the sound of the computer shutting down, he would ask for his walk. (And ask, and ask, and ask….) How could I say no?

One of my favorite tricks to play on him at home or at Arnie and Roz's was to start walking out the door and let him go ahead, then back up and half shut the door behind him. He would turn right back, open the door, grab one of my feet in his mouth, and pull me out. He would not be denied his walks!

Tyler did not have a mean bone in his body. Once, when we were jogging through the neighborhood as usual, I looked back and couldn't see him. When I went back I found him on someone's lawn, sitting next to a baby bird who had fallen of his nest; he was protecting him from cats that were around him. Even dogs in the neighborhood that hated other dogs liked him, and so did most people.

Five months ago all of a sudden he stopped eating, and I had him examined by his doctor. He was found to have developed a benign tumor in the pituitary gland, which made the gland hyperactive and caused the adrenal gland to produce large amounts of cortisone; the effect of the cortisone was to stop the pancreas from producing insulin and that in turn caused diabetes. The doctor immediately started treatment with insulin shots and chemotherapy, but the disease was too advanced and had ravaged his little body so much that there was very little hope for a cure.

After a few weeks of unsuccessful treatment, he went blind from cataracts. People in the neighborhood who saw us walking together did not realize that he had lost his sight, because I would talk to him as we went and he followed my voice. I had decided to have him go for cataract surgery so that he could enjoy life again. I did not care how long he lived after the surgery but wanted him to be able to see again before he died. For a couple of weeks the doctors increased his dosage of chemotherapy to control the diabetes before surgery.

During this time I did not want him to be totally dependent on a leash to avoid obstacles. I would tell him if a step was coming up, and he would slow down until he found it; if it was a step down I would tell him that, and he would test it with his front paw to see how deep it was. If it was too deep for him to test I would tell him: "It is a big step, but it is ok to jump," and he would trust me and jump. But during the last two days of his life he gave up fighting the disease and he would just lie down and wait. I visited him two or three times a day in the hospital, and the last time I thought that he did not recognize me, but when I leaned over and hugged him with my face near his he kissed me. On his last evening, while I was visiting him, he stood up as if he wanted to go somewhere, but he knew that he wasn't home and was afraid in his blindness to move. I started to cry like a baby. All of sudden I realized that I could no longer help him. That day his doctor said that the only chance there was for him to get better was a miracle and there was nothing they could do for him. But the miracle had been the life he had lived, and that was over.

The first thing next morning I received a phone call from his doctor who told me that Tyler had died after having several seizures during the night. Immediately I left home with Arnie and Roz, who insisted on coming along, and we visited him for about an hour. He must have died in peace, because he looked very much at rest, as if he were asleep. Later the same morning I needed to go back and spend some more time with him. After a while I went back home, and he was cremated. My son Adam and I finally brought his ashes home where he belonged.

Leon Risemberg

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