I hated that dog.
I was convinced I had made a huge mistake.
On August 31, 2011, I agreed to adopt a 55-pound Golden Lab/Retriever from the Panhandle Humane Society in Scottsbluff. I mean, why not? My youngest daughter, Christa, convinced me two years earlier to adopt Sam, a 60-pound Golden from PHS and now he needed a companion. Sam simply lying on our bed all day long with the cat surely brought on boredom.
The nice lady at the humane society called the day before to address my request of a few weeks earlier for adopting another Golden.
“Oh, Mr. Horn, this dog is so loving,” she pitched. “And if someone doesn’t adopt him in the next three days, we will have to put him down.”
She had me at oh.
I decided to let Sam make the decision for us. I would take Sam to PHS with me. If he got along with this dog—no fights, just the regular sniffs and tail wags—then we would bring him home. And that’s what happened.
Within two days, our new canine had chewed on my clothes that I had laid out on our bed, destroyed a new pair of shoes, pooped on the carpet, peed on the kitchen floor, and chewed up the couch. He also chewed through his rope and began roaming the streets. He was promptly arrested by the Alliance animal control officer and jailed. Bond was more than I wanted to pay, but, I forked it over. This was followed by an investment in a ten-foot long chain which was used to keep him tied up outdoors. My back yard was not completely enclosed, so the new pooch had to be chained when it was time for him (and Sam) to exercise his interior cleansing skills.
There was a lot of growling. And it wasn’t coming from the dog. Why had I agreed to this? What was I thinking?
Naming him was the next chore. I wanted to call him Louie. Sam and Louie. Sounds like a fun duo.
Daughter Kacey, a junior in high school, had other ideas. She thought his name should be Husker.
Husker? Naming this dumb dog after my favorite sports team?
As usual, daughter won out.
As a former farm boy, I had always believed that dogs should be raised in the country. Especially big dogs. But, when you parent with your heart and not your head, you adopt big dogs that live in town.
So, Sam and Husker were now members of our family. To prove it, my daughters convinced me to have a family photo taken by Master Photographer Steph Mantooth at the Alliance City Park. Sam and Husker were included in the photo.
I eventually enclosed my entire backyard so that Sam and Husker would never have to be chained. They had plenty of space to romp, wrestle and do their business.
As time wore on, it became obvious to me that Husker had been the victim of abuse by his previous owner. He would cower whenever I raised my hand to enforce a point or even roll over on his back so his behind was not open for attack. While he got plenty of lectures, he never got spanked.
Husker became a loving dog. He would crawl up on our laps and beg to be combed or petted.
He would eventually move to Lincoln to live with Kacey and her husband, Jason, for one year until Kacey graduated from UNL. A move to Omaha by my daughter meant Husker would return to Alliance, and we welcomed him with open arms.
Whenever Kacey and Jason would visit Alliance, Husker would climb on top of the back of the couch so he could be nose-to-nose with them when they passed through the front door.
Husker’s favorite pastime was retrieving a tennis ball. Five, ten, even twenty times I would toss the ball and he would bring it back to me waiting for it to be chucked again. He was living a happy, healthy life.
My growing fondness of Husker led to me nicknaming him Flusker. Then I changed it to something more affectionate. Flusky. He seemed more like a Flusker than a Husker. And more like a Flusky than a Flusker. His loving spirit was like no other canine I had encountered.
And then it happened.
Husker got loose one day and ran across Platte Avenue. A young driver turned north off 10th Street and plowed into him while he was running back across Platte to our house. Husker rolled on the concrete, got up, and ran to our house. I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t seriously hurt or killed.
However, a few weeks later, he began to limp. The vet’s x-ray revealed a chipped bone in this leg. Weeks of therapy which included twice-a-day sessions with a heating pad and pain killers eventually helped him heal.
A few more years of runs in the country and chasing tennis balls were enjoyed by all.
Then, on a warm November morning in 2019, Husker came indoors with a bloody nose. I had assumed he and Sam had been wrestling and that his nose got bumped.
I was wrong.
Three weeks later, the blood began dripping on a more frequent basis, so it was time for another trip to the vet. X-rays confirmed that Husker had—for the easiest explanation possible—cancer between the eyes. Not the news I wanted to ever hear, especially with Christmas just around the corner.
“Let him live the happiest life possible,” was the vet’s advice. Which was good advice. We still played ball, enjoyed romps in the country and those nightly petting sessions.
But Husker slowly went downhill. By early February, 2020 he had lost his energy. On the afternoon of Friday, Feb. 21, I had to carry him to the house from the backyard. I laid him on our bed and made him as comfortable as possible.
Kacey and Jason were traveling from Omaha to spend the weekend with us. I sent a text message to Kacey and advised her not to dawdle. Husker was fading fast.
While Husker rested, Cynthia and I attended an Alliance High basketball game. When we got home, he had slipped even more.
My daughter arrived in Alliance at 10:30 p.m. She and her husband and Christa spent over an hour with him providing as much comfort as possible.
His breathing became more labored.
I told Husker it was time to let go. Kacey, Christa, Cynthia, and I had said our good-byes. We wanted his suffering to end.
At 12:30 a.m. on Saturday, Feb. 22, 2020 he let out a heartbreaking moan and died.
Two days later, Kacey posted a Facebook picture of Husker with a tennis ball in his mouth.
I loved that dog.