Author’s Note: This is part III of an emotional 3-part story. I’m sure it will not be as emotional for the reader as it was for me to write, but it is emotional, nevertheless.
 

Prologue III:

According to the epic The Song of Roland, our hero refuses to cede the battle and blow the Olifant to summon back Charlemagne until he has painted his sword red with Saracen blood from 1700 strikes.

Now Roland feels that he is at death’s door;

Out of his ears the brain is running forth.

Now for his peers he prays God call them all,

And for himself St Gabriel’s aid implores;

Then in each hand he takes, lest shame befal,

His Olifant and Durendal his sword.

Durendal was Roland’s sword, embellished with supernatural powers by the Christen relics, such as a piece of Mary’s rob, in its gold hilt. The name exudes power and only a powerful creature could carry it forth.

Durendal was the largest and strongest boxer I've ever known. photo by M.S. Humphreys

Part III: Durendal, Sword of Roland

The closeness of Sky, a northern breed and Charly, a boxer had been so unique and beautiful, that we started looking for another northern breed dog before Charly passed. Two weeks before Sky died, almost like an omen, I saw a northern Inuit breeder’s truck at the vet where Sky was getting regular arthritis treatments. I saw the northern Inuit stud too. Nero was a massive wolf-like dog. I told Jessica that when Sky passes, I would like to look into this breed of dog. Of course, two weeks later Sky does die and unbeknownst to me, Jessica finds the same breeder I saw at the vet and discovers there are two litters on the way, a northern Inuit pure litter and an accidental malamute hybrid mix.

We decided on a hybrid and when the pups were born, about 10 days after Sky died, the breeder let us take our pick at three days old. She continued to bring Freyja by the shop once per week for us to bond with her and to see her progress until we could bring her home for good at 10 weeks old. Of course, Charly would cross the rainbow bridge before Freyja came home with us, but I was fortunate to get one picture of Freyja, at two weeks old, lying next to Charly. It was an official passing of the torch, boxer to northern breed to boxer to northern breed – Roland to Sky to Charly to Freyja.

The passing of the torch. Freyja with Charly. photo by M.S. Humphreys

Nevertheless, after Charly passed, I was content with Freyja and Sawyer, but poor Sawyer, eight years old now, just didn’t have the patience for a puppy anymore. He was getting a taste of his own medicine. He used to drive Charly nuts when he was younger and now, Freyja was giving it back to him.

Sawyer was too old to play with a puppy. photo by M.S. Humphreys

“I think we need another boxer,” Jessica finally said to me one day and I secretly did want one.

Just as before, I agreed to rescue one, but I didn’t want to buy one. A few weeks later, from Hobo Boxer Rescue, Jessica found a 10-month-old, but he was adopted before we could meet him. The next day, the rescue called us to say, “We have this puppy, about 10 weeks old. Do you want him,” they asked.

Oh no... the house training, puppy pads, toys and chewed up shoes... but he’s so cute! “Of course, we’ll take him.”

Freyja was about nine months old and near her first heat cycle when they brought Durendal to the door. She immediately took him as her own and as they grew together, she became Sister-Mama-Girlfriend, and he became Baby-Brother-Boyfriend.

Freyja adopted Duren as her own right away. photo by M.S. Humphreys

Duren looked like such a pathetic little guy. He was this emaciated, long tailed flop eared fawn colored boxer pup with still dangling dew claws. We suspected he was abandoned by a breeder that just never cared for him and on the first night he was in our home, we discovered why. I believed Duren was about two weeks younger than the rescue had suspected. He was just too small for a boxer. He learned to beg quickly and after not more than a couple hours in the house, he was scooting along the kitchen floor with rapidly sweeping tail looking up at me for food. I noticed he had a very strange posture. When he sat, his right paw turned oddly to his right. I also noticed a very small mark on his right elbow. When we took him to the vet for a checkup the next day, they did an x-ray, and we were shocked to discover that his right elbow was largely missing. We were given several options, including amputation, but the best solution was to see if the elbow joint would eventually fuse on its own. He might have troubles later in life with arthritis and such, but he was young and would adapt. Duren always had a strange gait due to his elbow, but adapt he surely did.

Duren's first cuddle toy was actually a toy of Roland's from nearly 20 years earlier. photo by M.S. Humphreys

Despite his defect or injury, Duren grew into the biggest and strongest boxer I have ever seen, 100 pounds of pure lean muscle. With his chiseled features he looked like a Roman god of dogs. He was aptly named too. His tail, which we never docked, was a lethal weapon. He was constantly knocking things off tables and shelves, leaving red whelps on adjacent shins and on particularly unfortunate occasions, smacking men in an especially tender spot. This earned him the name Swordtail, especially coincidental when considering that Durendal was the name of Roland’s great sword.

“Ah, Durendal! so bright, so brave, so gay!

How dost thou glitter and shine in the sun’s rays!

When Charles was keeping the vales of Moriane..."

Roland praises his blade at the horizon of his end after blowing the Olifant to call for the return of Charlemagne.

Duren was clearly the "Most Interesting Dog in the World." photo by M.S. Humphreys.

Our Durendal did shine with love and happiness from a heart too big for this world. Though loud noises and such startled him, and a stranger should never reach for him with palm down, for his family, Jessica and me, Freyja, Sawyer, his best cat buddy Memphis, and even Mackensie and Pistachio, Duren’s courage came to the surface, and he was a force to be reckoned with if a threat was presented to any of us.

We referred to Duren’s propensity to lick ears as telling secrets. He loved to tell secrets. If he had a mind to tell someone a secret, he would do it and there was little that could be done to stop him. Memphis was his favorite to tell secrets to and we often encouraged him. “Tell Memphis a secret,” we would say and off to find Memphis he would go.

Duren and his best cat buddy Memphis. photo by M.S. Humphreys

Memphis seemed to adore the attention he received from Duren though if Duren got a little too rough, Memphis would give him a soft pawed reminder on the nose. Seldom ever did the claws come out, but there were a few spots of blood every now and then. Near the end of Memphis’ 16-year life, he got grumpy. Duren was noticeably upset that his cat buddy didn’t want to hear his secrets anymore and it didn’t help matters that a year before Memphis passed, his big cuddle brother Sawyer crossed the rainbow bridge at 12 years old. Still, Duren was fortunate that he had his humans and Sister-Mama-Girlfriend to tell secrets to.

A year after Sawyer passed and just a couple weeks after we lost Memphis, Fain, a ragged, flea-bitten black puppy wondered into our lives. My in-laws found him under their porch and didn’t want another dog, so they gave him to us. At first, we thought he might be a lab puppy, but now we are more inclined to believe he is a plot-hound or plot-hound mix based on his size, only a little over 60 pounds.

Duren with his baby Fein, photo by M.S. Humphreys

I was excited to see Freyja’s motherly instincts kick in again for a new puppy, and though she was very interested in him, she could never get very close because Duren aggressively assumed the parenting role first. That was a shock. For more than a year, Duren fawned over Fain as he grew, cleaning him if he was dirty, cuddling with him as he slept, playing with him in the yard and running for him like a mama bear if he heard him squeal. Never before have I seen too male dogs so close. Never before have I seen a male dog act like a parent, but that was Duren.

Duren was always cleaning Fein's face. photo by M.S. Humphreys

When Jessica brought home two, week-old ducklings for our farm, against my wishes, Duren’s nervous excitement went into full speed. Freyja and Fain were interested in the ducks as well, but Duren was beyond excited. We were not absolutely certain that his initial intentions were good, so we had to remain cautious for a while. Until they were older, we kept the ducklings in our guest bathroom. Duren would lie on the floor outside the bathroom with his nose to the bottom of the door until we went in to feed the ducks and let them swim in the tub. While they were in the tub, Duren would sit and watch them intently, nervously shifting his butt and legs and sweeping his tail side to side. The ducklings grew fast so I built a long narrow cage in our garage to temporarily house them until they could be moved outside. While Freyja and Fain played in the yard or hunted rabbits together, Duren would lie on the concrete floor of the garage with his nose to the chicken wire watching the ducks for hours.

Our ducks Lena and Liza imprinted on Duren. photo by M.S. Humphreys

All the attention Duren gave to our ducks Lena and Liza, had an effect that we were not prepared for. More so than Jessica or me, Freyja or Fain, the ducks imprinted on Duren. When I moved the birds outside and daily allowed them free reign to forage the yard and creek, I quickly realized that if I wanted the ducks to follow me, I had to have Duren by my side. They wouldn’t leave their enclosure if they didn’t see Duren in the yard. They wouldn’t go to the creek if they couldn’t follow Duren there. Oddly enough, they wouldn’t go into the water until they saw Duren go in first and then they would float contently right next to him knowing that Duck Daddy had them covered.

Duck Daddy taking his kids to the creek. photo by M.S. Humphreys

A month ago, as I write this, Duren started to demonstrate labored breathing and soon thereafter a distended belly from fluid buildup. This was the same thing I saw in Roland shortly before his death, but Roland was 13 years old, and Duren only five. After two trips to the vet where he went through a slew of tests and even an EKG, the doctor was unwilling to say without question that Duren was experiencing heart failure, but he had no other answers either. At the doctor’s recommendation, we put him on Lasix to reduce the fluid buildup and an ACE inhibitor for his heart hoping he would pull through.

In the epic, The Song of Roland, Charlemagne's nephew lies on the battlefield at the brink of death. Rather than surrender Durendal, his mighty sword of Christendom to his heathen enemy, he tries to break it on a rock, but it will not yield.

Yet the blade breaks not nor splinters, though it groans;

Upward to heaven it rebounds from the blow.

My wife Jessica with a 100-pound lap dog. Duren had a heart too big for this world. photo by M.S. Humphreys

With Duren’s big, powerful frame came a big heart, a heart wielded for his family many times, a heart too big for this world. At only five years old, though all his family grieved, he would not break upon this rock and Durendal rebounded to the heavens.

I came home from work on the day Duren passed to find him on the couch in his favorite sleep position; he obviously passed in his sleep, but our hearts are broken no less for the loss. Five years just isn’t enough.

Epilogue:

Roland’s Olfant was a magnificent, bejeweled horn made from an elephant tusk. Before he met his demise in battle, the hero Roland burst the veins in his head and spewed blood from his throat blowing this horn to summon back his uncle, Charlemagne, King of the Franks.

In my early 20’s, I made a decision as a young man to companion with this beautiful breed of dog, The Boxer, in my adult life. Significantly, my timely familiarity with the epic French poem, The Song of Roland, compelled a naming convention that has held for nearly 30 years in three magnificent beasts.

Roland’s Song, was in fact the desperate call to his master and liege to return for God and Country because Roland and his men were already lost. For me, the beautiful creatures that fulfilled my life for three decades were the embodiment of that tale, they were the Echoes of the Olifant.

Durendal was the last echo I heard, and his was painfully short, though I doubt his will be the final repeat of the Olifant.

God speed my Swordtail. photo by M.S. Humphreys

All excerpts are from the David Rehak translation of The Song of Roland.