The “What’s up” look, as Zuni chills in the Berkshires.

The unfortunate reality of any love story involving a pet is that it inevitably leads to a certain amount of sadness. I’ll be up front about that aspect of this tale. If you really want to avoid the sorrow, skip the last chapter, although I think it includes some of Zuni’s most shining moments.

Zuni had congenital heart failure, and it wasn’t long after getting her that we began doing yearly to bi-annual echocardiograms, followed by a host of medicines, homeopathic remedies, special diets, and more. As a small dog, we hoped we’d have ten years with her, at least. In the end, we were blessed with just over four and a half.

That said, the fortunate reality of any love story involving a pet is that it always includes a great amount of joy. And Zuni was always a joy. Amusing, stubborn, silly, surprising, loving, amazingly empathetic, I know it’s anthropomorphizing to assign any of these emotions to a dog, but, wow, anyone who knew Zuni knew these things to be true.

Zuni was our first fur kid, the center of our universe. She taught me to care more for others than I did for myself. It all began in that first week.

Zuni’s documentation from the ARL called her a Dachshund-Chihuahua mix. We hadn’t set out to get a designer dog and can’t really tell you if we did. Knowing nothing about dog breeds, I assumed any dog from a “pound” was a mutt and, to me, her genetics was never really a concern. (After she passed away, Nick lamented that we’d never done a DNA test on her, just for curiosity’s sake.)

What we did know was that she was twelve pounds of short brownish-black fur, with eyes the size of globes and ears that expressed a gamut of emotions. Over time, we assigned names to the different positions she could work her ears into, each giving us a clue as to what she was about to do or wanted.

For example, when she spotted a squirrel, or was otherwise inclined to explore or investigate, she’d toss back her “business ears”. In business mode, her floppy ears slicked so far back that they appeared almost to be attached to the back of her head.

Often, when the ears snapped into “business” mode, her typically curled tail shot straight up into the air and she strutted off with a purpose. You didn’t try to divert Zuni’s attention from whatever was causing the business ears. She wouldn’t listen to you, if you tried.

“Triangle head” was a more quizzical expression. Her ears perked straight up, but their shear length caused the tips to fold back down, leveling the top of her head and shaping her face like a triangle. (If she was looking up at you, or was seriously intrigued by what you were doing, she could actually force her ears straight up, into what we affectionately called bat-ears.)

Zuni often paired triangle head with a head tilt, that amazingly human-like behavior all dogs have mastered, which indicates that they haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about, but are curious to find out.

We could trick Zuni into triangle head with one simple word, “time”. There was “breakfast time”, “dinner time”, “couch time”, “outside time” (not necessarily a favorite if the weather was anything but perfect), “treat time”, and more. Most “times” were some of Zuni’s favorite things, and her head tilt expressed her excitement, while imploring us to explain which time we meant.

“Is it ‘time’?”

Tilt to the right.

“What ‘time’ is it?”

Switch to the left.

Nick got a particular kick out of this trick.

Then, there were her concerned ears, which slid down the sides of her head and hung limply around her face. Zuni applied the concerned ears when when she had that gut feeling that something was amiss, either to you or to her. Zuni, like many dogs, was incredibly in tune with our moods and needs. She didn’t always deign to take them into account, but if you were really hurting, she would come to your aid.

The most outstanding show of empathy was after my rainy marathon in Delaware. I’ll spare you the pictures, but by the end of the race I had two large blister, each covering about a third of each foot. (No joke!) At work the next day, I hobbled around on the tips of my toes, preferably without shoes.

Zuni was her usual bouncy self when I returned home from work, ready to go on a nice long walk. We walked out the door and she zipped to the end of her leash, heading out on one of her favorite paths. I staggered behind.

We made it only to the end of our block when she looked back at me, tippy-toeing my way down the street with a grimace on my face. Her ears instantly slid down the side of her head to their concerned position; her tail sank.

Zuni slunk over to the edge of the sidewalk, did all of her business, and then slowly turned back towards home. Bless her soul, she knew I wasn’t going to make it and we returned home for some good couch time, instead.

Lastly were Zuni’s pathetic ears, which she invoked for those moments she really hoped to avoid, whether that was a bath or going for a walk in the rain. Pathetic ears drooped so low it was like they were attached to her cheeks.

Zuni increased the “I’m so pathetic” factor by bugging out her already bulging eyes to the point that you almost saw the white around the big brown orbs. If she was going for maximum pathetic-ness, she would hop up onto the couch, sit up on her hind legs in the crook of the arm, and pull one paw up to her chest while leaning slightly to the side. It was classic.

If every indicator wasn’t that Zuni had always lived a privileged life (absent those two months in puppy-jail) you would wonder if she was bracing for a blow. Instead, we giggled at her efforts and said in little voices, “Oh, I’m sooooo pathetic. I can’t possibly walk outside in the rain!” as we scooped her up and dragged her outside anyway.

Classic “I’m so pathetic” pose. This time, she was feeling put upon because we had to bandage up a hot spot on her leg.

Concerned that we might try to take her treat-filled ball away!