R.I.P. Ramone, 2009-2024.

I'm going to miss you buddy.

On May 17, 2009, a most amazing creature entered this world. The number 17 would prove to have a special significance in his life.

This handsome creature was an American Staffordshire X, and he would eventually be awarded the name "Ramone."

Ramone was 3 years and 1 month old when he entered my life on June 17, 2012. I'd gone to the Animal Welfare League shelter at Wingfield, South Australia with my mother, the original purpose being to find a dog for my nephews. For some reason, they decided they didn't want to come, but my mother convinced me to go with her anyway.

As we walked along the aisles, looking at all the heartbroken and abandoned dogs, three in particular stood out. All were American Staffys. Two were female, one was male. There was something about the male that immediately grabbed my attention. Staffys are handsome dogs, but this fella was something else. Not only did he look like a four-legged Adonis, but he had these sad, soulful eyes - eyes that looked at me and pleaded "can you please take me home? Please?! If you look after me, I'll be the best buddy you ever had!"

Here's Ramone, circa 2018, recounting the meeting:

Hi everyone,

my name’s Ramone, also known as "Cheeky Boy," "His Royal Highness," and "No, Ramone, No!" I’m an American Staffordshire/Boxer cross, which means I’ve got plenty of energy and personality. I can be pretty rambunctious, but I’m a lovable fellow. And loyal. If you’re good to me, we’ll be friends for life. Dog’s honour!

I was born in 2009, and at first, life was good. Because I was a cute little pup, my owners seemed to like me and made a fuss of me.

But then things started to go awry. I began to grow and morph from an innocent little puppy into a playful, muscular, 30kg adolescent who didn’t know his own strength. I quickly learned to do all those things us dogs love to do. You know: Chew things, pee against stationary objects, jump up at people and sniff their butts … all the stuff any healthy, red-blooded canine does as a matter of course.

As I grew bigger and more boisterous, my owners started treating me differently. They would often lose their patience and scream at me. I didn’t know why, I loved them and just wanted them to love me back. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong, I was just being a dog. Why were they always so angry at me?

Then one day, without any warning, my owners put me in their car and drove me to this place called an “animal shelter”. When we got there, they gave me to the staff, and said:

“Can you take him? We don’t want him any more. He’s too much too handle.”

Huh? What?!?

Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, my owners left and drove off. I never saw them again.

I was only three years old and I had just been abandoned.

I was devastated.

My new home was a small 2 m x 2 m caged pen in the shelter. I was fenced in by drab brick walls and a chain link fence. It was cold, and at night you could hear the sound of the rain pounding against the tin roof. I was surrounded by other dogs who had also been abandoned. They were all sad and heartbroken too.

On the other side of the shelter, there were a bunch of lost and abandoned cats. I’m not normally a big fan of cats, but I could hear them desperately meowing at night, and I just knew they were in the same sad, sorry situation as us abandoned dogs.

Needless to say, it was a pretty depressing time.

Don’t get me wrong. The staff at the shelter were really nice and genuinely cared about us, you could see it. Some of them didn’t even get paid for working at the shelter, they volunteered their time because they loved animals so much. They fed us, patted us, and took us out of our cages each day for a little bit of exercise. They gave us all a health check, and when any of us got sick their vet would make us feel better again. But the shelter was underfunded and there was a lot of work for the staff to do, so belly rubs were a pretty rare luxury.

After a few weeks in the shelter, I let out a big sigh and resigned myself to my fate. I figured this was how life was going to be from now on – a lonely existence, stuck in a shelter, surrounded by other sad dogs and cats.

I became depressed. My energy levels started to wane and I lost my trademark cheekiness. I just lay on the floor of my cage asking the same thing over and over:

“Why did they abandon me? What did I do wrong?”

Then one day, something awesome happened. I mean, really, really awesome. I remember it well, it was a Sunday. I knew it was a Sunday because that was the day of the week the shelter had the most human visitors. These visitors would come into the shelter, walk past all our cages and look at us dogs. Every now and then, they’d get the staff to open one of the cage doors, and the visitors would pick up the dog inside and pat it. They’d then say something like, “Awww, she’s beautiful, we’ll take her!”

And then the lucky dog would go to a nice, new, warm home with its new owners.

And so, on this particular Sunday, a cold, wet, grey day in 2012, I was lying down when these two people I’d never seen before stopped in front of my cage. The guy was one of these lean, athletic male types. Kind of like me, only human. The lady was a bit older, I figured it must have been his mum. There was something about these two that grabbed my attention, but I couldn’t quite put my paw on it.

Their skin was a bit darker than most of the humans that came to the shelter, it had this olive tone to it, as if they were Mediterranean or something.

“Wait a minute … Mediterranean … let me have a closer look … holy cow … they’re Italian!”

“You know what that means?”, I rhetorically asked myself.

“ITALIAN FOOD!”

Mama mia!! I desperately wanted to scream out “PICK ME!!!”, but every time us dogs try to say something to you humans, we just end up barking.

So I had to engage another strategy, and pronto. Yep, it was time to lay on the charm offensive!

I slumped my head down, and simultaneously looked up at both of them with the saddest look I could possibly muster.

“Excuse me,” I heard the male human say to one of the shelter staff, “can I take a closer look at this dog, please?”

It was working!!!

The staff member unlocked the cage, and the man stepped inside. I had a good feeling about this guy. He had a good, healthy scent – very important to us dogs. So when he kneeled down next to me, I gave him another super-sad look and then … I rolled out the heavy artillery.

Yep, I licked him on the cheek.

Not just once, but twice.

Bullseye! It worked! I could just about see him melting. Yep, he might have fancied himself as one of these manly, rugged types, but I could see right through that hard exterior!

He then looked at the staff member, and said those three magic little words:

“I’ll take him.”

WOOHOO!

A new owner! A new home! With ITALIAN FOOD!

All my Christmasses came at once that day, let me tell you.

My new owner’s name was “Anthony”, and his mum is now my “Nonna”.

On the way home, I heard Anthony say to Nonna, “I don’t like the name they’ve given him. He needs a new name!”

As it turns out, Anthony is a massive fan of this music band called The Ramones. He has a Ramones t-shirt for every day of the week – seriously. When he does this thing called “training”, he often plays their music – it’s pretty cool. Fast, energetic and American – just like me! Okay, as a Boxer-cross I’m actually half-German – but, hey, so was Dee Dee Ramone!

Anyways, Anthony starts rattling off the Ramones’ names, “Dee Dee, Joey, Marky …”, when Nonna says to him, “Why don’t you just call him ‘Ramone’?”

“Ramone it is!”, exclaimed Anthony.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I came to be named after the greatest band in the history of you humans, and how I came to be the very well-fed, happy pooch that I am today.

It’s now six years since that lucky Sunday, and I love my new family more than ever. Anthony’s the best – he doesn’t make me sleep on the floor. Instead, he got me my very own leather couch. He rubs my belly several times a day, and feeds me like a king. We’ve been on road trips together, and he’s taken me all over Victoria and South Australia. I’ve explored some of Victoria’s most beautiful forests, I’ve run along the sandy white beaches of Kangaroo Island, and I’ve nonchalantly peed on the nature strips of Melbourne’s most exclusive suburbs.

I’ve met some pretty wonderful people, too. When you’re adopted by an Italian family, you end up with lots and lots of relatives. You know what that means?

MORE ITALIAN FOOD!

And lots of people to fuss over me and make me feel like a bit of a superstar 🙂

Anyway, the moral of my story is no matter how bad things seem, there’s a silver lining to every cloud. I was abandoned by my original owners and there was a time when I earnestly thought I’d be spending the rest of my days in an animal shelter. But then one day, out of nowhere, I was adopted by Anthony, who is a million times better than my old owners! I get more pats, more belly rubs, have more fun, get to meet more cool people, and I sleep on my very own couch!

Oh, and did I mention the ITALIAN FOOD!?!

Ramone shortly after arriving at his new home.

If you're not a "dog person," it's probably hard to understand how anyone can get so attached to a furry, four-legged creature.

Fellow dog lovers, however, know full well why dogs have been dubbed "man's best friend."

As Bondi Vet star Dr Chris Brown recently said, humans form bonds with dogs that they could never form with other humans.

In a recent survey he led, 73 per cent of the 30,000 respondents across Australia said they turn to their pets rather than their human partners for emotional support.

A caring owner's relationship with his or her dog will probably be the purest one they'll ever know. There are no hidden agendas, no financial and emotional manipulations, no sudden and puzzling switching of allegiances.

Unlike humans, a dog doesn't forget a lifetime of good deeds just because you said something he doesn't agree with.

A dog doesn't get 'bored' with the relationship and start causing drama in order to liven things up or precipitate a rift.

A dog doesn't smile to your face, then spread nasty rumors or gossip about you behind your back.

A dog doesn't constantly judge you on the way you dress, on your income, on your views, on the people you hang out with, or on the number of social media followers you have.

A dog couldn't give two shits on a sidewalk about any of that. Treat a dog well, feed it, and give it lots of belly rubs, and you'll always be its numero uno.

A dog is a rock solid friend for life.

So it was with Ramone. And then some.

It seems unthinkable now, but Ramone was actually a little timid when I first brought him home. I can't remember for sure if it was the first or second night after I brought him home, but after giving him dinner, I sat down to eat my own meal. He came and sat patiently next to me as I ate. When I finished, I pushed my chair back to get up and take my plate to the sink. I didn't move suddenly, nor did the chair make any noise (it was on carpet). Yet when I moved, Ramone jolted and seemed startled.

I crouched down, patted him and told him, "it's okay, it's okay." Something told me he hadn't been treated very well by his previous owners.

Well, he certainly took my reassurances on board. Within a couple of weeks, the cheeky sod acted like he owned the place lol.

When I picked him up from the AWL, Ramone had a skin condition, with patchy areas of thinned or missing fur. They recommended feeding a particular commercial dog food product once a day, but I soon started feeding him home-cooked meals twice a day. I started giving him fish oil and a multivitamin (later on, I reduced the fish oil frequency and added CoQ10 to the mix).

Ramone's skin condition disappeared. His already athletic frame filled out even more, giving him a chest:waist ratio that would've made Hercules jealous. When I took him for walks, people either gushed at how beautiful he was or gave him a wide berth.

He was a strong, powerful dog. A high-maintenance pooch, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. Life was never dull with Ramone around.

Lock, Stock, and Barrel Chest

I could write a book about Ramone's adventures.

For example, the time I accidentally locked him in the backyard in a rush to get to work, so using an adjacent wheelbarrow as his launching pad, he jumped the nearly 7 foot fence. Someone called the police and a dog catcher when they saw him out front, alone and unleashed. Ramone, however, was having none of it. His photographic memory led him to my mother's house a kilometre away, with the cops in pursuit. When my mother went to her front door to see what the commotion was about, there was Ramone, keeping the cops at bay. She opened the door, and Ramone rushed inside. "Nonna, can you deal with these jokers, I'm heading for the couch!"

Then there was the time I had to pull him off a kangaroo on Kangaroo Island, and the subsequent time on KI during a family holiday that I turned my back for a few seconds, only for him to vanish. A gentleman out front of the property saw him take off after a bunch of roos, so Mum and I jumped in the car and went searching for him, petrified that he might end up on the property of a sheep farmer with a "shoot first, ask questions later" policy when it came to roaming dogs.

We couldn't find him, but upon returning to the property, there was Ramone, covered in scratches and a few nasty gauges on his rib area. Judging from the pattern of damage, it seems he'd pinned down a roo while it frantically clawed away at him before escaping. I took him down the beach and bathed him in the salt water. A short while later, we were off to the vet where the diagnosis was superficial damage and a bruised ego.

A year or two later, in early 2017, I was with a friend on his family property in rural Victoria. We were cleaning up outside when I realized he'd left the gate open, giving Ramone access to his horse Willow. "They'll be alright," my friend said, "they're getting along fine."

Famous last words.

No sooner had he said that, I looked up and saw Willow running down the field, with Ramone in hot pursuit. As Willow fled, she repeatedly kicked her rear legs back in an attempt to deter Ramone. My friend and I frantically gave chase, looking on a mix of horror and amazement as the blows glanced off Ramone's iron-like skull. It wasn't until Willow caught him square in the eye that he finally backed off. The cut quickly healed, but the blow left him with minor and lasting damage to the tear duct in his right eye.

"He's a tough dog," remarked my surprised friend, after witnessing Ramone unflinchingly cop blows that would have instantly floored and quite possibly killed a human.

Another time I'll never forget is when I took my cyclocross bike for its first ride on KI. Whenever I left the KI property, Ramone came with me, either on foot or in the car. But as he watched me get kitted up and ride off without him, confusion and anxiety took over. Mum said he watched from the front window as I rode down the driveway and along the road, before disappearing from view. The look on his face read "Where's he going ... without me?"

For the next three hours or so, Ramone waited by the window. When he finally saw me in the distance, returning from my ride, he was beside himself. He raced to the back door, only to back up and bark loudly at Mum who was in the kitchen. "Oi, Nonna!! Stop that and get over here!! Anthony's back!!"

By the time I pulled up at the back door, he was beyond ecstatic and raring like a bronco.

And I'd only been away a few hours.

One moment, Ramone was a fearless warrior, a 30 kg ball of dynamite who had no qualms about chasing after a bunch of adult roos or a 450 kg horse. The next, he was curled up in my lap on the couch, like a sleeping baby.

He was intensely loyal and affectionate, to me and his Nonna - the two faces that he forever remembered as taking him home from the shelter. He quickly endeared himself to his new family and friends, his new pack returning the admiration in spades.

No matter his antics, one thing remained constant: Every day for twelve years, bar three overseas holidays and a few interstate trips, I'd get up and there was Ramone.

Ramone during one of our numerous road trips.

You Can’t Stop Father Time, But You Can Slow Him Down

Over the last three years, Ramone started to noticeably slow down. He still looked healthy and young for his age, but now he rarely ran - unless food was involved.

In early 2023, he suffered his first seizure. Testing revealed no obvious issues, and after a week or so of sometimes wobbly legs, he recovered fine.

Earlier this year, I took off overseas for a much-needed detox from Australia. I spent some time in Thailand, before heading to my favorite destination: Spain. Ramone was in seemingly good health when I left, and he stayed with Mum while I was away. During the latter part of the Thailand leg, Mum was reporting that Ramone was sometimes relieving himself inside her house, which was unusual. I initially put it down to him getting old, but when she told me that he was panting and looked lethargic, alarm bells started going off.

A quick Internet search confirmed these were symptoms of heart failure, so I messaged Mum back and asked her to get him to the vet ASAP.

This was late on a Thursday evening, Australian Central Standard Time. The next morning, Mum rang the vet. She was told the only available appointment time that day was 5.50 pm. By this stage, Ramone wasn't looking good, and Mum told them so. They rang back a little while later saying they could see him at 10.50 am.

When Mum got him there, the news wasn't good. Ramone's heart was failing, and he had to be treated immediately. Ultrasound showed fluid build-up in the pericardial sac, which needed to be drained by syringe.

To make matters worse, Ramone also had an aortic tumor. Due to its location, it was inoperable.

The vet pierced Ramone's pericardium and drained the excess fluid out through the needle. As soon as this was done and the anesthetic wore off, Ramone’s condition dramatically improved.

The vet told Mum that Ramone wouldn't have made it to 5.50 pm. He'd literally been at death's door, and escaped by the narrowest of margins.

We weren't out of the woods yet, warned the vet. Mum had to take him back on Monday, so the vet could check if the fluid was building up again.

Mum, of course, was relaying all this to me in Spain. I was in Grenada at the time, interspersing grueling bike rides with taking in the historic sights. I was scheduled to head to Valencia at the end of May, to check out both the city and to catch one of my favorite bands, The Interrupters.

Whether that actually happened all hinged upon Monday morning's visit to the vet. If no further fluid had accumulated in Ramone's heart, I'd be moshing with hundreds of Spaniards while chanting "Take back the power!", before heading on to Barcelona.

If the ultrasound showed further fluid build-up, the entire trip would come to a screeching halt and I'd need to rush back to Australia pronto.

On the Sunday, I got kitted up, rolled out my bike, and finally rode to the top of the Sierra Nevada - the highest point in mainland Spain, at over 2,600 m above sea level. It was an epic ride, and for a few hours I was able to take my mind off the situation with Ramone.

As I went to bed that night, the elation at having just ticked off a major item on my bucket list was tempered by what the following day might bring.

When I spoke with Mum the next day, the news wasn't good. Fluid had accumulated in Ramone's heart again. The vet told Mum that if I wanted to see Ramone alive again, I needed to get back to Australia immediately.

And so began the scramble to get back to Australia. The following afternoon, I caught an overnight bus from Grenada to Barcelona Airport. I got less than 2 hours sleep during the 13 hour trip, but when the bus pulled up at BCN International around 5.30 am, I was too amped to be tired.

Several hours later, I was on a flight to Doha. After four hours at Hamad International Airport, I was on the flight to Adelaide.

I left Grenada on the Tuesday afternoon, arrived in Adelaide on Thursday afternoon, May 29.

After a lengthy delay and an extortion attempt by the criminals at Border Control (if you've never been to Australia, be smart and keep it that way), I finally loaded my gear into a friend's car and we headed home.

Ramone couldn't believe it. I'd been away 5-and-a-half-months by this point, and he was ecstatic. So was I. During the trip back, it crossed my mind more than once that I might not make it back in time.

Ramone needed his pericardial sac drained two more times after I returned. The vet prescribed meds to thicken Ramone’s blood, and a diuretic to help shed the excess fluid accumulating in his belly.

The strategy worked. On the fifth visit, ultrasound revealed next-to-no fluid build-up in the heart.

What followed was around three months in which Ramone amazed everyone - not least the vet. I had to avoid getting him overly excited and had to discourage him from running or jumping. Otherwise, you never would have known he had a serious heart condition.

Walks around the local park were fine, until around six weeks ago when, shortly before returning to the house, he slowly ground to a halt. I picked him up and carried him the rest of the way home, then took him to the vet later that night.

Unfortunately, the fluid had begun accumulating in his heart again. This required another sequence of visits for drainage, with Ramone again coming good.

He was the miracle dog that kept on keeping on.

Ramone had become so used to the procedure that only local anesthetic was now required - he sat patiently while the fluid was drained.

Sadly, the final curtain started to draw last Monday night. Ramone had started to slow again, and sure enough, his pericardium needed to be drained again.

The good news was that there wasn’t that much fluid that needed to be extracted. The bad news was that the tumor had grown considerably, now over 6 cm in length.

This was an ominous turn of events. The vet asked if he wanted me to drain Ramone, or whether I wanted to call time. I asked him to go ahead and drain the fluid.

Sure enough, Ramone looked and felt better as soon as the procedure was over.

This time, however, there would be no period of respite. Ramone deteriorated over the following two days. His appetite was diminishing, and he just wanted to lay about. His athletic gait had disappeared; when he did get up to move around, it was slow and plodding.

Throughout Wednesday, a sinking feeling started to build inside.

Around 2.30 am Thursday morning, Ramone began panting heavily. I got up, carried him from the couch to the bed, and did my best to comfort him, but the panting continued. I crushed a diuretic tablet into some water, and got him to drink it. A little while later, he went outside to relieve himself, and a little while after that we both fell asleep.

When I woke a couple of hours later, Ramone was no longer panting but his breathing was labored. His belly was bloated, and he seemed exhausted.

I called the vet, and was told to bring him in at 11.30 am.

As I walked Ramone from the car to the vet centre entrance, I fought to hold back tears.

At several key junctures, over the last four and a half months, the vet had presented me with the option of putting Ramone to sleep. I wouldn't hear of it and, each and every time, Ramone had validated my faith in him by bouncing back.

But on Monday night, it seems my fearless warrior had finally used up the last of his nine lives.

The vet agreed it was time.

He retrieved another nurse, while I said my last words to Ramone.

Within seconds of emptying the syringe, Ramone's body relaxed as I held it. Fifteen-and-a-half years of unbridled awesomeness had finally taken its last breath.

The Energizer Doggy

Ramone blew away everyone's expectations. The vet told me he hadn't expected Ramone to last until the end of June, let alone soldier on for almost five months.

At 15 years and 5 months, Ramone enjoyed an above-average lifespan for a dog of his size and breed. From the moment we picked him up from the AWL, he was showered with love, warmth and good food. We treated him like the superstar he was, and in return we got a never-ending stream of joy, laughter and tail-wagging affection.

Dogs are a gift. So are all of our animal friends. You can tell a lot about people by their attitude towards our furry friends. It says a lot to me about Australia when the word "dog" is considered by many to be a grievous insult, when a malevolent deed is referred to as a "dog act." While Americans use terms like "rat," our criminal numbnuts use the word "dog" to describe snitches and informants. Think about that for a moment: In Australia, the name of the most loyal and devoted animal humans will ever know is used to describe a traitorous informant.

What a joke.

If the average Australian was half the dog Ramone was, Australia would be the greatest country in the world, instead of one of the most drug-addled, drunken, depressed, anxious and debt-ridden.

Ramone Colpo, born 17 May 2009, adopted 17 June 2012, passed away in my arms 17 October 2024.

Rest in peace, buddy, I already miss you like crazy.

PS. A big thank you to Dr Chris Lee, for his expert knowledge and pulling out all stops to help Ramone, and to everyone at Pet Universe Northgate and Broadview for making a fuss of my boy.

PSS. The Animal Welfare League of South Australia relies on volunteers and donations, as it gets no government support (that’s largely reserved for corrupt entities that grease politicians’ palms). Donations can be made to the AWL here. If you live in Adelaide, you can also donate unwanted items to their thrift shops, check here for locations.