A Dog's Life

The day before Thanksgiving, my 12 year old dog - the love of my life, the scruffiest and kindest little mutt ever spat from what was likely a schnauzer mix getting it on with a terrier mix - suddenly became ill and died. It seemed impossible. He had a sore back. That was all that was wrong with him. The vet said it was a sore back and he needed some doggie aspirin but he was in fine shape. He did seem that way. Even on the day he died, he took a vigorous walk, ate a hearty breakfast, climbed up to his place on the couch, stretched out his skinny legs, and looked at me with his big, brown intelligent eyes, as if to say, what are you worried about? He slept for a few hours, the informal nap he liked to get in before his more important afternoon nap.

Then he woke up, and he was sick. He was very sick, very quickly. He jumped on and off the couch and walked into the walls. He tried to scootch himself behind the sink, into the corners, and around the backyard fencing. And then he howled and panted and no amount of petting his sweet little nose or fluffing his gray head would comfort him. I admit it, I snapped at him to calm down. I was scared. I begged him to sleep. Instead, he paced the house as though he'd never been there. He looked lost. And so I knew. I knew in that cold dark place that is never wrong. H. drove through the icy streets to the Emergency Vet, who had the quiet strength of a man used to giving bad news. He told us quietly that my sweet little dog, a dog so robust that his only previous illness concerned soft poo, that most likely he had a brain tumor. There was every sign of a brain tumor, but if I wanted he could put my poor guy [who could be heard whimpering from the exam room] through a number of unpleasant tests, but that the end result would surely be the same.

I had promised myself that I was not going to let him suffer for me just because I couldn't bear to lose him. I would never be ready to lose him. What about his sweet black nose, and the way his hair stood up in a mohawk, and his double dew claws and his arrooooo when he was happy? What about the way he ate the air if I blew in his face? It was too soon. I wanted more time. I wanted to curl up with him in his favorite blanket and tell him again the story of the day we met when he sat at the back of his cage and looked at me as if all hope was gone. I wanted to kiss his little face a thousand times. I wanted him with me forever, and that was not possible.

H. talked to me, but I'm not sure I heard a word he said. I knew what had to be done. Such a hard, hard thing to do. They brought my sweet, hurting little boy into the too bright room, and he whined softly because he was scared. All the sedative they had given him had not calmed him at all. We told each other in our own way - me with words, he with his eyes - how much we loved each other. No one had ever loved a dog quite as much, I told him. Then the vet inserted the needle, and we held him and while we told him what a very good boy he was [and he was], quicker than I ever imagined, he was gone.

Gone. The scruffy little mutt that I adopted from a shelter in Santa Fe, New Mexico. When I took him home we both looked at each other and thought, "What do we do now?" He had never been owned, I had never owned a dog. I fed him, tentatively. I walked him, tentatively. We learned together. I discovered that he had a sensitive stomach and that he thought if I let him he could catch a squirrel [he never did]. He learned that I was a soft touch, and in a week, he was not only sleeping on the bed but under the covers. In the morning I would sometimes find him, head on the pillow, paw on the blanket - snoring. He had many fine qualities that were not instilled by me but were simply his nature. He loved children. He loved people. He slept late in the mornings, in fact, I had to wake him for breakfast. He arroooooed with joy. He was funny. He was independent. He knew when to curl up alone, and when to lick my face when I was sad.

In our years together, I had three long term boyfriends, and each loved him passionately. S. taught him a complicated game with tennis balls that they played intently every night [S. a bit peeved when the dog beat him]. R. looked for a brindle dog to adopt just like him when we broke up. H. wept with me when he died. He was the kind of dog who grew on you like that. He was homely. He wasn't flashy. He wore a little blue raincoat when it rained, but I could tell he would have preferred a gray one.

I think because loving a dog is so primal and so passionate, the loss feels unbearable. It's a love without any hurtful memories to soil the absolute joy of connection. I mourned my mother terribly, but I also remembered our failings with each other. There are no failings with a dog. There is simply - and eternally - love. I will always remember the little boy separated from his dog, Snowball, during Hurricane Katrina. The little boy boards the bus, but he howls and howls for Snowball. I knew instinctively that no matter what that little boy went through after that - homelessness or hunger or desperation - the very worst thing that happened was the loss of Snowball. For a long time, I followed the news in hopes that they were reunited. I don't think they ever were.

When the winter is over, I will take my little dog's ashes and scatter them at Green Lake, a place he loved best. Now I don't know that all dogs go to heaven [for one thing, I don't believe in heaven, and for another -what about the dogs that say, bite children? Is there a tribunal on them?] but if there is a place where old dogs go to be happy, then my dog is definitely there. He had no other job in his life than to be a wonderful companion, a trusted friend, the one being that I could always count on to cheer me up and make me smile. Who among us succeeds in their life's work so brilliantly?

Goodbye, my sweet friend. I'll never forget you. As it turns out, I didn't own you after all. You owned me, and in passing, you took my heart.