Dogs

Snapshots are intended to be about family history, family stories. Most often this means people. This Snapshot is a little different as it is a reflection on a couple dogs and one dog in particular.

It is game that repeats itself on most summer walks or runs along the trails near our house. On a path we frequent Mobey runs ahead a few yards and then ducks through an opening in the brush to the pond just off the trail. As I pass I hear him swimming and lapping the water. When I am a few tens of yards down the path he rushes out of the pond and without shaking himself dry races to catch up. I hear the tinkle of his collar and the brushing of branches that reach into the wooded path. Water from his coat wets my leg as he passes. Once past he slows and stops, shakes, and turns to me. I acknowledge him as the fastest dog I know and we continue.

Dogs have always been a part of my life and, but for a few years during and after college when keeping a dog was not practical, I have always come home to a faithful wagging companion. Sometimes it was more of a family dog but most of the time I could say that the dog was mine – as if we ever really possess a dog.

When I was born my parents had Gus, a Norwegian Elkhound who was either given away or put down when I was young. After Gus came Mike, and then Capp, both English Pointers who hunted grouse and quail with my parents. Neither dog saw old age. Mike was shot by a hunter who mistook him for a deer and Capp ate poisonous soap between epileptic seizures. When I was in 8th grade we adopted Betsy, a mix between a Golden Retriever and King of the Road. She and I took our little Boston Whaler and explored the islands near our house. Though she spent a year of college with me, as she got older she was happier with my mother who took Betsy on long walks and with whom she could sit and simply take in the sights. Mom says Betsy was one of the few dogs who would was still in a canoe, patiently watching ducks feeding at the marsh’s edge.

After graduation and before we had kids Karen and I bought Fisk, a Boykin Spaniel also known as Mr. Fathead for his outsized skull. Fisk was exceedingly stubborn. One day on the beach, having determined that he had walked far enough, he sat down and made it clear that he would go no further. I walked ten yards without him and turned. I called him but he would not move. He simply sat looking at me. I walked another twenty yards and repeated my call. He remained seated, looking at me. We repeated this walk, turn, call, walk, turn, call charade until I was at least one hundred yards down the beach. I watched as other beachgoers, some with their dogs, approached him. He would turn to acknowledge their presence but would then turn back to look at me. The walker would turn to me, then to Fisk, and back to me. Then they would walk away no doubt confused as to why anyone would leave his dog sitting alone on the beach. Eventually I admitted defeat, returned to him, and together we walked back to the car.

We adopted Sidney from a friend who mistakenly thought a college dog would be a good thing. Sidney was the perfect Golden Retriever for raising our kids. Where other dogs might have growled or nipped the hand to remind a child of the need for personal space she simply rolled over or walked away. Mobey came after Sidney.

Dogs go through stages. First they tug at the leash. Take them for a run and they want to run faster. One’s arm tires from throwing the ball before they tire from chasing it. Then, for a few years they are perfectly paced running partners. Trotting comfortably at just a perfect speed, the leash is slack. Sydney preferred to run just ahead of me. Mobey preferred to run a stride behind me and to my left. Regardless, they were right there. But eventually dogs get older. With every aging dog there comes a point where you realize that you are dragging them along and neither of you is having much fun. Whether it is you or the dog, one of you decides that you are going to run alone - they will wait for your return. Eventually even walks are too much.

A friend of mine just lost his dog, his companion for over a decade. I reminded him, as I have had to remind myself many times, that dogs do not live as long as people. That ten, or twelve or fifteen years is a good life for a dog. I tell my friend that that when he is ready there will be another dog out there that wants to give him the same love his last dog did.

With my increasing age and decreasing mobility I suppose there will come a time when having a young dog is simply too much. Maybe at that point I will have to adopt dogs whose life expectancy does not exceed my own. I can adopt arthritic twelve-year-old dogs and we can shuffle around the house together, taking long naps and short walks. I suppose that would not be such a bad thing.

End.

Dear Mobey

The Vet’s text had clinical clarity even if it was two days late.

Sorry. Just seeing this now. I think loss of appetite is a big indicator of progression. We could try adding on gabopentin, an additional chronic pain medication, to see if that makes him more comfortable. But that can be difficult if he is not eating. Realistically, it sounds like the mass continues to grow, making it difficult for him to urinate and defecate. So if he is not eating, is restless/uncomfortable/painful and only urinating and defecating small amounts, you may want to let him go sooner than later. Let me know your thoughts.

Only a week ago we found out that the UTI infection we thought you had was, in fact, a large and fast-growing mass near your pancreas. It was inoperable and the vet said you might have another month. That was tough to hear.

On Friday you, Birdy and I took a long walk on the beach. It was probably six miles. We left before dawn and saw a beautiful sunrise, we saw lots of owls and ducks, and Joe Grady stopped to say hello as he drove out to take some measurements and check on the beach after the last storm. It was a good walk and you took in all the smells. It was too cold for a swim, even for you, but we all enjoyed ourselves. Later in the day we walked at the farm and while I installed some birdhouses you and Birdy checked the field for different treats – cow manure and deer poop.

The next morning you turned down breakfast even though I added more canned food than I normally do. You asked to go out but once outside you just wandered around. I knew something was not right. I built a fire and we decided to lay low for the day. It was cold out, about ten degrees, with a breeze, and Karen had to go to Amherst, so maybe reading by the fire was not such a bad plan. I brought your pillow and put it in front of the fire next to my chair. You sat on it but never relaxed.

You followed me around all day. You were restless and would not sleep though I knew you were tired because as we sat together your head would bob. If I got up you followed me. For a quick trip to the kitchen I could get you to stay put but for anything longer, a trip to the bathroom, getting the mail, you’d follow me. I asked how you were doing and you look at me with your brown eyes.

Once in a while you’d ask to go outside. You’d wander a little, as if looking for a place to pee, but then you’d go off into the bushes and just lie down. Several times I had to crawl under a rhododendron to drag you inside. Did the cold earth feel good on your belly? Did it relieve pain?

About 6:00PM you stood up, panting and then collapsed to the ground and had what I can only call a mild seizure. I put your head on my leg and we sat on the floor. Birdy was worried. We talked for a while but after a few minutes I picked up the phone to tell Karen what was going on. We cried.

I warmed up the car, put a pillow in the back and carried you out. Together you, Birdy and I went to the animal hospital in Weymouth. You did not make a sound. Were you sleeping finally? Birdy sat with you. Only once did you try to get up but you collapsed awkwardly and fell back to sleep, or so I hoped.

The vet and I put you on a comfortable blanket and I scratched your cheek and looked into your eyes. You were unusually calm for being at the vet’s. It was like when we were at home and we’d talk as you lay on your pillow. You actually looked relaxed. Through tears I told you I loved you. I thanked you for being such a good boy and such a great friend, such a big part of our lives. The vet pushed the plunger on a syringe and we said goodbye. It was fast and, I hope, painless. You looked at peace for the first time that day. When they wheeled you into another room Birdy tried to follow but he and I had to leave out another door. Only when I was in the parking lot did I realize I’d forgotten your collar. I ran back in to retrieve it and it now sits on the bureau in our bedroom.

The next day, Sunday, before dawn, Birdy and I took another long walk on the beach. It was still very cold but we had to process things. We saw owls and Birdy took in the smells. We even saw Joe Grady again but this time I kept walking as he drove past.

These first few days without you have been tough. Birdy misses you and has been in a funk. Karen called for you out of habit and Birdy looked around to find you. All of us are trying to adjust to life without you. Only one bowl of dog food. Only one leash for walks. Birdy’s chases around the yard looking for deer seem less energetic, less fun, without you.

I miss how you recognized the sound of my car and ran across the yard to greet me before I even pulled in the driveway. I miss how you kept track of everyone on our walks, hanging back for people who were slower and making sure we all kept together. I miss your wakeup call, a warm nose at the edge of the bed and whispered “woof”. But most of all I miss how you reminded us that though we all come with baggage we can work everyday to become better dogs, or better people. You showed us that every day.

You were a special dog. You were a big part of our family. I hope you are in a good place, maybe running with Sydney and Marco.

With more love than you know.

Sam

P.S. Today Birdy asked to join me on my morning run. He has never done that. Did you tell him it might be fun?