When I was six or seven, my dad went to the pound and brought home my first dog. I was over the moon. I remember taking her out to the yard (on her leash) early one morning to do her business, and the absolute horror as she slipped her collar and dashed across the grass. I bolted after her, leaping upon her as she stopped to sniff something on a whim. I remember thinking, just before I caught her, how no matter how loud I yelled nobody in the house would hear me in time to help me catch her before she ran off. I carried her back inside, with about as much difficultly as you'd expect a pip squeak carrying a squirming mutt of a dog to have. I don't remember feeding her, but I assure you she was fed. I don't remember what she looked like, except that she was black with little white paws. I remember that my brother tripped over her on or around Christmas, because she came racing up to me and I scooped her up amid the chaos that ensued. I remember that she used to chew on power cords, would eat her own poop if given the chance and bit me hard enough to draw blood at least twice. I can't recall how long we had her, but it couldn't have been more than a few months at the most, maybe less. Because between the last three things I mentioned, my dad declared that she had to to back. Specifically after the biting me thing. I didn't have another dog until after I got married.
Before moving forward, a quick word about my dad's decision. It wasn't an easy one for him, and as an adult now I understand why he made the decision at the time just as well as I cringe at the reality that the dog lacked training and God knows what her life before us had been like. I've also learned as an adult, just how seriously my dad takes owning a dog and how hard losing one is for him, which is how I can speak to how difficult it was for him to take the dog back. In the end, he did what he thought was best for the safety of his children and there's no way to argue about that.
Moving on...
I was skittish with dogs after the experience. My best friend at the time had dogs and going over to her house I tried not to let on how uncomfortable I was. They never did a thing to me, but I just knew that dogs bit and it hurt and I wanted no part of it. It probably didn't help at the time that at any given moment there'd be a news story about a vicious dog attack or how dangerous some breeds could be. The media baiting sensational stories for ratings is not new, and if you grew up at the same time, you're probably still waiting for the killer bees, acid rain and wondering if we finally hair sprayed away the last of our ozone layer.
So when I married a dyed in the wool dog person, I knew eventually I'd have to come to terms with my little issue. My plan was to put this off as long as I could. My husband's plan was to drag me to every pet store and adoption event he could to tempt me with the appeal of soft, fuzzy baby dogs. (As technology and 'adopt don't shop' have evolved, his plan now involves showing me pictures of rescue dogs. He's evil.) I stood by my reasonable arguments. We lived in an apartment, we should wait until we're in a house with a yard. (It's a pet friendly apartment, my husband countered, with plenty of green space around.) There is upkeep involved. (A bag of dog food isn't a huge addition to our grocery bill. We can go to the vet his dad uses, as he's very reasonably priced and knows the family.)
I switched tactics. Having been raised with dogs his whole life and being exposed to a variety of breeds (and mutts) by extended family and friends, there wasn't really a dog he couldn't get along with, but he had his heart set on one of a few breeds he'd always liked but hadn't owned yet. I had recently been to a friend's house and been exposed to a delightful little beagle. Mild mannered, lots of personality, sweet-natured. Absolutely freaking adorable. I did a little research. I shot down a few of his breeds out of protection for my heart: short life span, known to have lots of health problems, basically anything that I knew would make my heart be ripped out of my chest in the blink of an eye. In the end, beagles, I suggested, were known to live up to 15 or more years (in some cases 18) and had very few major health issues that could be life threatening. My husband, not one to be deterred, happily told me that his uncle had had beagles for years and they're great dogs. It wasn't his dream dog, but if that's what I wanted (and it got him a little four legged furry creature) then that's what we'd look for (aka start with).
I wasn't so much worried about being bitten at this point. As an adult with a job and in a committed relationship trying very hard to figure out this whole grown-up thing, I was much more concerned with the realization A. I would be completely responsible for the health and safety of this little animal and more problematic B. that dogs die. There would come a day when that sweet little face would fade away. And it would be gut wrenching. That was my ultimate fear, but peppered in were fears about not being a good enough pet parent, would I do right by a dog, would I be able to give him or her everything he or she needed. Preventing injury and illness and coping with the unavoidable. What would happen to the dog if something happened to me? All the fears I considered when thinking about becoming a human parent, with the added knowledge that (most likely) I would outlive this furbaby. Again, that whole gut wrenching thing I mentioned earlier.
So my husband did the only reasonable thing he could think to do. After dragging me to another pet store while we were out running errands (and me refusing to get out of the car when we first arrived) he told me (in front of an employee) that I should just hold one of the beagle puppies. I did everything short of wish him dead as the employee hopped on board the Emotional Blackmail Express and asked which one I'd like to hold as she'd be more than happy to help. After several minutes of not taking no for an answer, I finally pointed out the little girl pup who had caught my eye. I sat in the little 'getting to know you' area and waited for several minutes, my husband carefully out of arm's reach lest I beat the living hell out of him. Finally, the girl returned and plunked down a very sleepy beagle puppy in my arms. As I held the not so squirmy bundle to my chest, she told me the one I picked out had just fallen asleep, but this little boy was in need of attention. He was soft and warm and terribly small. And then he sealed my fate forever. That little beagle puppy, of his own volition, rested his head on my shoulder and sighed contentedly in my ear. To make matters worse, a name popped into my mind at the very moment. A name that for some reason had been on my mind off and on lately. I held this little beagle boy and knew his name instantly.
We couldn't afford him, I knew. It hurt to give him back and leave the store, but I knew what our bank account had in it. Hurt and pissed off I returned home and checked the mail, finding an unexpected check from our car insurance company. Hand to God, there was a check that would cover the little dog who I spent the whole car ride home worrying about. The pet store closed in less than 30 minutes and was a town away. I called the pet store and somehow convinced them that if they would keep the doors open for me and get him ready, I would be there by the time they closed. Somehow, we deposited the check in the ATM of our bank, got on the expressway and made it to the store before they closed. I've still got the little Easter egg bandana they had tied around his neck after they gave him a bath, impossible to think he was ever that small. The employee told us that he was actually discounted because he had been there so long, so in the end we were able to pick up a puppy starter kit with a crate, bed and all the bits and bobs we (probably didn't) might need as well. The manager stepped out and was upset that the employee had discounted him and started to make a fuss. I looked at her and said, I've already paid, if you want him back you'll have to take him from my cold, dead fingers. My husband laughed as the manager didn't know quite what to make of me. She carefully stepped away and disappeared. After getting all the paperwork taken care of (all his shot records, microchip info, etc) we loaded him up almost an hour later and headed for home.
It's been more than twelve and a half years since that night. We added a little girl beagle, this time a rescue in poor shape, when the little guy was about 3. We lost her four years later to complications following surgery due to cancer. It was not a loss we were prepared for. I'll be forever grateful for our vet at the time, my husband's family's vet, for his care of our little wild one and his care of us in the aftermath. Slowly I started thinking about opening our hearts to another dog, and our bouncy little miss sassy pants (some kind of hound mix) came by way of another rescue. Beagles are very popular dogs, but their stubborn noses and endless tummies don't make them ideal pets for everyone. And that nose of theirs tend to make them wander. I can't count the number of times the little girl dogs got out. I can tell you that when the little boy dog got out the first time with our first girl dog, he came right to our front door and scratched because he wanted back in. Thank God he's pretty spoiled and he knows it. The girl dogs have never been able to think past their nose, but he's never strayed far.
Yesterday at the dogs' annual check up, I noticed the vet's (We've moved away from our original vet, but seem to have found another good one. Knock on wood.) expression become intent. While listening to the boy dog's heart and lungs, the expression became concerned. He suggested a few tests and said he may need heart medicine. The tests confirmed a heart issue, but more alarmingly, accidentally revealed a huge tumor.
So, I've finally hit that dreaded time I worried about so long ago. The vet said he's got weeks. He probably wouldn't survive any measures of attacking the tumor, which is most definitely malignant. If he did survive, it would only buy him a few months at most. Somehow, I managed to not fall on the floor sobbing, and with only sporadic pauses to keep my composure and biting the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at a wipeable minimum, talk about the best approach. I explained that while I wanted to do whatever I could for him, I didn't want to lose him to a heart attack after the operation while he was surrounded by strangers, like our last loss. The vet completely understood, telling me he just gone through this exact scenario with his own senior dog, and chose to let the dog live the time he had left at home until it was time to put him to sleep when the discomfort became too much for the dog. He apologized for having to give me bad news. I dismissed his apology right away. I told him it's better to know this is coming, so that we aren't blindsided by a horrific series of events. I want so much better than that for him. I want him to die in his sleep, a ripe 19 years old, as comfortable on a memory foam mattress as his joints will allow, his age whitened face the picture of ease while my hand rests gently on his back. Since that's no longer in the cards, I want the best we can manage with this draw.
Explaining that to each household member, I broke down at different points along the story. But by the time I told my husband later that day, I made it through the whole thing before I broke down again. My husband told me, holding back his own tears, that it's going to be okay. Bitterly (towards the situation and not at directed at him) I told him, it's not okay, but it is what it is. Almost thirteen years is a pretty long life for a dog, but in this moment it's not enough. That idealized age I tried to picture wouldn't have been enough. This little dog who couldn't ride in the car more than a mile before he'd puke everywhere the first half of his life, who bounded into my lap and kept my husband away from me when my nose caught the remote control he tossed to me that my fingers missed, couldn't have a long enough life as far as I'm concerned.
After I got home & gave him an iron supplement prescribed by the vet, I went out and picked up canned food. If he's got weeks left to live, I want his tail wagging at every meal while he still wants to eat. I tried not to relive every moment I didn't do 'enough' (in my mind) for him or wasn't the perfect pet parent as I went to sleep last night. I tried not to think about what it's going to be like when the time comes. I tried very hard to force myself to take this one day at a time, living in each moment I have with him. I'm also trying very hard remember that our girl dog will still be here after he's gone (at least as long as the fence gate stays shut and she doesn't dart for the front door). I don't want her to feel any less loved because we're going through this process.
Tonight I'll carefully guide him outside to take care of business before bed, as age has already dimmed his vision. I'll make embarrassingly sweet small talk with him as I give him his treat and ask him where he wants to sleep. (Some nights he bunks with my parents, some nights he bunks with us and some nights he starts off with one of us and comes to the other in the middle of the night.) I'll love on him just before the point he gets fussy so he won't strut off in a huff.
I don't know how I'm going to handle what's coming. I told my father last night, this is where I have to learn to let go. There's no amount of information or research that's going to change the outcome. There's no amount of examination of the whys and hows that will change that this has happened. And there's no amount of preparation that will make what's coming any easier. I have no control over this situation and I have to let go. I will break. We will grieve. We will, all of us, put ourselves together again with a definable piece missing. I'll put his collar in a keepsake box, like his 'sister's' before him, and wonder at how lucky I was to have him teach me what it is to love and be loved in the most unconditional way.
I will always be the better for having him in my life. And I will always remember and be grateful for how that first snuggly sigh changed my life.
