A Boy And His Dog.

I’m gonna tell you a few things right up front…

A.)This one is gonna be wordy and I make no apologies about it.

B.)If you don’t care about pets, particularly dogs, don’t waste your time going any further.

C.)If you do care about pets, grab some kleenex cause Imma rip your heart out.  After all, why should I be the only one to cry while I read this?

I took a journalism class a million years ago in high school.  And one of the things I learned (and if you read this at all you’ll recognize it’s probably the only thing I learned in that class) is that obituaries of famous people are written in advance.  That boggled my 17 year old mind, but it makes perfect sense really.  When famous people die, it’s news.  And, to get that news out for public consumption, the head start of a pre-written obit, sans last minute details, of course, really speeds up the delivery.

To that end, I started working on this post in 2013.  I’ve added to it here or there over the years, as things would come to my mind.  Even deleted a thing or two as situations changed over the years.  I did this all for a very specific reason.  To celebrate the life and to mark the passing of the best dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of spending time with.

“Spending time with” is, btw, a terrible way to describe our lives together.  Since she came into my life in 2005, Sophie and I have been through a lot together.  Diane’s death, Mom’s death, a divorce.  That’s just off the top of my head.  There were many days when getting out of bed was the last thing on Earth I wanted to do.  But I had to, if for no other reason than for Sophie.  She still needed to go out and play fetch or splash in her pool or any number of other dog-related things she so loved doing.  And who was I to deny her due to my own grief?  So I had to keep moving.  Dogs do best when in a routine, you know?  Regular feeding times.  The same activities at the same time every day.   Tobi was a different story, I could just let him outside and he’d occupy himself until he was ready to come back in the house.  But Sophie was still learning, still needed some direction as she grew out of puppyhood.  By doing that for her, that ritual of routine, I was able to, at least in part, maintain some semblance of sanity in my life.  She helped me readjust to life far quicker than I was ready to.  And I don’t think I realized that as it was happening.

Brief confession time…

I’ve never seen “Old Yeller”

I’ve never had any desire to watch a movie where I know one of the main emotional points is the death of a dog.

Also, I started reading “Marley and Me” but had to stop.  Same reason.  Although, truth be told, I started reading it while in the hospital waiting room when Diane was in surgery.  It was (brief review alert) a really well done book, and I was easily able to relate to life with a Yellow Lab puppy.  Although Sophie was never as destructive as Marley was.  And reading it helped take my mind off the matter at hand.  In the evenings, after family and friends left I was able to focus on reading and not dwell on the well-meaning, though often off-the-mark, intentions of Diane’s visitors.  That weekend, as I got further into the book and real life started to spiral down, well, I just wasn’t emotionally ready to finish the book.  Anticipating what was coming in one, and fearing what was coming in the other was starting to rend the flesh from my soul like wolves on an elk they’d taken down on the tundra.

So, how do I celebrate the life of this spectacular beast?

Let’s start here, shall we?  This is Sophie –

It’s the first time I ever saw her.  I know, pictures of puppies are low hanging fruit, but look at that little face.  This is from an early cell phone camera, it was taken at the breeders, before she even came home with us.   I remember the phone call that preceded this picture.  Something along the lines of-

“They’ve got Black Lab puppies and Yellow Lab puppies, which do you prefer?”

After several seconds consideration… “I’m kind of a traditionalist, I think a Black Lab puppy.”

“Ok, well, we’re getting a Yellow Lab puppy.”

Not that I really cared, mind you.  That exchange always made me laugh though.  And, of course twelve years down the road, I wouldn’t trade her for any dog on the planet.

Then there’s this one-

Sophie and her new (then) buddy Beans.  In the old house, that was probably Sophie’s favorite place to lay and watch the world go by.

She is, without question, the sweetest, gentlest (is that a word?) goofiest, smartest dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of being around.  Some people say dogs don’t have a personality, I call shenanigans on that thought.  Sophie has got one and it cracks me up.  She’s got a beautiful Lab face, albeit with some small scars.  Leftovers from the oftmentioned, tyrannical, Jack Russell terrorist (not an autocorrect) named Tobi that ran the animal portion of our house when we brought Sophie home.  They were quite the pair.  She was small enough to run under Tobi for the first month or so, but even though she grew to outweigh him by a factor of at least 5 to 1, she still cowered when he glared at her.

I first realized just how devastating her eventual outcome would be a couple months after Diane died.  Sophie developed a very bad (to put it mildly) case of, what we call in the old country, “the runs”.  Like everywhere, everytime, explosive diarrhea.  Sorry if that’s a tad graphic, but I still shudder at the memory.  So a couple of visits to the vet, after multiple floor scrubbings and carpet cleanings, after every single home remedy provided little or no relief, Sophie had to go in for, essentially, a lower GI.  When the procedure was done, the staff told me I could go in and sit by her while she came out of the anesthetic.  I walked back into the recovery area and saw Sophie, an IV still hooked up to her front leg, lying in a kennel.

She looked like she was stoned.

Until she saw me approach.

She struggled to get up, but, still fighting the sedation, crashed into the side of the kennel.  She tried again to rise, until I opened the door and held her back down, stroking the fur behind her ears while her tail thumped an off-beat time against the floor of the kennel.

I sobbed like a child.

And I’m not ashamed to admit it.

She’s always loved people.   For example, in our old neighborhood, Sophie found great joy watching the spot where kids, one in particular, waited across the street from our house (along with her big sister and Mom) for the school bus that would take her big sister to school every day.  If we went outside while they were there, invariably we’d hear a soft, small voice call out-

“Hi Sophie!”

Sophie loves kids.  Like I said, she loves people.  And despite the occasional tough girl act (it makes me laugh whenever I hear her growl), she will usually try to sneak over to see neighbors.

And by “sneak” I mean everything from flat out gallop to wandering “aimlessly”, peeking back at me over her shoulder, “nothing to see here”, “pay no attention to the dog behind the curtain”, “you can’t see me” nonchalant, inch-by-inch way she moves to the boundaries of our yard.

I mean, seriously… look at that face.  That face would NEVER do anything like wander over to see the neighbors, would it?

Our neighbors in Wondertucky (not the town’s real name, btw) were held (although it does fit) in an especially (like a glove) high regard by the Blonde dog.  She regularly escaped the horrific conditions under which she lived at my house *snark* to go visit them any time she was outside and saw one of them.  Typically it would start with her tail keeping allegretto time like a maestro, feverishly thrashing the air until she was acknowledged.  But if that didn’t work, a bark, higher pitched than her normal, kind of a “Hey! Here I am! Why aren’t you paying attention to me?” bark, that would be answered by Krista or Wes with a “Hi Sophie” followed immediately by a burst of dog energy propelling her across the empty lot between our houses in world record time.

And it’s almost the same thing in our current neighborhood.  With arthritis in both hips and synthetic ligaments in both knees, she doesn’t really tolerate long walks.  So we walk several times a day.  And she has caused me to meet so many of our neighbors it’s not even funny.  In fact, more people around here know her name than mine.

I’ve noticed small changes in her the last year or so.  Gradual changes.  From more inconsistent eating habits to an increasing limp in a couple of her legs.  Occasionally she’ll stumble, tripping over some unseen obstacle.  I spent some time out of town last spring.  And, while I was gone, the Boy Child and his family took Sophie in for me.  And, from the texts, pictures and videos I saw while I was gone, I’d say everybody enjoyed the arrangement. Witness my little Diamond with her bestie-

But when I got Sophie back home after the trip, the changes seemed more pronounced.  More limping, less eating.  And, markedly, a reluctance to go for a walk.  These short walks have been a staple of our life for the last three years or so.  When she balked at going for a walk, stopping short about 75 feet from our yard and wanting nothing to do with moving forward, it worried me.

She was due for her annual checkup anyway, so I called her vet and got an appointment earlier than I’d planned.  He listened to my description, suggested an added medicine to ease some of her discomfort and, like last year, ran a blood test to check her overall well-being.  He called the next afternoon to give me the results.  When he told me her liver enzymes were high, as high as 6 times the normal level, and high on numerous values, my heart sank.  It could be something minor, treated with more medication.  It could be tumors in or on her liver.  He recommended an ultrasound and a more in-depth fasting blood test.  The tests proved inconclusive although we did find out she had contracted Lyme Disease.  Treated with an 8 week course of antibiotics but no changes came.  Her spirit, as always, was strong.  But her body was weak.  And as time passed it became weaker and weaker.

It became common for one or two of our daily walks to last no more than the neighbors front yard.  She’d lay there and watch the world go by for ten minutes or so, then struggle to get to her feet and head back home.  She’d have good days, where we’d get three decent walks in and she’d have bad days, where she showed little interest in her food and even less in going for walks.

This last week was pretty good actually.  We’d gotten several good walks in, and she saw many of her neighborhood friends.  As I said before, more people in the neighborhood know Sophie, than know me.  But it’s true.  Our walks often take us past the public library in town.  I feel safe in saying at least 50-60% of the employees know her by name.  They’ll come up to her and make a big fuss over her, Sophie soaking it all in, but not a single one knows my name.  I’m fine with that, by the way.  I’m perfectly content to be the guy that walks Sophie.

So, when I got the call last night, at work, in the middle of a block party no less, from the guy that takes care of Sophie when I’m at work, I took it.  He was so distraught he couldn’t even speak.  All I got from him was “Sophie’s ok” and it took him two tries to get that out.  His wife got on the phone and explained to me that Sophie wouldn’t get up to go outside.  For the better part of the day.  They’d tried several times to no avail.  Deb cleaned her up, and cleaned up the accidents Sophie had left in the house, but she didn’t know what to do.

By the time we got back to quarters it was after 8:00 and I got a text update on Sophie.  I called one of the guys that works today, explained the situation to him and asked if he could come in early for me.  He asked if 5:00 AM was good and I told him it was.  We hung up and I got a text from him to the effect of “I’m coming in now.  Go home, take care of Sophie” I thanked him several times (not enough, I’m sure) and was home by 11:00 last night.

As I write this, now Sunday morning, she still hasn’t gotten up.  I’ve tried coaxing her with leftover yogurt, a favorite thing of hers, but she hasn’t done it yet.  The closest she got was when I walked in last night.  She made one attempt but quickly laid back down.  Instead I got the familiar tail thumps on the floor.

I’ve got the Weather Channel on, for background noise as much as to watch what Irma does to Florida and I can’t help thinking about perspective.  I’m sobbing over a dog while actual humans are losing everything they own and in some cases, their lives.  And it’s not that I don’t care, but, I don’t care.

I also think of all the times I’ve cried with Sophie.  Burying my face in the comfort of her fur as I try to understand the “why” I’ve lost the ones I love.

This time, the tears are for Sophie.

Peace

PS-

If Disney is the happiest place on earth, this is it’s polar opposite.  I pull into the parking lot and see a guy in camo on the verge of tears.  Me too pal.  And as I walk in to check Sophie in and get help getting her out of the car I meet two people walking out, tears streaming down their faces.

My mind races as I get ushered in to the exam room.  The tech tells me the doctor will be in to talk to me.  Is it me or is she being dispassionate?  I mean, I get it.  I’ve seen the look she has on her face before, not making eye contact, looking around me instead of at me.  Heck I’ve made that face before.  She bears news she isn’t prepared to tell, to someone that may not be prepared to hear.  Every bark that comes from the back; is that her?  But no, none of them were.  I  know every bark she makes and those weren’t any of hers.

The doctor comes in with a similar look.  It’s not the one I wanted to see, but it’s, quite frankly, the look I expected to see.  He tells me Sophie is in a lot of pain.  So, the decision, though it’s one I never wanted to make, is one I knew I would probably have to make at some point.

This is that point.

It’s time.

That, for what it’s worth, may be the hardest thing I’ve ever written.

Again, Peace