Guest Post by Hardscrabble Farmer
My son called me early in the morning and told me that something was wrong with Rockwell. At 15 he was our oldest dog and my son had retired him from duty and let him move in with him in the cottage. Every morning the two of them would come out together to do chores and after that Rockwell would be allowed in the big house to lie in front of the window walls in the warm sunshine and either doze away the day or keep an eye out for visitors. He’d always been the most aggressive of all the dogs defending our home as if he’d been paid for his service.
Over the years he’d taken quite a few beatings for it. Once he was torn to pieces by coyotes, killing two of them in the fight, yet he’d survived a touch and go recovery that stunned our vet and earned him a reputation with the coyotes who have never bothered us since. In his old age he’d mellowed a great deal, but every couple of weeks he’d still get into it with the older male Border Collie over some canine injustice we could never seem to sort out.
I dressed as quickly as I was able and strapped on the boot to my busted foot and headed out to meet him. He was carrying the dog in his arms and we placed him in the back of my son’s car and drove off to the vet. We take care of most animal health issues ourselves, in fact the only visits to the vet we make are for either serious injuries to the dogs or for and end of life treatment. I understood what we were going there for and my son did too.
He’d gotten in the backseat with the dog and was petting him and talking to him in a soothing voice the entire way. We’d left before the rest of the children had come down for breakfast and we hadn’t told them where we were going, so my mind ran back and forth between what I should have done and what we were about to do. My son and I never spoke during the ride, each of us deep in our own thoughts, together but completely alone in our reflections.
My son was just seven when I’d brought the puppy home. Most of his memories of childhood include his dog- the family dog in name, but in loyalty it was his closest companion, from the very first until the end. He’d always been a stand-offish type with visitors but that was because of his role as a guardian, not so much his nature. With us he had always been extremely gentle, hesitating to take so much as a treat from our hands unless we was being reassured softly. He rarely barked unless there was a present need and in the fights he’d had with predators he had always gone in with an intensity that no other dog we’ve ever had has demonstrated. He was fearless and now he was dying in my son’s arms.
Not long after I’d left the Army I was working a construction site in Philadelphia. I had to be there to let in the subs every morning, usually before dawn, and I stayed until whatever work was being done that day was completed, regardless of the hour. I came home every day worn out, wanting nothing more than a shower and some Chinese take-out before hitting the rack just after dark.
One afternoon my mother called to ask a favor of me. She had a dog she’d discovered abandoned in Philadelphia one mid-winter evening while driving home from a meeting. He was a Rhodesian Ridgeback and by the looks of him when she brought him home he’d been horribly abused. He refused to come into her house, sleeping against the foundation behind the azalea bushes. Every night she’d sit all bundled up on the ground next to him offering choice little morsels she’d prepared for him as if her were a house guest.
Over time he warmed to her, of course, and within months he became her constant shadow. Any form of discord or raised voice in the presence of my mother resulted in the quite baring of his teeth as if to remind anyone who didn’t immediately understand, this was his master and he was all in. I had come to love Fairmount, named after the park along the Schuylkill where she’d found him and as he got older I would stop by on my way home some days to take him for a run with me if my mother was away.
She never really knew how old he was but my best guess was near 11 or 12 at the end. She spoke to me in a way I could sense was serious and when she asked me to have Fairmount put down, against my best judgement, I agreed. He’d been suffering from the same thing most dogs of his size eventually came down with, degenerative mylelopathy and as hard as it was to see her lose him, I knew it was a fair degree of suffering for the dog to live with and her decision was based on what was best for him. No one wants to hear their mother cry and as much as I felt awful accepting the responsibility, I didn’t want her to have to go through it herself.
I agreed and told her I’d make arrangements with her vet and shoot after at the end of the day and take care of it for her. I didn’t even bother stopping off at my own place to shower before I went to pick him up. My mother had made arrangements to be gone and I had a key to her place and let myself in to get her dog. He came up to me and placed his big head against my leg and leaned in, still a massive dog even in his decline and I fastened a leash to his collar and took him to the vet.
I don’t want to relive that day anymore than I have to. I took him in, waited while the vet administered the drugs, and stood in that antiseptic room with it’s white surfaces and dog smells, my hand gently stroking his head until he went still. I’m not an emotional person outwardly and I try to keep those displays private when they do happen, but I was not prepared for what went through me when I stood in that office next to that beautiful, loyal animal. I was filthy from a long day on a construction site, my work boots caked with mud, and I probably smelled awful.
The vet stood there for a moment and sensing better than myself what was coming, she excused herself from the room telling me to take my time. I cried for a very long time for a lot of reasons, but the depth of despair I felt at having taken such a kind animal to its place of death, fully trusting me the entire time, overwhelmed me. After a while I collected myself and carried him in my arms back to my truck and drove him to my mother’s house. When I got there she was still away so I took a shovel from the garage and dug a grave for him near the big willow where he’d lie in the shade on hot days, watching the long driveway for signs of intruders.
By the time I finished it was dark and I drove home feeling even darker, worn out, drained. When I walked into my place I noticed a light blinking red in the darkened apartment near the entrance to the kitchen. Back then I had an answering machine with a little cassette tape in it that would record any incoming calls for playback later. At the time I had virtually no social life and aside from the men I worked with on the job site and the staff at Peking Joe’s Duck House I rarely spoke to another human being. I wasn’t sure who’d be leaving me a message so I pushed the play button and stood there in the dark while my mother’s voice came across the speaker.
“I’ve changed my mind. I can’t go through with it. Call me.” That last part upbeat, lighthearted. “Love you!” followed by the sound of the phone, hanging up.
The vet took us in right away. She ushered the two of us into the back room, me on my crutches, my son cradling the dog in his arms. She set us up at the table and even though there was a little bit of discussion, most of what went down in there was communicated by just looking at each other. This vet put down my old road dog, Freeway, the year we first moved up here, and she’d been so sympathetic and understanding then without really knowing us or our dog.
That dog had survived almost 17 years, most of it folded up behind the driver’s seat of my car, traveling from one comedy club to another, and eventually she landed up here in the end, laying out on the hillside looking out over the pastures and ponds, to the distant mountains beyond. And that’s where we buried her. The vet prepped us for what she was about to do and we gritted our teeth and looked away, both of us with our hands on his back, stroking him slowly, whispering our goodbyes.
I stood there as the vet made her exit from the room, quietly patting each of us on the arm as she went. My son wept bitterly and buried his face in his dog’s neck while I stood there and tried not to cry myself. After a while he straightened up and like I had done so long ago with Fairmount, he carried his dog for the last time back out to the car.
When we got home I asked him if he wanted to tell his brother and sister or if he wanted me to be the one to break it to them. Our dogs have always belonged to all of us, but there are always favorites going both ways. The children especially loved the old shepherd even though it made it’s home with our oldest for the last few years and my son said that he would tell them himself. I made my way back to the den and fell into my chair, exhausted, empty. I could hear the sound of his boots on the stairs and the light knock on their doors. Twice I could hear the sound of my children beginning to wail, each one breaking my heart further as the sound of their sadness filled the house.
My son dug a grave for Rockwell right beside the one we’d dug for Freeway, on the flat part of the hill overlooking everything. You could see it from anywhere in the house and more than a few times over the years I have looked out there and imagined I could see my old dog again, like when she was still with us, intelligent face tuned to the movement of the world, watching out for us for as long as we lived.
I sat inside with my foot up and watched my son through the window, digging purposefully one shovel full at a time, a neat pile of soil mounding up beside the grave. Every so often he’d pause and I could see him wipe at his face, not from the effort, but from the loss. The kids went out with him when he finished and they all stood out there together talking to each other and looking off in the same direction for quite some time, the soft breezes of early spring tossing their hair around their faces. I am so sorry for what they feel right now, but this is life and coming to grips with the end of things isn’t something that gets easier no matter how long you live.
There are few things as difficult in life as putting something you love in the ground forever. It does give us an opportunity to remember all the best things about our time together, to draw from the well of our memories the moments when as two different species we found a way to love each other, to look after and protect one another against the march of time. We provide for our dogs that is true, but they give themselves completely to us in return. And it would be hard to imagine a world without them, no matter the grieving that their end brings.
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The hardest part about having a dog is knowing that you will outlive them…they deliver so much to us that losing them hurts more than what is possible to describe. We lost our family dog almost a decade ago, he was a great guy, and grew with the family as his kids went to college and one went off to war. He’ll always be missed. We have two smaller dogs, now, and we know that we’re going to face the same thing in a few years. Whenever I see evidence of animal cruelty, I wish the penalties could fit the crime.
So true. I’ve held three of my dogs over the years while they were put to rest by the vet. Had very similar reactions as HSF describes above. Painful indeed. I currently have two labs that are getting on in age, one white male ten, and one chocolate female twelve. The older already showing serious signs of decline that I’ve seen with previous dogs. Putting her down is something I’m not looking forward to which will be the fourth such time in my life… Chip
I’m so sorry for your loss. Good memories are a healing balm for the wounds!
HF: Thank you. I’ve put three down in my life. The first I got for my 6th birthday in ’56. I came home for Christmas leave in ’72. She did her best to crawl into my lap but I had to lift her into it. I sat there drowning in tears as I thought of our hunting foxes in the Virginia Oak and Pine forests. The soft snow falling around us, soundless, as if the world had somehow become deaf; not a sound; just God’s artwork surrounding the two of us. I’m not ashamed to say my eyes are tearing up as I type this. Is there any gift on Earth greater than the unconditional love of a dog?
Hardscrabble, I know exactly how you and the kid’s feel after losing a member of the family. Sorry for your loss.
When my Mom, Dad and my dog ( best friend ) died in the same year, I cried the hardest in my life.
Carry on.
I cried harder when my dog Hailey died than when my mom died.
I cried for a year when Poppy died at 8 months.
Honey, Phoebe, Maggie, Rosey, Dug. they all broke my heart.
Sprite the 18 year old border collie jack russel is still going strong with 6 other puppies to annoy her but I am happy every morning to still find her alive and give her a bit of my breakfast at 5 am before any body else is awake to see it.
Yes, I have more dogs than human friends.
Damn it.
I just came back into the office to shut down for the day and saw TBP from you. Like most, I always enjoy your musings, so one last post before going home, ya know.
Now, five minutes later, I’m sitting here sniffling and typing through misty eyes, looking at the picture of our pup Olaf.
He passed last summer after getting into something-causing him to bleed out internally- on his daily rounds of the neighborhood. A half dozen houses on 15 or so acres just outside our little northern WV town in the upper Ohio valley.
Like yours, he RULED the area, often noisely chasing off much larger animals that made the mistake of crossing his path. For a 15lb Dachshund, he was fierce. Full of sound and fury, as they say.
It truly sucks.
I hope your family is comforted by the cherished memories of Rockwell.
As a Funeral Director and (now) crematory operator. I deal with this seven days a week and it never gets any easier.
God Bless.
HSF – I know of what you write and feel.
I have fourteen cedar boxes in my living room containing the ashes of my beloved basset hounds. Each has their name carved in them and their collars with their names on top.
I held each one as they passed and countless other rescues that were too badly injured to save.
The time comes though when we have to take their pain and make it ours…
The dogless will never understand the love that can exist between our canine family and us.
It is the way of things I suppose, and every day it will get easier for and your son.
Our creator must surely love his canine creations as well as us all to have given us such a wonderful gift as they.
A house is simply not a home without a dog in it.
‘The dogless will never understand the love that can exist between our canine family and us……A house is simply not a home without a dog in it.’
Well said……
I’m with ya dude… 13 year old yellow lab Ruby just a few months ago. It’s so very hard but it is an act of love. Wrote about it on my own site, it was helpful. She was number 3 and I have all their ashes. We’ll all go for one last ride together. Grace and peace…
?
Got me…
I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m crying something fierce – a mix of your poignant writing/sharing your loss and remembering our own losses over the long years. God bless.
Man, I have great memories of 2 that I had incredibly strong bonds to, and rapport with.
Yes, we communicated.
Me with short questions and voice tone, and them with perked up ears, tail wags, and friendly woofs.
Play, hug, shake paws, long walks and fetch.
Bianca was a husky, and a beauty.
Howled like that breed does, aond I’d laugh like a giddy child.
I bawled my eyes dry, putting her down, and she wasn’t even my pup. (g/f’s).
Maggie was my g/f’s daughters Labrador- Golden mix who had one helluva personality. Best fetch and return dog ever. I’d use a tennis racquet to hit a tennis ball away, and she’d go after it like a greyhound. She’d bring it back, and drop it at my feet, covered in drool. I’d say “Toss it” and she’d pick it up, jerk her head up and release it, airborne high enough to scoop it up with the raquet, for a repeat.And of course, she’d get excited as hell when a walk was mentioned. Would stop on a dime, on command, at the curb before crossing a street.
I wsn’t present when the girls took her to the vet, to put her down, but I miss her dearly.
Hopeful that we will renew our bonds after I make my transition.
Great story, MM.
Thanks.
We put the jdawg in the garden. I want to be cremated and then, if the Hindus are right, I’m using his bones to come back and chase the coyotes.
sic ’em. especially if one wanders in from socal.
I love dogs. The only downside is they die. But the joy they bring far outweighs all else. My big dogs are short lived – around 8 – 10 years on average. We take extraordinary care of ours – best food, best medical care, get to sleep inside, exercise – and as a result they tend to live to be quite old for their breeds. I am hoping that is the case for our giants, and that we might see 12 out of them.
Sorry forhat you went through, HSF. It is the other 15 years you will remember.
My Gryffy is a big dog, a mix of Aussie, Chow and wolf and nearing 8 years old. He can check out at any time as have a couple of his litter mates. When my wife left us over 2 years ago I thought he might be a babe magnet. Right. He is a handsome dude and the ladies love him. I am just the person at the other end of the leash. But, having him with me, riding in the truck, walking in the woods or just laying down nearby has gotten me through some rough times.
it’s been quite a number of years but boy do I miss her. Hearing the whack whack whack of the tail on the floor as I cam down the stairs every morning. Meeting me at the door every night with her octopus toy in her mouth for a chase followed by a tug of war. Toward the end she had trouble getting around but still met me at the door with that toy every night. It was like the gift of the magi . I don’t know if she was doing it for me, or I was doing the chase and tug of war for her. But we went on like that to the last neither of us wanting to let it go.
Beautifully written Marc. I will leave it to others to wax eloquent over dogs, as our parrot is over 40 and feisty as ever but I wanted to acknowledge a wonderfully crafted piece.
All the dogs I’ve ever had died of old age except for two. One got hit by a car and the other just started coughing up blood one day and passed before any of us could do anything.
In the home where I grew up we even had a pet cemetery of sorts out back.
I had my favorites and most of those were companions when I was younger; all working breeds with names like Duffy, Laddie, and Blue.
Every one would move to defend me if a friend or stranger stepped my way too quickly. But every time I play-wrestled with a little kid or chased a munchkin around the yard, those damn mutts would protect them from me.
Dogs. They leave pawprints on the heart. That’s for sure.
R.I.P. Rockwell and my condolences to Hardscrabble and family.
Am trying for the hundred, but being obscure and sneaky. Thanks for the beer… the box will be back at you. Okay, this was posted in the wrong place but if you sent me beer and should be thanked, consider yourself thanked. If you want to send me beer, well that’s another story.
Cleaned JDawg’s gravesite today and gave Jake a real bath against his will. I am honoring all beloved pets by taking care of my own.
The real hundred is above…
Kind.
The only way to pay in.
So so sorry again, they just don’t last long enough. Dogs are indeed a gift from God. I miss all of the dogs I’ve had the pleasure to know and are no longer, but the joy they bring is so much more than the incredible pain of their loss. You had tears streaming down this mans face with this one Marc.
We lost our cardigan corgi a year ago December. I let him out and found him 5 minutes later after seizure dead on the ice. At the time I knew he was dead but in my mind I could not accept it in the moment. Called a neighbor to guide me to the emergency vet, but by the time she got to me I was a wailing wreck in the back seat, my face nuzzled in his fur. We received an email from a dear friend about it and it really helped so I am going to post it here:
Hey guys,
I’m so sorry to hear of the loss of Elvis! He was special, not only to you, but others. The only thing I can say to you is, that you gave him a life every dog would dream of. The decision to have it end was not your call and as much as we don’t understand it, we need to accept it and have faith that we know it was the right time. He did not suffer and he lead a charmed and lucky life. He also had the best family I know of to raise and take care of him. As time passes, the tears will fade and a smile will come to your face remembering what a goof he was. I understand, more than you know, how much it hurts to loose him but you did all the right things and gave him dog Heaven. Where he is now! I hope this helps and it will get better. Don’t look back in sadness, look back, be proud of the parents you were to him and smile at the way he made you laugh. Thats the only thing he could do to tell you how much he appreciated what you did for him. All dogs go to Heaven!
I’m looking forward to seeing you guys sometime over the Christmas break,
Mike
My wife responded:
Mike,
I could (do) cry every time I remember how he would yowl and howl whenever you showed up.
I’m not sure if you know it, but you were the only person who elicted that response from him.
He loved you. All dogs love you (because you’re part dog).
Thank you for your note. It means a lot.
Lisa
Hope this helps in some way HSF.
Good friend. Now I’m thinking of other pets. And memories.
Once when one died we gave it a funeral out back. I spoke words of thanks for all the fun times; the goofiness and laughter. When we were done and walking back up the hill toward the house my kid, who was 9 at that time, ran up to me on the grass, walked beside me, grabbed my hand and said I was a good dad. That meant a lot to me. Still does.
Like I said to HSF on my “Unplanned” thread: Family pets are gifts of moments and memories. Hard to let go and good to remember.
Good friends are indeed one of life’s true blessings, and that includes our dogs.
HSF sorry for your loss brother.
My tears from reading are not for you or your dog, but for me and my Suzi. She is 12 and the vet today said she will probably last a year or two. I cannot face the end with her as she was a rescue dog 11 years ago, and a better dog I will never find. I cry now and will cry every time, I think of your fine animal, until that final time for her or me ,as I think I may have her outlive me.
Shh, brother. . . . shhh.
Don’t recall where I got this from:
What if in the dog world, humans are elves that routinely live to be 500+ years old?
Many dogs never get to see their owners grow old and weak:
“Now I am old. The fur around my muzzle is grey and my joints ache when we walk together. Yet she remains unchanged, her hair still glossy, her skin still fresh, her step still sprightly. Time doesn’t touch her and yet I love her still.”
But some do:
“For generations, he has guarded over my family. Since the days of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather he has kept us safe. For so long we thought him immortal. But now I see differently, for just as my fur grows gray and my joints grow stiff, so too do his. He did not take in my children, but gave them away to his. I will be the last that he cares for. My only hope is that I am able to last until his final moments. The death of one of his kind is so rare. The ending of a life so long is such a tragedy. He has seen so much, he knows so much. I know he takes comfort in my presence. I only wish that I will be able to give him this comfort until the end.”
Musq, your comment reminds me of how dogs and other animals can sense when humans are subpar.
My cousin was diagnosed w/ breast cancer then later brain cancer.
After many months of pain, she had made her peace with demons past, and was tired of the pain and struggles, and just wanted to pass. To let the struggle be over. Understandably.
Their family dog Buddy, a little weary himself, kept a pretty constant vigil during the dark days, as cousin Rosey was laid up in a hospital bed in the family’s living room, in hospice.
When the time was near, that pup jumped up on Rose’s bed, and laid on her lap, in a final act of kindness, comfort and love, as Rose slowly drifted away, and transitioned into the next realm. Animals know. And dogs have a keen sense that surpasses that rarity in humans, when extra special instances of comfort are required.
When our husky Bianca was struggling, and in constant discomfort, she was fidgety, whimpering. and agitated.
When I carried her into the vet, and she was laid on that table, she knew what was coming.
She settled down, relaxed, and looked at us with sad, tired eyes, but with resolute calmness, accepted our last words, hugs and tears, before the vet’s method was administered.
Forever in our hearts, eh? Pictures are cool, but the memories are priceless.
Farmer…yet another engrossing slice of life. Enjoyed it as it was a trigger as most slices are.
My old dog story,
Spud was a Jack Russel, Terrier mix. Had the black ring around one eye with other black spots and beautiful white fur. Small and muscular, gentle with children, great early warning barker-usually at the right times and shut it down when told to, affectionate without slobbering…and he lived two months into his 19th year…87 t0 06.
My daughter brought him home when she was 9 and they had a wonderful puppyhood together.
A couple of months before he died I had an incident with him that showcased his intelligence and his unique personality.
2006: I had a large L shaped desk in my basement office. One day as I was getting into my Captain Kirk command chair I almost tripped over Spud as he came staging out from under the desk. He was coughing and walking like an old sick man. Caught by surprise and almost falling over to keep from kicking the old guy…I yelled sharply at him.
He froze…just standing still…looking up giving me a dirty dog look. I’ll never forget it because we made direct eye contact and it was one of those moments that freezes itself in your mind.
Well, I sat down…Spud staggered away coughing…I fired the computer up…slipped my shoes off and went to work. Spud laid down in his basement bed under my small table sized chess set five feet away. However, he unusually turned his back to me.
Eventually, I went upstairs for dinner then came back down to do some more work. Spud was standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting…and I carried him up as his stair climbing days had been over for a while. He was very cool to me…no licks or the usual nuzzle. I knew the no affection under any circumstances silent treatment…when I was the bullseye…I am a long time married man.
After finishing my business work I went to slip on my loafers…just as I was about to put my right foot in the appropriate shoe I saw the lone, dark brown/blackish Spud turd…with just a little bit of now dried Spud piss in the heel of the shoe.
He had to have carefully squatted over my one shoe… after I left to land that cranky, pissed off, Old Dog message into a shoe.
I laughed until my sides hurt.
Later I gave the ole guy his favorite treats… petted and kissed the top of his head and scratched him in the places he liked and talked to him for a long, long time. It took a while but the silent treatment ended…he gave me a good lick.
I miss that dog.
Had a Jack. Toughest most loyal little bastard there ever was. He thought he was King Kong. He gave no quarter to anything.
A wandering pair of German shepherds came onto our property. He went after them, and chased them off. The first bolted back out the gate, with the second close behind, howling and going hell for leather.
Our Jack was being dragged behind the second one. He had firmly clamped onto its balls, and the shepherd was not liking the experience. He only let go once the shepherd cleared the boundary. He was all dog, that one.
I think/hope I have one more good dog in me. Looking around…for a Jack…we outa be ready to go home about the same time…all things considered.
Hah! This story had me laughing out loud, Llpoh. After Mark’s good one, with a knowing nod to the familiarity of unique personality traits of special ones, their undying loyalty & bravery.
2 great add’l stories here, men.
Llpoh, L,
If I was a dog I’d be a Jack…built like one and always been a little hyper…plus all false modesty aside I always punched above my weight.
You ever hear of a “Plott” hound? Appalachian dogs, deep chest like a greyhound (to run with horses) but mottled, with a “tortoise shell” coat; beautiful dogs with unique personalities. Very personable, friendly, and kind but also VERY protective. That’s what I have now (he’s a rescue . . . that rescued us, apparently)(along with a neurotic great Dane) . . . and you kinda remind me of that.
Except that you are kinda ugly and walk with a gimp.
Just sayin’
Yea, its a large scent hound, bred for hunting bears, not a well known breed of dog, even here, though it is the state dog of North Carolina.
Two Plott Hounds are trained K9 deputies for the Guilford County Sheriff’s Department…right up the road from me.
Hmm… I do have a barrel chest and a unique personality (a bit too intense at times, puts some people off…oh well) but Uncola thinks I kinda look like Burt Reynolds (before he died) from my picture with Shari Lewis I put up…but no gimp…but I do walk hard, more like a stomp.
Just responding’
People think Farmers are callous, or uncaring. Not the good ones. Not the great ones. They’ve lived with that emotional pain for so long its another lonely friend following them around the fields.
Every farmboy I’ve known has an “Old Yeller” story buried in his past. Sometimes several.
I had to put down my first dog. I carried the story with me for over a decade before I ever told someone. It came out after a couple drinks, back when I had just started dating my wife.
I cried like a little kid, and she held me like I was one (I’m twice her size…literally.) Dogs, horses, cats….even a friendly steer that was too smart for his own good, and we were too poor for it to matter.
Over twenty years of hurt poured out in that moment.
I’ve not shed a tear since then. Those emotions have been felt. The memories have been polished with love and pride. Its time to move on with my life, and love the here and now.
Thanks for sharing the story HSF.
HSF ,I know.
Thanks, HF. I had a hard time reading this. Last June I had to put down Sheba, a 16 year old German Shepard that I got as an 8 week old puppy.
I felt like I was punched in the gut three times; once for Fairmount, another for Freeway, and again for for Rockwell.
Rest assured that you did what you had to. When it was over for Sheba, the vet said that if she could talk, she would have said “Thank you dad”.
I read this on a break while I was coaching youth basketball. Thankfully we were outside and I had sunglasses on.
We have a rescue dog that has grown up with my daughter. She (my dog) blew out one knee a few years back, then other one the next year. There was never any question about putting her down because she was family. I kept thinking and looking forward to the day I could go for walks with her again. After 2 long rehabs and so much $ it’s embarrassing, she loves to run again.
She’s 10 now and still gets around fine, but I’m still trying to steel myself for the day when we have to make The Ride.
I’m very sorry for your loss.
I was reading this to my husband as we drove back home from the city this evening. I got as far as the vets office with Rockwell and had to stop reading. It was too hard to read with out crying so I gave up.
The wound of losing my Cato a few months back is still raw and scabless. I feel your, and your family’s, hurt Scrapple. A dog’s love is unconditional. A human’s love? Sometimes, but not so much.
I buried him outside my bedroom window. He always slept between Mrs nkit and I. Best dog EVER..
Mrs nkit and me
blow me.
Sounds like that is the dog’s job.
you are one sick fucker….
I was correcting his grammar, Mr. Dopple. I do not mess with people’s wives or gay male lovers. Your comment isn’t even funny, it’s crude mostly. Here’s the thing, if you have any self-respect, you will never say anything about a person’s wife that you wouldn’t say to Maggie, MC or your mom.
That’s why I’m starting to hate this place…
We are old guys with simple pleasures. No tv or movies necessary, just a decent comment or a lively flame-fest. But there has to be some provocation, I don’t dabble in shit-flinging for the heck of it. It has to have a purpose. My heckling Yokes has a purpose. I expect that when he comes after me with Uzi in hand, I can ask, is this about the fag jokes?
BUT omg that shit was funny . . . YOU have to admit!
If it was Yokes, maybe but I don’t mess with nkit – he’s older than I am.
So far we’ve had to put down 3 of the six dogs we’ve had, the fourth went while we were on a vacation, and the last two are still with us. My sons were too young to go with #1 and #2, but went with when #3 went. Only one son would choose to go for #4 and my wife opted out on that one as well. The last two are with us now, and we probably have 5-6 years left with both of them.
Our dogs were never working dogs, only ‘pets’. But not really. They were members of the family. and certainly far better than most people I have ever met.
Each dog had their own personality. One we got as a pup, and was wicked smart but fairly aloof with most people, while her adopted male ‘mate’ loved everyone and everything. I will never forget our first born when he learned to crawl. The female would see him comping and just get up and leave, but the male would lay there and let my little guy poke him in the eyes, tug his ears, pull his tail, crawl all over him — and love every single moment of it. He was by far oe of the sweetest dogs I have ever met.
The next two were both boxers, adopted one at a time. The first was a typical boxer ‘clown’ — jumping with excitement at everything and happy to be around anyone. Also incredibly dainty, he didn’t even want to walk thru puddles and hesitated to go out in the rain even with a coat. The other one that followed him was a big white bruiser looking of a guy. Not so much a clown, but a happy presence. At the dog park he thought of himself as the ‘policeman’, and if two dogs started to get into it he’d race over and with a fierce bark stop it all right then and there though he never got into a fight himself.
Our last two are a neurotic miniature hairless my wife adopted the first time she held him, and a gun-shy, bird obsessed hunting dog I probably saved from a miserable existence at the hands of someone who probably would have adopted him to “re-train” him. They couldn’t be more different. I don’t look forward to the days when they too have to ‘cross the bridge’.
I sometimes wonder if we’ll get more dogs in the future. Approaching 6 decades now, our two should leave us while we’re in our mid-60’s. That’s the time when you’re supposed to travel, go on cruises, see the world. Then again, I haven’t been dog-less for more than a week since 1991. I think once they crawl into your heart, it’s just really not living without one around.
My heard goes out to you Hardscrabble. I feel your pain. I also cried with you, and for all those we have lost in the past, yet again.
I was at a mom and pop business the other day. They had a big bull arab, maybe 120 pounds or so. He bounded over to me for an ear rub, then darted back and started bring his toys to me, one after another.
His owner pulled me aside and said he had never seen such a thing – that the dog literally never goes to anyone but them, and certainly does not bring anyone his toys. I said it was surely because most people are afraid of him, because of his size and looks, but to me he is just another nice dog. He senses that I am not afraid of him, and that I would like him, which I did. I said my dogs are much bigger than him, and that large dogs are my friends. When I entered the shop, my first thought was not that I need to be careful around that dog, which is what most people would think, but rather “nice dog, he will want to play”.
Dogs are enormously perceptive. They can read people. My big dogs stare at strangers until they decide whether they are friend or foe. They take their cues from me, and from body language of the strangers.
“He senses that I am not afraid of him, and that I would like him, which I did. ” That’s a great line, Llpoh. Most people would never think of how a dog reads people. He was happy to have a new friend.
Most white people sense that I am not afraid of them and that I will like them. Except my new boss, I think his dad beat him too much.
Another Dog’s Death
For days the good old bitch had been dying, her back
pinched down to the spine and arched to ease the pain,
her kidneys dry, her muzzle white. At last
I took a shovel into the woods and dug her grave
in preparation for the certain. She came along,
which I had not expected. Still, the children gone,
such expeditions were rare, and the dog,
spayed early, knew no nonhuman word for love.
She made her stiff legs trot and let her bent tail wag.
We found a spot we liked, where the pines met the field.
The sun warmed her fur as she dozed and I dug;
I carved her a safe place while she protected me.
I measured her length with the shovel’s long handle;
she perked in amusement, and sniffed the heaped-up earth.
Back down at the house, she seemed friskier,
but gagged, eating. We called the vet a few days later.
They were old friends. She held up a paw, and he
injected a violet fluid. She swooned on the lawn;
we watched her breathing quickly slow and cease.
In a wheelbarrow up to the hole, her warm fur shone.
— By John Updike
brilliant. Updike too, but the dog of which his words remind you
A quote I found years ago and kept….”Dogs perch on the edge of understanding, their bright eyes polished by the yearning to comprehend.”
Vale to your dear dog.
RE: John Updike’s tribute and Sisofia’s quote
Man. Those are some powerfully beautiful words right there. Reminders that we read to know we’re not alone, that it happened, and more than that: It happens still…
Keep thinking about that one. It’s something witnessed by every dog owner. The inquisitive eyes, the tilted head, and ears perked – ready and wanting to understand in equal measure. Present.
“Holy shit, could be my shepherd. My wife of 33 years say id have a hard time deciding between her and my shepherd. Not true but i will let it linger…”
They’re yearning to comprehend the camera.
In memoriam . . .
All my dogs – Bingo. Russet. Shadrach. Angel. Bucky.
And my cats.
I have had to put down several over the decades and it always hurts. Your article brought it flooding back. Dogs truly become part of our families.
Dogs are a gift from God.
They do not live long enough.
The other night, brought a dog to the local bar in rural Maine after he would not get back into the truck after slipping out.
The mutt picked me up at a remote Oklahoma I 40 truck stop 2 weeks back, he sat on my foot while pumping gas. I picked a swollen tick off his head, he gave me a little kiss on the hand. He climbed into the van after a check with employees. One said that if I did not take him, he would end up getting hit by a car sooner or later. They had been feeding him scraps from the trash. The local shelter would not take abandoned dogs, too full. Took him to a vet for a chip, shots and health check the next morning.
At any rate, someone let the dog into the bar. The bartender immediately said to me, “I wanna hear two words.”
I said, “Service Animal.” The bartender smiled. Everything was good.
Tried to give him away. He warmly greeted everyone in the bar. He ate quite a bit of bar food, had a bowl of water on the floor. He yipped from getting stepped on a few times but was doing his survival greetings to everyone. Of course everyone heard the story. No one wanted the dog.
After playing enough pool, visiting and beer drinking I sat at a corner table. The dog came around and laid down behind me, guess I have a new dog, call him Tripp.
Now that’s a great dog story. I cam across my old road dog under similar circumstances. Until the day I picked up that dog my entire life centered around me. Once she came into the picture everything changed. If it weren’t for that dog at that time I never would have been marriageable material for anyone, especially someone like my wife.
Dogs have a bigger influence on our lives than you could ever imagine.
And thanks to everyone, especially for the stories about your dogs, I was hoping that would happen. Somewhere up in heaven right now there’s an enormous pack of dogs with their ears pricked up to the sound of your words, waiting patiently.
Pandora. Best chocolat lab ever.
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….
Author unknown…
It’s funny – we call dogs pack animals and use that to explain their attachment to our family units. But I guess the reason the relationship is as close between man and dog as it is, is because we’re pack animals too. That’s what the family unit is at it’s most rudimentary level.
My old dog is 13 now. She’s one year younger than my daughter so she’s never known life without her 4 legged sister. The old hound is mostly deaf now and has entered full retirement mode. Lately, I’ve noticed that she’s slowed down a lot and I wonder how much time she has left.
She has softened me as I’ve gotten older. In the past, she wasn’t allowed on the sofa but now, in the evening if I sit and watch a little TV I’ve taken to letting her crawl up on the soft cushions next to me where she lays with her head across my lap. I figure after 13 years of love, loyalty and service to my family she’s earned it. And I’m gonna miss her when she’s gone.
I have had dogs my whole life until I got into the trucking business. Love them but it would be hard having a dog in my truck unless it was a small one.
Hardfarmer it is hard to bury someone you love .I have had to it alot or it seems so. All four of my grandparents ,my father , brother and sister , an old high school buddie just last year. I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t know why I’m telling you except I know loss of both pets and people . Little bb has been my constant companion on the road for 7 years . I Dread the thought of losing him. He is the only who knows how smart I am and believes it. We talk about everything .He just sits there listening to my every word. I truly love this cat.He is with me right now . Anyway, glad to know you’re doing ok.
“…Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices…” — Lord Byron
HSF – Here’s a few more dog quotes to hopefully make you feel better.
“…Dogs are miracles with paws…” — Susan Kennedy
“…He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart…” — Unknown
“…Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole…” — Roger Caras
“…I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren’t certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death. Being such wonderfully uncomplicated beings, they need us to do their worrying…” — George Bird Evans
“…To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace…” — Milan Kundera
Great tribute and story. It made me think back to some of the pets who became part of my family.
Thanks for writing this…
LAH
When I was kid I came home one day and found my Mom smoking a cigarette and very upset. She had taken our little mix breed dog, Jose to be put down. She looked at me and said,” that was the hardest thing I have ever done”. My mom was born in 1920 in Abilene, Texas. She was the 8th of 9 children. She grew up during the depression and was in her twenties during WW2. My Dad was away during the war for years, and she did not know if he was alive or dead every day. I was sad, but I did not know what she meant.
I’m 68 now and have had to put down many dogs, my last one on May 3, 2017. I now know what she meant.
Thank you for your story. God bless.
Truly a “Must Share” article HSF.
How ironic that suffering is humane.
I have always felt a severe loss every time I had to help a four footed family member out to the next chapter,even felt pained having to kill rabid critters though realize was doing them a favor,sorry for your loss.
I find it extremely weird that we can and are actually encouraged to do this when the right choice with our four footed family and yet with lucid/have it together family members of the two footed variety we cannot (legally)help them on to the next chapter when a terminal illness takes root with no cure ect.,fucking weird world.
Sam and Harvey, Al the basset, Pete and Buddy and Russell too. I wept for all as i do now. I have never married and all were as my children. No man could ask for more.
Absolute confirmation which all here know.
“If you want assured faith, gratitude and undying loyalty for life, get a dog. Or two.
Human life can be measured by the dogs that walk along the path with us. I am 4 dogs in, at some point a furry head will be under my dying hands and I’ll feel the fur of friends from the past. I hope our paths cross someday hardscrabble.
That is possibly the most beautiful ode to Dogs I’ve ever read.
I speak, know that I am safe to, here, even if I get kicked in the balls about it later, but hey, what is the point of being on the burning platform if you are afraid of fire, right?
Nine years ago today, I lost my best friend. i was there, gave him CPR, and he died anyway. Such an event changes a man, and it has me. He was closer to me than my own brother, and he died on my watch. He went through hell, while he was here, and I have dreams about him often enough that I KNOW he is better where he is than where he was, while here. But on topic:
Six months later, on a sunny October afternoon, the vet came to the house to “put down” my other best friend, an American Staffordhsire Terrior (AmStaff) named Rolo. (Think a bigger cousin to the “pit-bull” but smaller than a “bull-mastiff”.) I am a farm-boy, knew death from an early age and learned not to bond with animals. Had many dogs, but I was thirty-three before I bonded with one, and that was Rolo, because HE would not let me be. My wife’s dog, not mine, but he pounced on me like a chew toy and never let me get away after. When they told us he had bone cancer, when he was eight (and had six months to live), I told them to pi*s off. Through research, I learned some dietary changes, and we turned six months into two GOOD years. Then one day, he stopped eating, and just wouldn’t. I knew it was time. We played ball in the sunshine, and after she gave him the shot, we continued until he started to wobble. I told him that I loved him, and he gave me a final kiss – one sloppy lick across the mouth – and I pulled him into my lap. I sang to him, Amazing grace, while he passed, and everybody there cried like like little girls, even though most of us weren’t.
A few weeks later, the vet sent us a card that had a picture of a puppy that looked so much like him that, to this day, I can’t look at it without tearing-up.
She thanked us for calling her. I didn’t understand what she meant at first, but my wife explained to me: she took the time to find a card with a dog on it that looked like ours . . . because WE took the time to love him like he WAS ours. And he was . . . but, then, WE are theirs, aren’t we? What choice do we have, really? We have to fight like hell for them because we know that THEY will fight like hell for us, to the end, even death itself.
Don’t we?
I am so glad I found this site. I can’t imagine singing, at the end of the world, with anybody else, or crying like a little girl about a dirty old stinky dog, either.
And since I could not find a suitable recording of “Amazing Grace” . . .
great post, good tune.
thanks for saying . . . and, for what it’s worth, I love CO2, too. Too. Without it,I could not grow habanero peppers, and if you can’t cry while eating chili . . . life sux and blowz
wow
A great piece of writing niebo.. This place amazes me… really does!
I’m with you . . . the humanity here makes us all more . . . humanified
And thank you for saying. Could hardly see the keyboard while I was typing it out. Of course, dont want HSF to knowcuz he’s a hardass, or GCP, cuz well, he’s a hardass too, or Llpoh or EC cuz I don’t want them to know that I am not a hardass . . . . You know where I am coming from and fu*k everybody who opposes.
🙂
And I am also amazed, most of the time
When I was a kid, we took in a young stray mutt. She was skin and bones and very meek. Though she didn’t have any bruises or evidence of abuse, we always suspected that she had been mistreated. She loved us all, but I was her favorite (I knew because she would only sleep with me). She would run to the door and start crying a full 5 minutes before my dad’s car would turn down our street. To this day, I still can’t figure out how she knew. We would let her out into the yard and she knew how to ring the doorbell when she wanted to come in. A couple of years after my dad died, my mom and I took her to the vet with what we thought was a small infection. To our surprise, the vet told us that she had cancer. He said that she was most likely in significant pain, but did not show it. He suggested that we put her down then and there. I held her while the deed was done; her eyes revealing that she knew that it was her time.
I’m sorry for your loss, HF.
I was looking for a short tale about burying a cat. The web has been scrubbed. However, I found one of many recollections of a writer who impacted several generations of writers. It’s an insidious conspiracy, you signed up for an English class and got infected with a hunger for writing. Why do people write? If they met or read Bode, they learned it’s because there is so much to write about.
https://www.dallasnews.com/arts/books/2017/10/12/farewell-texas-writerelroy-bode-friendship-forged-writing
‘I write, therefore I am.’
I can never thank you enough for having introduced me to Bode.
And here’s the thing, each of us has this incredible journey through life itself on this unimaginably beautiful planet for this unbelievable length of time. No two travels are the same, yet we all manage to experience the same passage of time, similar travails, and the never ending flow of blessings through our own eyes. How lucky we are to be able to share it when we have a moment, to reach out to others through an almost impossibly simple set of 26 characters rearranged as we think best describes the amazing story of our lives, no matter how simple they may be. And when you share those reflections and remembrances it opens up a vault in others and their stories pour out in communion. Could you ask for more from our fellow man?
We are not alone, not ever, and we are far more fortunate than we could ever imagine, watched over by God and in the company of his creations, no matter what form they may take, walking beside us throughout our lives. It would be the height of ingratitude not to try and cast our bread upon the waters for as long as we are able.
You assembled a collection of words into a magnificent comment on a thought I had about sharing my observations with the likes of you and Stucky, who live on a higher plane than my own.
I can tell you are healing well. Thank God you didn’t hit your head and lose that wonderful prose.
Thumbs up.
It was about a year ago that the SO had to put his dog to sleep. He was 30% past the average lifespan for his breed, he could no longer get up on his own. The vet came to the house and did the deed in the garage. It was really shitty timing, the SO was out of chemo by only two weeks. He’s been thinking about a new dog but after his brain cancer scare in February (negative thank God) I’m now covered in eczema, and the less allergenic dogs are the more expensive ones. He doesn’t like small dogs either. He’s used to rescues not having to pay for one. Animals have souls too, you will meet them again.
You’re a superhero KaD. I wonder if your mom had eczema also, that may be why she complained about the sloppy workers in her hotel job. Surely the animal control has got a poodle around. Have you looked in other states? I survey the local animal control site from time to time.
When my kid was looking for a dog, we went to the pound in a few cities around the LA area to look at a dog he found interesting. It was becoming a career until he finally decided on a timid golden retriever/chow mix. He picked up a kitten at Walmart and we went to get another kitten at the pound. The dog one day decided he wanted cat food and from then on, we only bought cat food. Granny got attached to the dog and she is the one who was most shocked when he died.
He was maybe 15 or 18 when he died. He got out when the neighbor’s kid asked to retrieve a ball from our yard. I found him on the dog shelter website a couple of days later. The morons had his name wrong despite the dogtag they sold me many years earlier. They had shot him up with a cocktail of vaccines when he only needed and had his rabies shot up to date. He only lasted a few weeks after that, he was wobbly and stopped eating a couple of weeks back from the pound.
It wasn’t the sloppy workers she complained about, it was the non English speaking Mexicans working for the construction company on H1 Visas.
He doesn’t like poodles. We checked, there was a rescue labradoodle but the requirements these rescues put on you- house inspection, must work from home, etc., just aren’t realistic. Plus they’re 260 miles away, I’m in the middle of nowhere. Most of the dogs in the pound here are crap ass pit bulls, I won’t have one in my house.
A brain tumor was the thing I was most afraid of. He already thinks he’s going to be dead in five years, a brain tumor would seal that in his mind. He worked with a guy, 30 years old, started acting weird. They thought it was stress. It was a brain tumor. He didn’t make it.
EC . . . all kidding and humor aside, that makes my blood boil.
BOIL . Like naptha in a percolating coffeepot. Am NOT a fan of”yearly” vaccines when titration tests prove that most vaccines last for YEARS in dogs. . . .
I was quite angry that they did that because I had gotten his rabies shot maybe 3 months earlier and he had his dog tag on his collar. I saw the woman say to the other, they had gotten his name wrong. If I hadn’t looked on the website, I would never have gotten any notice that he was there. I told the fat woman, as I was paying the $82 for the unnecessary bunch of shots, he is old and may not last long but I don’t want to let him die here.
Every time I get to thinking of my father or a beloved pooch, I think of this song:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjKNMb36SKY
Saving that link to my beloved “music” folder . . .
For all the pups that love pick-up trucks:
We lost the sweetest cat we ever had a few years ago. He would run to the door when my wife came home. He would put his paws around her neck when she picked him up. She could hold him like a baby. I have a super sweet cat of my own now. One night I woke up and he was sitting next me. He was looking at me and purring. He’s already 10 years old. It’s going to be one of the worst days of my life when he has to be put down.