Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul (30 page)

It seems that the Saint’s owners couldn’t keep Bogey in their fenced yard, and the local animal control had already given them three tickets for complaints filed against them. And since this Saint was running loose again, the animal control officer was planning to shoot this gentle giant.

I called the sheriff and told him that I was on the way to pick up Bogey for ARF.

He answered,
Chomp, chomp
(chewing tobacco), “Lady, you have thirtyminutes to get here—or I amshootin’ him.”

I answered back,
Chomp, chomp
(sugarless gum), “Mister, you will give me however long it takes to get there—or you will see your face and your name in every newspaper from here to Arkansas, telling how a backwoods country sheriff shot a loving pet while a rescue group frantically tried to get there in time. By the way, do you have any good black-and-white glossies?”

Bam!
He slammed down the phone.

I grabbed my purse and ran to find Dale. “TRUCK!” I screamed. “GET IN THE TRUCK! NOW! DRIVE!” I began grabbing leashes and collars and bacon (you never know when you may need a good slab of bacon), and off we raced while I relayed the story to Dale, who reminded me that we already owned one St. Bernard and he was certain we didn’t need two of them.

We got to the address I’d been given. There was no sign of any sheriff, backwoods or otherwise, but there was a
beautiful,
starving St. Bernard pup. He had been “confined” by a simple piece of chicken wire. He only had to step over it to gain freedom to search for food.

A very poor couple owned him, and the guy said, “He eats like a horse, and we can’t afford to feed him.”

Of course, Dale thought we were picking up Bogey for ARF, but this boy was mine and I knew it. I failed Fostering 101 before I even began.

We took Bogey home to live with us. He especially loved Nicholas, our small something-a-poo, and the feeling was quite mutual. Each morning Bogey and Bart would run with Dale in the neighborhood. There’s something about two St. Bernards that attracts children of all ages. Bogey looked just like Beethoven, the movie star, complete with flopping jowls and drooling slobbers that he could sling a good twenty feet.

The years sailed by. Our two beloved poodles, Fred and Munchie, passed on, as well as little Nicholas. New dogs joined our pack.

When Bogey was thirteen years old, he began to fail. He was having trouble going up and down the steps, moving his 180-plus pounds to stay in our air-cooled garage during the day when the temperatures reached over 70 degrees. I worried that the time was coming when we would have to make the dreaded “decision.”

One night I returned home from a five-day trip. When I got out of the car, Bogey came over to me, wagging his tail. I put down my bags and leaned over to give his bear-sized head a hug. Bogey seemed 100 percent normal and happy to see his mama coming home. How could I have known that it would be his last night with us?

Dale woke me up the next morning with tears streaming down his face. I knew someone had died, and I instinctively began searching frantically for the bichons. Both were in bed with me, still asleep.

Dale managed to mouth the word, “Bogey.”

I flew out of our bedroom and raced out to the garage. There lay Bogey, on his tummy, with his back leg kicked out behind him and his head resting on his front paws. It was the same position he slept in each and every night. He truly had just slipped away peacefully in his sleep.

What I did next may be surprising to some, but if you’ve ever been forced to make the loving, last decision for an older, failing pet, you will certainly understand. Through my tears, and in my nightgown, I walked out-side the garage, just to the beginning of the driveway. I raised both hands into the air and wept openly, saying, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you.”

You see, my prayers had been answered for Bogey: to die peacefully in his sleepwhen itwas time for himto go,when the bad days outnumbered the good. Dale and I didn’twant to have to take Bogey for that final trip to the vet.

I had prayed this prayer many times in my life for several of my dogs as their days drew to an end, but this was the only time in forty-seven years that it had been answered. All the other times we had to help our dogs cross the Rainbow Bridge. Our poodles, Fred and Munchie, had been put to sleep on the same day, May 19. Then, six years later, strangely enough on May 19 again, we’d had to say good-bye to Nicholas, our once-in-a-lifetime heart dog. With a start, I realized that today was May 19! Our Bogey had gone to be with God on the very same date—another six years later.

Coming back inside, I knelt beside Bogey, “Godspeed, my gentle giant,” I whispered. “You are so loved. Run to your Nicholas now. You always did love him so.” I smiled through my tears. There was such peace knowing without any doubt that it had been Bogey’s time to go.

Robin Pressnall

A Familiar Road

D
og ownership is like a rainbow. Puppies are
the joy at one end. Old dogs are the treasure at
the other.

Carolyn Alexander

I slowly run the tips of my fingers over the nerve-rich compass of Joe-Dog’s nose, eliciting no reaction. Still warm, it feels lustrous as silk. In our ten years together, it’s been the single place he’s consistently reserved as too sensitive for human contact—patiently shaking off all attempts with a gentle head butt or sneeze.

A second guarded touch again meets with no response. His eyes are closed, broad Labrador chest still. My beloved best friend, who for eighteen months fought back cancer with a tenacious spirit, and from whom I have sought— and received—boundless solace and joy, is gone.

What began a decade ago, as an effort to teach my children the responsibilities of caring for a pet, has instead become for me an achingly rich lesson on the fleeting gifts of life.

I bundle up his body in a well-used wool blanket, but not before sinking my face one last time into the soft fur of his shoulders, inhaling deeply the familiar comfort of his scent until my lungs threaten to explode. I want to remember this smell forever. I take care to leave his head uncovered, as if wrapping an infant, leaving in place his azure-blue collar with the worn metal ID tags that tinkled a melody with each step.

While my husband prepares a burial site along the cool shaded edge of a pasture still verdant with spring, I wander numbly through the house, ambivalent about this last task of choosing which of Joe-Dog’s belongings to send with him. I have known this day was coming, and chastise myself for being so unprepared. With a sigh, I settle on a white porcelain kibble bowl sporting the words “Dog from Hell” lettered in gold, a gift from family after Joe-Dog once underwent emergency surgery to remove an ingested pair of underwear hopelessly twisted in his belly. In the bowl I place three of his favorite chew toys, including a star-shaped fleece one, nicknamed “chemo-baby,” not for its missing threads of rainbow hair, but because it often accompanied us on our drive to the vet’s office for chemotherapy treatments. To the pile I add a half-eaten box of Milk Bones, and last, a photo of the three of us at Silver Falls, taken in the light of an icy, bright February day.

Outside, I stand nearby as my husband gently lowers the bundle with Joe-Dog into the freshly prepared grave, handing him the items I have chosen when he finishes. He adds these, too, in silence. Offering him a hand up, we are drawn together in a momentary embrace. The ensuing knock and rattle of the tractor’s diesel engine as it labors to return the scoops of black earth isn’t enough to cover the sound of my sorrow. It pours out of me in gulping sobs. My husband wipes his face with a checkered shirtsleeve between working the tractor’s levers. With a last pat of the machine’s bucket, the job is done.

Navigating through grief in the only way we know how, we later plant a rose bush with petals the color of peaches at Joe-Dog’s burial site. As a gesture we add a small concrete tile that is imbedded with his paw print and three smooth round stones, the tile originally made for the butterfly garden in happier times. In the still moments of daybreak, we place an occasional offering of waffle, Joe-Dog’s favorite morning treat, to feed both the birds and our souls.

Several months pass; my husband and I travel to the county animal shelter, seeking an unsure measure of relief for our loneliness. We agree Joe-Dog can never be replaced, but still, we have much to offer a homeless new companion, and we know he would understand. After an emotional visit, we bring home a nine-month-old female shepherd mix—full of love, energy, and soon, bits of rubber from the sole of my favorite dress shoe.

Already a Frisbee expert, she willingly chases many a misdirected spin as I work at mastering this fast new game. We name her Josie, and she takes a quick interest in squirrels, all manner of human breakfast fare and the warm comfort of our king-size bed. Before I realize it, she has led us down a familiar road, tugging all the way.

Pennie DeBoard

Saying Good-Bye to Dingo

My daughter Ella had a unique and remarkable relationship with my parents’ loving but irascible poodle mix. As a rule, Dingo didn’t like children. He would simply move away from them, or, if necessary, growl for them to keep their distance. But he loved Ella. She was always very gentle and kind and he trusted her. She trusted him, too. Trusted him to always be there for ball-fetching, raspberry picking or just for softly stroking his ears.

When Ella was eight years old, Dingo was seventeen and in very poor health. My parents delayed the inevitable as long as they could, but one bright spring morning my mother phoned me to let me know the time had come. I held the phone tightly and looked out the window, my welling eyes making the daffodils and tulips in my garden blur.

“Dingo’s in a lot of pain. We’ve made an appointment with the veterinarian for this afternoon,” my mother said, trying to keep the choking emotion out of her voice. “It’s against my better judgment to tell you,” she said. “But I wanted to let you decide how to handle it with Ella.” My mom always wanted to protect her children and grandchildren from any and all heartache; her way to do that was to only tell us about painful events after the fact, or not at all. But for whatever reason, this time she included us. I will be forever grateful to my mother for that phone call. It was a generous gesture, and ultimately, it would have repercussions beyond what any of us could have guessed at that time.

I agonized for a while, thinking that maybe my mother was right, just let it happen and we’ll tell Ella afterward and “spare” her the heartache. By phone, I talked at length to my husband and a couple of close friends about whether to offer Ella a chance to say good-bye to Dingo in the comfort of his own home. Was she too young to choose for herself how, or even whether, to say good-bye? I looked at our own aging wheaten terrier mix, Petey, sprawled across our kitchen floor, and our spunky Persian cat, Albert, snoozing in the morning sun on the couch. When their time came, we would certainly want to be able to say good-bye. Could I deny that choice to my daughter with her adored Dingo? I decided to trust my mothering instincts, which dictated that we pick out the important “eight-year-old” points of this sad event, and help her to decide for herself.

My husband took the afternoon off from work and we walked to her elementary school. Ella’s teacher allowed our daughter to leave the classroom with us. My husband and I sat with Ella on the deserted playground and spoke softly, all holding hands.

“Sweetheart,” I said, grateful that I could control my own voice at the moment. “As you know, Dingo is very old. And you know that he often doesn’t feel well, right?”

She nodded solemnly, looking from me to my husband and back again.

“Well, the past few days he has felt very bad. He hurts all over and the vet says he’s going to die soon. Nana and Da don’t want him to hurt anymore, so they are going to take him to the veterinarian and he’s going to help Dingo die and not be in pain anymore. Do you understand?”

Ella’s eyes welled up with tears but she nodded.

The emotion began to creep into my voice now. “So, even though it’s very sad, if we want to, we can go visit Dingo right now and talk to him and tell him we love him and say good-bye. Your teacher and the principal say it’s fine. But only if you want to. If you’d rather write Dingo a letter or draw him a picture, we can do that.”

Her feelings revealed only by the tears falling down her cheeks, Ella said in a strong, clear voice, “I want to go say good-bye to Dingo.”

We took her out of school, with the full support of her principal and second-grade teacher, both of whom knew that this old dog would likely teach Ella a more powerful life lesson than any they could offer that day.

So the three of us went to visit Dingo at Nana and Da’s house one last time. My parents graciously arranged to be absent when we arrived. Ella sat next to Dingo on his round, plaid bed. The old guy couldn’t lift his head, but when she put her hand near his mouth, his soft pink tongue gently kissed her. Her tender eight-year-old voice and the ticking kitchen clock were the only sounds in the otherwise silent house.

“Remember how I would throw the tennis ball and you used to chase it, Dingo?” she asked him. “Remember when you helped me hunt for Easter eggs?” She held his paw with one hand and stroked his ear with the other. “Remember going up to the cabin and walking across the bridge? I was always afraid to go across that bridge but you waited for me. Remember?” A tiny tip, tip, tip of his tail. She fed him his favorite treats and gently hugged him, told him how much she loved him, her warm tears falling on his gray fur. My husband and I both said our good-byes and cried, too. The three of us hugged around his bed, Dingo in the center of our love. We all knew together when it was time to leave.