(I know r.c is dead, but I just can't post this to the has-beens at st
nor the newbies at rc.com. So for the five of you left...)
____________________________________
There are only a few things we owe our dogs. We have to teach them
good manners. We have to take care of them. We have listen carefully
because they don't have words to tell. We have to love them. That's
the easy part.
And we have to be there when they go. We owe them that.
It's been three days since I told the ER vet on a static-y
international call, "Let him go." I've been carefully walking around
the edges of my thoughts since then because I have another two days of
climbers and air****ts and hotels before I can be home. It wouldn't do
for allegedly grown man to bawl his eyes out in the air****t. I'm not
sure I'll be able to stop if I start. We'll save that personal
breakdown for home.
Where a big 85-pound white furry hole in my life awaits.
I wish I had told the vet, from half a world away, to be there with
him and love him just a little, like she had known him all his life,
because this was a dog that loved everyone, that never met anyone he
didn't like. He was a big soft friendly polar bear, and everyone
wanted to love him. Someone should have been rubbing his ears the way
he liked when he left. It should have been me. But someone. I
didn't think to tell her that until too late. In the shock of making
that last decision years before I had hoped I would have to, on the
side of the road from 6000 miles away, I didn't think of that. She
sounded nice; I hope she did.
I knew these things. I knew what I owed him. I made one more promise
to that dog, after the last month-long trip. I told him, "I won't
leave you again, not for weeks at a time. No more long trips."
("while you are alive" unspoken). I broke that promise. I told
myself that he wasn't really that old, that even though he was slowing
down, he still had lots of miles left on him, and he'd be okay for
three weeks, he'd be with people he loved, and who loved him.
He should have been okay. But he wasn't. I broke my promise. I know
he was just a dog, and didn't really understand, but sometimes the
promises no one else hears are the ones you have to keep.
He was a gift from a friend when I was down in the dumps over a woman
I barely remember anymore. My wise friend said, "You need a dog.
Pick one out, and I'll pay for it." So I found a litter, he crawled
up in my lap, and choosing was that simple. He crawled into my lap
again for the ride home. We spent a good part of the next ten years
with me driving and him co-piloting, after he got too big to ride in
my lap.
And he served the greater purpose that my wise friend had no doubt
intended. It's hard to be clinically depressed when you have to walk
the dog twice a day, have to answer all the questions, have to stop to
say hi to all the kids, and all the adults. This fellow was a real
showstopper. I used to joke that walking him was like dating a
supermodel. No one really pays attention to the person with her. And
he loved the attention. Loved kids, loved adults, came to believe
that everyone he met wanted to pet him, and was a bit put out when he
ran into the occasional person who just didn't like dogs. It was his
birthright, you see, to be universally loved, and to love back.
He wasn't a sappy dog, not a big licky annoying dog. He'd just put
his ears to the side, grin and waggle his whole butt. People just
wanted to touch him. He had the softest fur. Kids especially would
gather in throngs. Even kids who had been taught to fear dogs, and
there are a lot of those. He ate it up. I learned to avoid walking
past schools if I was in a hurry. You can't be in a hurry if nine
kids want to pet your dog.
Through him, I met lots of people, most of my neighbors, learned to
talk to kids and strangers, learned to smile and say hi even when I
didn't really feel like it. It wasn't about me. I was just holding
the leash.
I know that clinical depression can't be cured by a dog. But for me,
at that time, at that moment, a little white puppy was a ticket out of
what sometimes looked like a 9mm-sized hole, after the gas ran out, at
the end of some deserted road in the Mojave.
I left him for long periods several times over the years, for
expeditions, for work, for play, to sometimes try and do things I
wasn't certain I would come back from. He never spent a day of his
life in a kennel - he never lacked for people willing to take care of
him. Exes, friends, neighbors, climbing buddies. He was such a big
happy galoot, and well-behaved. Good with kids, with cats, with most
dogs who accepted that the was the alpha, that was just the way it
was.
I know that he was the reason why I backed off some things, and the
reason I made an extra effort to come home. I make my own choices
about the chances I take, and the people in my life at least know, if
they don't always understand. People get to make choices, and some
chose simply not to accept the risks that I took. He simply trusted
that I was coming back, so I had to honor his trust in me. I knew
that when I drove up to wherever he was staying, I'd get the Happy
Dance, a bit of unbridled joy.
I'm not the only one who got the Dance. When my climbing partners
drove up, they'd get the Dance. You see, the big white one is the one
who got to go. He knew that most times, there'd be room in the car
for him, even if they *****ed good-naturedly about the white furry
reminders they'd be picking out for weeks. My ex-girlfriends get the
Dance. We might have broken up, but everyone wants a little big white
dog time. His lifetime vet, Dr. W, who came with treats and pain, got
the Dance, and more. He had known Dr. W since he was little, you see,
and that's all that mattered to him. Here is a person that I
remember, and that I love, and who loves me. I'll dance a little for
him, and talk a little, and if there's a shot, or a surgery, well, it
doesn't matter, I trust my people.
But there won't be a Happy Dance this time. This time, I won't come
home to the little half-playful, half-not bites of "happy to see you,
what the hell were you thinking being gone so long?" He won't be
there to give the sideways look and half-bark and swipe at me with his
paw, then lean against my legs for some good hugs before jumping away
for some more dancing and talking.
I reckon I'll still be picking white hairs out of my clothes for
years. I don't get to say goodbye. I get to know that I broke my
promise, and to know that I failed him in the end. We all die alone.
Humans know this, even if we don't understand. It seems to me that
dogs, since they don't know, can't understand, deserve to not be alone
at the end. To not be alone when they go into the void. To have one
familiar voice there, one last kind hand.
All you can hope to do is live up to the trust that your dog has in
you. I did not. I didn't come back this time. I let him down.
So here's my public apology. Here's to the big white one, and all the
happiness and smiles he brought into the world in ten and a half too
short years; may they outweigh any frowns and weariness caused by me.
To his big happy grins;
To waiting for me to open the front door after dinner so he could go
sit on the ****ch and watch the world go by. No leash necessary, he
just liked to sit out there in the dark and give little on-guard woofs
when another dog jingled by;
To the way he would use his play-bow and puppy mode whenever he got
into trouble, to try to jolly his way back into my good graces;
To the way he sneezed, regular like clockwork, if you rolled him onto
his back;
To the way he waited in the backyard for me to bike home, so he could
see me as I rode up the street;
To the way he would sometimes, not always, come over in the morning
and stick his head over the edge of the bed for some head scratching
and sweet kisses;
To the way he would stretch out and give a big sigh when you rubbed
his back and side;
To the way he unerringly remembered the trail that we came in on, and
his look of disdain if we chose to go some other way coming back. You
were usually right, you big mutt;
To the way he would save his food and water until you returned,
whether he was leashed up at the base of an all day climb, or just
from a day at work. I kept telling him that he was silly, that I was
always coming back for him;
To the way he liked to feel the sand in his paws, to play and run, and
dig dig dig, and play some more;
To the way that he talked, especially the older he got. The Sheriff
of the Dog Park kept the whippersnappers in line, with his voice
usually, but he brooked no guff from anyone;
To the big long snores, so reassuring on crisp nights in the volcanic
tableland looking down on the lights of an Eastside town, in the snow
at the power station, under the stars in the desert, in the parking
lot at the local crag, or in the bedroom, when he wandered in after
the lights went out;
It'd be a blessing if you could come to me in my dreams tonight, and
sleep at the foot of my bed, and let me one more time hear that snore,
letting me know all is right. Maybe I'd sleep then.
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