He left his last bone on my balcony. He licked it a couple of times, and then moved it to the location where he wished it to stay. It remains in that position because I refuse to throw it away.
That dog suffered from canine T cell lymphoma for at least six months. At the end he would not, could not, eat. He turned up his nose at the treats he had begged for as his just reward for filling a hole in the universe the size of Texas at least.
He spent his last two weeks on that balcony. Once I allowed him to go out there by himself, he stretched out flat on the cool concrete. If snow had invaded the concrete, he ate it. If snow filled the air, he greeted it like the best shower on earth.
Steroids kept him alive for six months. For that time, he remained active, although lymphoma was creeping up on him. He began panting heavily, however, and rolled in the snow every chance he got. Walking him got to be a search for the disappearing white stuff.
His passion for my balcony only became clear on Easter morning. Then I stood directly behind him, inside my windows, watching to see what kept his head planted between the protective rails on the balcony. Until I called him regularly, to prevent freezing, he didn't move.
A light snow had descended on Easter morning. Only then did I realize that he wasn't looking at the ground or road nearby. He was pointed across the road, where the snow outlined every branch and bramble. The snow made visible what had been there all along: a rabbit shape.
I kept as still as he did. I waited to see if my imagination was creating fantasies in the snow-lit landscape--until that rabbit took off like a bullet. The dog remained as calm as his breed requires: half cocker and half cavalier, he showed his hunting instincts could never be quelled.
So, I suspect that he dragged that bone out there and planted it exactly where he planned to return--if biology can keep up with the passion of a hunting dog. I told him there are lots of rabbits in heaven. What kind of a place would heaven be without rabbits?
In heaven, of course, a hunting dog doesn't eat rabbits--unless God decides they're overrunning the place. A hunting dog just points them out, waits for his director to decide their fate, and then hands them to God as tenderly as that dog brought me a forgotten slipper.
God speed, my hunter. His breed serves by keeping his eye on essentials. Now, the snow has gone, so the rabbits are still there, along with God-knows-what across the road. The vision he gave me remains: to see through the falderal to the truth, no matter the confusion cleared by Easter.
I thoroughly enjoyed your poetic, moving account of the decline of your dog. Over decades of dog ownership -- by which I mean their ownership of me, rather than mine of them -- I have on numerous times had to make the sad visit to the veterinarian to give various of my dogs the painless, oblivious exit that I myself would like to have, but probably shall not have, when my time comes.
ReplyDeleteMy way of saying goodbye, when the condition of my ailing angel permits, is to bring along a packet of the best ground beef money can buy and to dole it out in a manner, and at a rate, enjoyable to him/her. If I can, I bring the remains home to be buried on our turf, along with a note describing the way this dog gained a place in my heart (usually stuffed in one of those ceramic-stoppered Grolsch beer bottles). The collar of my angel I keep for the same reason one would keep bronzed baby shoes -- as a reminder of happier times.
I do not let the sadness of the occasion, nor my fondness for the deceased, deter me from being on the lookout for a replacement, even on the day of my bereavement: I view it as a duty that I owe to my favorite species.
Thank you for your kind words and your tribute to lovely, lovely dogs. I have taken that necessary step beyond grief: A basset hound puppy now lies nestled at my feet.
ReplyDeleteMaybe you can tell me how you found my blog? What canine breeds you most enjoy? If you show dogs?
If basset hounds are new to you, you might also enjoy a tribute I wrote to my first basset: "Pure Nose Poetry," for Crescent Blues E-Magazine.
[Thank you FOR your kind words and your tribute to lovely, lovely dogs.] As I thank you for yours.
ReplyDelete[I have taken that necessary step beyond grief: A basset hound puppy now lies nestled at my feet.] Long may your newcomer's ears -- be! Early in my sojourn in the village where I now live I acquired a basset female, a stray, as most of my acquired canidæ are. (She being a basset, I could not come up with a name for her except Angela, of course.) She had a huge bulge in the area which in humans would be called the "bottom," or perineum. At first I feared cancer, but the vet determined that it was simply a rupture. By the time I set the matter aright, a few hundred of my shekels had flown the coop. At the time, I was in a running battle with my village over the number of dogs I had. I give you to understand that I am not, and never have been, one of the infamous animal hoarders; the village had previously ordained that a household could not have more than three pet dogs, and I, in accordance with the old saw, honored the ordinance in the breach by always having five or six. Just to give you an idea of the brain-free nature of the ordinance, it suffices to know that according to it, dogs kept for hunting, breeding, boarding, or for any purpose other than as pets, were not subject to that limit. (Hell, there are people in this world who should not even have even ONE dog!) Angela arrived just as I was about to butt heads with the village. There was a Basset Hound Rescue effort nearby, so I took some of the pressure off reluctantly by farming Angela out to them. On the issue of dogs, I have, since then, consistently prevailed in the legal arena against the village, including a turn in the federal venue in which the village settled for ten large! Now they are, by and large, letting me alone.
[Maybe you can tell me how you found my blog?] I cannot recall the exact path by which I found it; but as I recall, your weblog was touted as one that was regularly followed by another weblogger. I often follow such recommendations.
[What canine breeds you most enjoy?] If I had to limit myself to one breed, I like the personality, size and longevity of the rat terrier. I have only had one of these, a female named Rabbit, who used to ride in a plastic milk crate attached to the rear carrier of my bicycle. I named her so after observing her manner of running through tall grass: She would make six or seven largely horizontal bounds followed by a vertical one to ascertain just where she was in relation to my position. To me the technique resembled the ambulation of the rabbit -- ergo, her name.
[If you show dogs?] If the Westminster Kennel Club ever has a show for mutts, mestizos, mezclados, mongrels or Mischlings -- Isn't it weird how all these words meaning roughly the same thing begin with em? -- then I shall undoubtedly have a chance at Best-in-Show. It is mostly mutts that come to me; if I happen to occasionally to acquire a "breed," it is only happenstance. One of the reasons I like mutts is the fun of speculating on their ancestry based upon their appearance, abilities and personality. One of my favorites was an absolute conundrum to me: My best guess was that he was the result of a decades-long experiment by dog geneticists to see how many breeds could be combined in a single dog; sort of a canine "Everyman."
[If basset hounds are new to you, you might also enjoy a tribute I wrote to my first basset: "Pure Nose Poetry," for Crescent Blues E-Magazine.] Thank you. I shall seek it out.
[Thank you FOR your kind words and your tribute to lovely, lovely dogs.] As I thank you for yours.
DeleteI am glad to hear of your varied experience with the canine species--also that you are leading a canine revolution in your village. Don't the residents of your village have enough to do without counting every last pet and hunter inside and outside houses? What do they do with recordings of barking dogs used for security? I have known birds which imitated barking dogs as well. Do those count as birds or dogs in your village?
Yes, the basset's ears are the longest in the dog kingdom! When I walk around with my puppy, I recommend stroking his ears for human therapy. Nobody's laughed at this advice yet.
I have never experienced the harassment which you describe. Since my father bred English springer spaniels, used in the country for hunting and fishing, and since we always had a dachshund in the house, I took for granted that civilized people loved dogs and welcomed them as family--true?
[Maybe you can tell me how you found my blog?] I cannot recall the exact path by which I found it; but as I recall, your weblog was touted as one that was regularly followed by another weblogger. I often follow such recommendations.
Glad to hear it!
Yes, my cockalier rabbitted about, too. An Irish terrier which I once owned was more dignified--unless he was chasing a child over hedges. Then, that dog reached for the pants every time! Watching them play was like seeing a hilarious cartoon.
[If you show dogs?] If the Westminster Kennel Club ever has a show for mutts, mestizos, mezclados, mongrels or Mischlings -- Isn't it weird how all these words meaning roughly the same thing begin with em? -- then I shall undoubtedly have a chance at Best-in-Show. It is mostly mutts that come to me; if I happen to occasionally to acquire a "breed," it is only happenstance. One of the reasons I like mutts is the fun of speculating on their ancestry based upon their appearance, abilities and personality. One of my favorites was an absolute conundrum to me: My best guess was that he was the result of a decades-long experiment by dog geneticists to see how many breeds could be combined in a single dog; sort of a canine "Everyman."
Since my cockalier was a designer dog, I gave up on finding an exact replacement. I had never seen any registration papers, so I was at a loss when seeking his kin.
My first concern was to avoid, if possible, further acquaintance with canine lymphoma, which took both of my previous dogs. The only good news which has come forth from my research on this subject is the discovery that scientists have now tracked canine lymphoma to specific breeds which are more likely to suffer from this malady. This tracking now leads to the expectation that this disease may eventually be limited and eliminated.
Further, research told me that basset hounds are not peculiarly subject to lymphoma. They are only #41 on the canine hit parade, so they are not likely to be overbred, either. My basset may rejoice in his lack of popularity, and so do I.
My puppy is starting to talk to me and my cats. Two of my previous dogs have been great talkers. One even managed to scream, "Car!" during an emergency.
Have your dogs talked, too?
Have they enjoyed the company of cats?
[If basset hounds are new to you, you might also enjoy a tribute I wrote to my first basset: "Pure Nose Poetry," for Crescent Blues E-Magazine.] Thank you. I shall seek it out.