...whom I love.
Trigger warnings: pet loss, maudlin self-indulgence, LONG rambling.
It's not like other people haven't mourned pets. 65 MILLION households in the US have a dog. For me this week, there is only 1 dog, and now she's gone. And it's not like she was a PERSON, right? People have lost way more important relationships in their lives. Haha! trick question! Dogs are far superior to people and the grief is just as bad.
I always said I'd get a dog when I had a yard. I was a dog nut as a kid, knew every dog in our neighborhood, read every dogly book in the library. But our family dog, ostensibly mine, for whom I begged and begged, and who arrived in my Christmas stocking when I was 10, always gravitated to my mom (who was home, and fed her, and let her out regularly.) She was a judgey and clannish Cockapoo (the dog, not my mom), and as I grew up and out of the house she protected, she waned, dying after my college years. I was sad when I heard, but not unduly sad. I don't think I mourned her for long. Maybe that meant I was just in love with the idea of a dog. What did I really know about dogs at 10? or at 20?
A dog is fluffy and nice to pet, and will play with you in a yard. A dog and her person starts to look and act alike, haha. A dog must be exercised and fed regularly, and provided clean water. A dog is a commitment and a responsibility that should not be taken lightly. A dog dreams of running. A dog can smell 10,000x better than a human. A dog is an engine of love: put love in, get love out.
A dog only gets so many springs, though, and not as many as we do. This is an inherent cruelty in the dog-person relationship, one that must be accepted if you want the rest of the joy that comes with dogliness. With these rules in mind as I made my way to adulthood, I realized the itinerant lifestyle and late rock shows of my 20s were not conducive to having a dog. Nor were grad school or the dinner-and-karaoke-years, nor roommates, nor solo apartment living, of my 30s. Nor consulting in my 40s. NOT having a dog was in the theoretical dog's best interest, I thought - some might manage, but I am too lazy/forgetful/broke to care for another creature like a dog should be cared for.
Fast forward: 2020, COVID, consulting travel skids to a halt. Thus grounded, in July I buy a house, with a yard. Three months later, after a repost from a friend on FB with this mugshot, I get Beulah.
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| The face of sheer boredom, October 2020 |
I was pretty sure I was down for a bully breed, so numerous in the shelters, and I was forewarned by the shelter that Beulah's dog reactivity meant she'd always be a solo dog. Reasonable....I am a solo person. A senior should not be waiting in a shelter to die. A senior would also be a shorter term commitment for a commitment-phobe like me. The scars on her face and her legs were accompanied by checkered, uncertain past, a fear-aggression towards other dogs, a cautionary tale about a run in with a Husky at a dog park that led to her being returned by a foster to the shelter. Silly, I thought - anyone who knew her for 10 minutes knew she was not a social dog to take to a dog park. Setting about the task of getting to know her, I dusted off my Rules of Dog and conscientiously fulfilled my solemn duties. They didn't seem like duties, though - just accommodations anyone would make for a new roommate. One who depended on you utterly.
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| Meet cute |
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| Gotcha day (cr: S. Talbott) |
A dog must have a bed to dream in. Probably a few beds, for optimal dreaming. A dog must have a fenced yard, and be walked at least 2x a day for at least 30 minutes each time. A dog must have the finest fresh foods your disposable income allows. A dog should probably have a bone-shaped pillow. A dog needs a fuzzy pink waterproof blanket on the couch. A dog should be free-ranging, full-access, and provided a window to look out of at all times. A reactive dog should be helped to understand that she didn't have to fight anyone anymore, and that turning around and walking the other direction was the best course of action. A dog's environment should be managed so that she does not eat a tampon and go to the vet for a $500 "intestinal misadventure." A dog should be effusively applauded for managing the back yard bunny infestation.
A dog only gets so many springs, though, so you should allow her all the time she needs to whuffle in the new grass, lay for awhile on the warming concrete, and sniff the delectable March breeze, ripe with cow manure and the diesel from the neighbor's lawnmower. While you're waiting, you can wonder at how much more information she's getting on that breeze than you are. She usually faces west, so you try it, focusing on the air. You both sit like that for 20, 30 minutes sometimes.
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| Zen and the Art of Sniffing to the West |
So Beulah Belle - or BB, so named by the dogwalker who saves you both when you break your ankle - becomes an expected, comfortable part of the fabric of this new sedentary life you lead. At some point, she'd had all her ambition and moxy abused or neglected out of her, so every interaction with the world is cautious and reserved - why bother emoting if no one's looking, or if it just draws attention? The arthritis in her back also means it's probably painful to wag her tail, so she saves that for very special occasions, when she's VERY happy to see you, or reactive enough not to notice the pain. She has no use for toys and is a little offended you keep asking. She diligently chases the rabbits out of our garden, for which she is handsomely rewarded with butcher bones and booty skritches. The fur on her booty is a different texture, more coarse and wavy than the rest of her. It helps you orient to the part of her back that is tender vs the part she appreciates a good double-handed skritch on.
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| Booty waves |
She oversees the comings and goings of all the furniture you buy, then return, then replace, as you fill up the house with things for her to lie on. She eventually stops snapping at buses coming up from behind you as you walk, stops redirecting aggression onto the leash upon seeing another dog (usually); but her sweetness to people never waivers, to the delight of a small army of neighbors, visiting friends, tradespeople, all surprised when her rippling physique is belied by her hopeful, derpy fatalism. The velvet geometry of her impressive jaw matches perfectly with the curve of your ankle, when lounging on the couch, drifting to sleep, or when she regrets to inform you, in her quiet, insistent way, that you are done quilting for the night.
And as it turns out, an old dog CAN learn new tricks. To your complete surprise, she makes some dog friends: another bully girl, sweetest landseal on stocky legs, breaks the ice with her sunny nature and intuitive respect for a nervous old dog's space. The unthreatening neighbor puppy, desperate for companionship, is safely behind a fence and easily left behind if he gets to be too much. Your brother's enormous chocolate lab, literally twice her size, is uncomplicatedly delighted by his tentative new friend. She follows him around like a white shadow. She buries her bones in the couch, her snorting and biting and arranging of the cushions making you laugh with the ridiculousness and rejoice at her growing confidence; that she can interact with her world and change it to suit her, that she knows she can come back to this bone later, that she belongs here forever. She likes to lounge on her back sometimes, feet in the air, looking like an Easter ham but as relaxed as she could possibly be.
Her farts could fell an elephant, but you don't really mind much. Hey, you're no prize to live with either. You suit each other: two old snappy, farty broads, sniffing the breeze on the patio, sharing the couch, maintaining a cheek on a foot or a paw on an leg, to anchor.
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| Bed #4 |
The changes are so gradual when you live with someone day after day. And then they are SO fast. You can't see a frosty face as much on a white dog, but you might catch a hind leg lagging behind its fellows, or a huffy reluctance to get up on the bed. If you impatiently yell at an aging dog, especially one feeling vulnerable with failing eyesight and stiffening joints, the wounded confusion in her clouding eyes might stab needles in your heart for weeks afterwards. You might suddenly realize that the vet's persistence as respects pain meds is no longer a suggestion for a future eventuality. A dog needs some stairs to get up on the bed now. A dog needs blander food after that pancreatitis scare, help cleaning where she can't reach to lick, a heating pad for the arthritis. A dog needs you to be vigilent for signs she is ailing: a new lump on her belly, a shorter distance she can go before panting, an accident she tries to hide.
Still, though, there are days so good you can breathe easy. It's coming, but it's not now. Today she jumped on the chair to bark at those goddamn corgis across the street. Today she ate her whole breakfast in one go. Today she ran in the yard like a puppy through the dying leaves.
Today when she was napping, you heard a noise you've never heard before and look over to see her thumping her tail happily in her sleep. A dog dreams of running - but not of running away. Not anymore.
Perhaps a dog needs a companion? Someone else to get her through the tough times ahead?
Enter Bix, March 2023. He is supposed to be 6 or 7 years old - turns out he might be like 18 months. That was not the match you were thinking of, two seniors tottering their way through their golden years. He is energetic in a way she'll never be, now. But he learns that his play style scares her, learns to sniff politely and leave her alone. They reach detente quickly, both eager to avoid any trouble. We work out where everyone eats and sleeps, establish separate walk schedules, fall into a new routine. You are a ridiculous dog lady now, have made dogs your whole personality, buy them the special bones they each like at different stores and scrupulously give them the precisely same number of treats and pats. You can't help but wonder if you've made her life a little worse, though, by bringing him home. She was fine: it was you who needed backup storage for your heart. Because you know.
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| A rare cuddle - you can almost hear the long-suffering deep sigh out of BB |
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| Popcorn vultures on movie night |
But.
A dog only gets so many springs. And an old dog might not see her next.
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| Sniff Westward, Angel |
The lump you found was metastatic, after the first surgery wasn't enough to catch it. She won't make it through another anesthesia. You weigh chemo with its side-effects and realize with dawning horror it does not add time appreciably to her future. Her laggy back leg stops supporting her entirely. Embarrassed, she is slower to get up from the faceplants during your walks, which are down to a minimal 10-15 minutes. She doesn't even notice the accidents in the house now. She needs help up the stairs to the bed, sometimes prefers to just sleep in the living room where it's easier for her to pace, drink water, pace at night. Bix sniffs her surgery scar - interested, concerned - then her swollen lymph node, then her head. One day you look up from your phone to see him, who knows she prefers her space, touching one paw to her and looking directly at you. She doesn't even protest. This seems portentous and sad, even as you argue with yourself that you anthropomorphize your pets too much. He was probably just stretching.
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| A dog's sense of smell is 10,000x better than a human's. And they probably aren't living in denial. |
She hasn't, you realize, stretched out on her back in some time. Weeks. Months, maybe. A rabbit freezes unnoticed as she limps by.
Now, when she puts her head on your foot, she is asking a question. Or maybe answering one. You've lived with her longer than any previous roommate.
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| Last day |
You had her for three springs and she didn't make the fourth.
You curse yourself for missing the first 10 or so springs she had without you, without knowing, maybe, that she was safe, that she didn't have to fight anyone, that she could bury her bones if she wanted and they'd be there for her later.
What do I know about dogs?
A dog is a bottomless heart you pour your love into, without expectation, because she must be loved. A dog is a wounded glance that excoriates your shithead soul. A dog is a tail wagging, happy to see you, even when it hurts. A dog is a tentative nose boop, light as a spider, reminding you to put your damn phone down and go to sleep.
A dog needs a space to dream of being happy, and a foot to nestle and a rabbit to chase. She needs someone to witness the time passing. She needs someone to love her for all the springs she has left in her, right up until the second that her impressive velvet jaw goes heavy in your hand and she finally doesn't feel the arthritis anymore.
A dog is brief as a good dream, and you must skritch it with both hands while you can.
Miss you forever, Beulah Belle. Thank you for teaching me to walk a little slower, and love a little faster.
besos,
Astrid
