The Price We Pay

I've known for a while that The Time, that dreaded time for all pet owners, is rapidly approaching for my faithful, stalwart old dog. That's the thing about pets. They bring joy, they get us through a lot, they provide beautifully nonjudgmental love, they enrich our lives--but we outlive them, generally speaking. The more dedicated and frequent a pet owner you are, the more likely you are to have to make a painful decision at some point.

Throughout the winter and spring of 1998, I was looking to adopt a dog. I'd been a cat owner and dedicated Cat Person pretty much my whole life. The only time I don't remember sharing my home with a cat or cats was the four years I spent in college. But I felt like I was ready to take the leap and get a dog. I researched the living crap out of that. I watched the Westminster Dog Show, read all kinds of books on dog breeds and dog owning and dog training techniques. And I'd been volunteering at the local humane society for the past year, so I was pretty familiar with the dogs that were there. I even had the "doggie maternity leave" planned--I'd settled on Memorial Day weekend to get a dog, and scheduled the following two weeks off from work for housetraining and other bonding activities. A number of pooches caught my eye in the weeks leading up to the momentous occasion, but one eventually caught my heart. "Tippy" was around two years old, maybe a little younger, and had been in the institution since the previous December. He'd been live-trapped out in one of those semi-rural developments surrounded by cornfields. Probably going through trash cans in the alleys. He was scruffy, for sure, resembling a cross between The Tramp (as in, "Lady and the Tramp") and one of the Ewoks from Star Wars. I don't really know what drew me to him--in fact, my first choice was a beautiful cross between a Chow and a Golden Retriever. But someone else adopted her the week before, and Tippy in the meantime went outside in the dog run with me a few times and somehow seemed relaxed and confident that he'd found the right person. So, Tippy was renamed Kerouac, for Jack Kerouac, since he'd obviously spent some time "On The Road," and he came home with me. Kerouac is kind of a mouthful for a name, so he quickly became Wacko to his friends.

The first few months were not without some difficult adjustments. The cats didn't love him at first (and Tango still hates him). It took him a while to get over his trepidation around adult men. He'd never really had any training at all. And his likely mix of breeds--Chow Chow, some type of terrier or schnauzer, and some variety of shaggy sheepdog--did not exactly produce Lassie. I did enroll him in an obedience class. He managed to earn a "gentleman's C," and quickly became the class clown. Sit and Down were pretty easy for him, Come and Heel were hit or miss, and Stay was generally more miss than hit. After all, why should you park yourself in one spot like those stupid brown-nosing German Shepherds and Labs, when it's so much more entertaining to wander around wagging your tail and sniffing your classmates' butts? I didn't mind so much. After all, I'd spent my whole life around cats. I still have never completely gotten over the novelty of having a pet that when you say "sit," will actually generally sit. A cat will just stare blankly at you and then go back to its nap or butt-cleaning or whatever it was doing that's far more worthwhile than your silly little endeavors.

In the intervening years, Wacko got me through a lot. I had a few pretty down periods. It's good to have a dog when you're depressed, I think. Cats are good cozy company, but quite honestly, they're perfectly happy to have you spend all your time crying on the couch, making a lap for them, eating pints of Ben and Jerry's and watching C-SPAN and Animal Planet (not that I've ever done that). A dog will provide snuggly comfort and sympathy, too, but still really requires you to get your butt off the couch and do stuff with him. Wacko saw me through a Man Trouble or two, the acquisition of two children, and eventually marriage. He happily hopped in the U-Haul when I packed my kids and my life up four years ago and moved to Cleveland, and has been a steady and good-natured companion for almost 13 years now.

He spent most of those years just astonishing people. Even past the age of 10, he made people think he was just barely out of puppyhood. When I used to take him to the local dog park for a weekly doggie play group, the only dogs he couldn't beat in speed and agility were a pair of Border Collies (and even that was close). He had leading man looks with a goofy sidekick personality, an almost irresistible combination. He has always been, quite simply, the best dog I could have ever asked for or hoped to have. But he's in serious decline now. It started a couple of years ago when he threw his back out. He recovered, mostly, but he slowed down noticeably after that. He had increasing difficulty getting up and down the slick, hardwood floor stairs inside the house. Then, this past summer, he came down with a vicious bout of this, and has really never fully recovered from it. His cognition is suffering, too. He often seems to get confused about where he is or what he's supposed to be doing, and sometimes it freaks him out. He moves very slowly and with real difficulty--he not only can't manage the indoors stairs, but the concrete ones outside either. He's started over the past few weeks to develop lots and lots of fatty lumps all over his body. The simple task of walking across the floor is now a heartbreaking struggle.

Outside, it's currently the dregs of a Great Lakes winter. That never used to bother him--even as recently as last year, he loved the snow. Now, he just seems to want to come inside and not brave the elements. A good day used to be running a few miles until he was happily exhausted, and if he was lucky finding something smelly and disgusting to roll in along the way. These days, a good day is one where he doesn't fall down very many times or poop himself in his sleep. The past couple of weeks, the bad days have started to outnumber the good ones. And, to put it plainly, I've run out of excuses. We didn't want to end his days over the holidays or anybody's birthday, but those have passed. We're left with the question of how much joy has to go out of his life before we can bring ourselves to end it for him. As anyone knows who's ever faced it, I just hate that question, because there is no good answer, only painful ones.

So, tonight, we came to the sad but inevitable decision. I'm going to call the vet in the morning and schedule his last appointment. It will be very terrible but it's what caring, responsible pet owners eventually have to do, sooner or later. I'll be a wreck for a while but it will get better. The girls will absorb it with the elasticity that youth affords, though I think they will be sad as well. Inspired by their buddy Lily's new puppy, they'll soon ask when we can get another dog, and I'll put them off for a while. I need to be sad and remember Wacko--and, frankly, I'm just not sure I can get it this right again. And, of course, we still have the fart-head cats. But I know I'll want another dog. And between the cats and whatever dog makes its way in to our lives, we'll face this painful question again and again. It's the price we pay for what they give us.

Good doggie.