When I was pretty young, my family got what was called a toy apricot poodle (“toy” referring to her size and “apricot” to her expected color, though she wound up not being apricot after all). My dad threatened to name her “Cat” but we ultimately settled on the pretty obvious “Bo Peep.” She was a cute little dog with a lot of personality.
More than once she was run over (accidentally) by bicycles, and once my mother accidentally slit her throat while grooming her (thankfully she just buttonholed the skin). She loved popcorn and would pretty much maul you to get a piece of bread. She could do some of the basic tricks on command and would also dance (twirling around in a sort of hopping circle) if you twirled a treat above her head.
She lived to be 17 or 18 years old, and by the end, she was pretty well blind and she had a sickly sweet odor about her. I believe my dad finally put her down while I was away at college.
The pictures below show her mostly at a cute phase of her early life in 1982, though in the one shot from 1989, she looks sort of evil, guarding that horrible 70s couch alongside some handsome devil, mostly out of frame, sporting a fashionable pair of what were then called jams.
Earl, over the last couple of months, has finally become a lap kitty. Our other cat — Aster — still mostly likes to stand on my book when I lie down and try to read, and she’s otherwise mostly aloof. She was my favorite of the two for a while, but a new favorite is emerging.
Earl doesn’t usually hang out with me very much. When he was brand new (he’s about two years old now), he spent much of my workday napping in my office, often enough bundled up inside my sweater to keep warm in the winter chill. Now he won’t deign to sit on my lap or even on the same piece of furniture as me. So of course I crave his attention and follow him around the house to pick him up so that I can hug him and pet him and squeeze him and name him George. (Actually, full of self-conscious humor at the silliness of it all, I do smoosh him and nuzzle him and kiss him and call him love muffin and snugglepuss.) This morning, he hopped up onto my new desk for a quick rest and then moved in for a closer look as I typed. It was a rare treat.
Over the last year or two, we had started to be visited pretty frequently by a beautiful stray cat with large paws, snaggle teeth, an ear nicked from, we presumed, fighting, and thick brown fur. He visited so regularly last fall and winter that he wore two paths in our yard between our fence and our back deck, where we would feed him when we found him peering through the windows of our back door.
When the temperature dropped down well below freezing last winter, we took him in one night for fear that he’d die of exposure, and he spent the night snuggled up among our feet in bed, purring. The next day, he took a foul and aggressive dump on our son’s bed, and we knew that the arrangement couldn’t continue (also, one of our other cats hates him, and there was a persistent fear that they would fight). Still, we made what shelter we could for him on the deck and continued to feed him and let him in for brief supervised visits to warm up during the cold months.
Then he disappeared for a good long while. We had been on a mission to fatten him up a bit but feared that we had failed. Of course, we also hoped that perhaps someone else might have taken him in.
A few months ago, he showed up suddenly well groomed (he had begun to accumulate big mats in parts of his fur) and wearing a collar naming him “Chance.” He had been adopted after all! His visits were less frequent, but we felt at least as if he was being properly taken care of.
A couple of weeks ago, he showed up again, still wearing the collar and still reasonably well groomed (if clearly still largely an outdoor cat) but shockingly thin. Perhaps, we thought, he had shat his new owner’s bed as well and had been turned out. We loaded up on fatty food to try to help fatten him up again, as he would visit two or three times a day. We called the number on his new tag and learned, thankfully, that he was still being cared for and was being fed three or four times a day by the folk who had taken him to the vet. They suspected a thyroid problem and were looking into medication for him.
We’ve since learned that the thyroid problem has been confirmed, and he’s on medication. He still stops by a couple of times a day on a lot of days, and he eats ravenously. Hopefully now he’ll begin to put on a little weight (he weighs about half what he should). It’s really pitiful how you can feel each rib, feel his shoulder blades, and tell that he’s mincing about rather than slinking as a cat should. We had discussed with his new owners (to the extent that one can really own a wandering cat) the mercy of putting him down if the thyroid medicine didn’t work out (things like cancer had proven negative), but now we can have at least a brief hope that he might get better.
I’ve never really been a cat person, though I’ve now owned cats for some 16 years of my life. Still, I’ve grown to enjoy Robin’s (for I can’t make myself actually call him Chance) visits. The kids sure love seeing him around. I hope we can fatten him up indeed, and if improving his health means we see less of him because his voracious appetite diminishes, I’ll be glad to see him any time he does drop by our back door with his snaggle teeth and nicked ear.
Well, I’m not one to get all weepy over a thing I’ve already mourned, but two things pertaining to our late pet Moby have made me want to post about him briefly again.
The first is that because our approach to photographing our lives has been irreparably damaged by the convenience of smart phones and the ubiquity of Facebook, so that we haven’t in a very long time used real cameras and carefully catalogued our photos in a useful way, I couldn’t find a photo of our pup when I wrote about losing him. I did recently come across a photo and wanted to put it somewhere easily searchable.
Somewhere we do have better pictures of him. There’s one of him as a tiny little guy biting hard on my nose. There are surely some of him running around in the yard. And I have recently seen one of him in a family photo in our backyard, tucked right in with the family as if we had been really good, attentive owners, but I don’t like sharing pictures of my kids in general, so I hadn’t posted that one. So here’s Moby at around Christmas in 2010. You can see a little cloud in his eyes, and he looks almost downtrodden and sad here. He had a sweet face and earnest eyes, however weird it sounds to describe a dog’s countenance in that way. The picture doesn’t really capture this.
The second thing I wanted to mention for my own future memory was a dream I had the other night. I dreamed that I was out in our yard, doing something under or near the deck, which is basically a death trap. Suddenly I looked up and here came Moby sidling up sheepishly, figuring he’d been a bad boy for staying away for so long. I think he may have been wearing one of the jaunty little bandanas that the groomers tended to put on him. The conclusion I drew in the dream — non-supernaturalist that I am — was that we had somehow mistakenly cared for and euthanized the wrong dog, that our Moby had simply gone AWOL somehow and left an unwell replacement behind. And so in the dream, I got my dog back. It was nice, but also sad.
About a dozen years ago, I visited my mother-in-law by myself for some reason or another, and what I found when I got there was a two-pup litter of dogs, little black and tan Terrier/Yorkie mixes who could just about fit in the palm of your hand. One had sleek, smooth fur and the other had little bits of fur that stuck up from his head. There was the coffee breath, the impossibly sharp yet endearing little teeth, the little puddle of warmth. I fell in love with the pup with the mussed hair and begged my wife to let me get him. She reluctantly acquiesced, and for several years, I was a reasonably good pet owner. We lived in an apartment without much room to run, but we would play with him in the little back yard area outside our apartment, and of course we walked him and treated him to a pretty ok life.
A few years later, we moved into a house in anticipation of having a child. We got a fenced in yard with plenty of room for what his meager running needs were. I suppose we began walking him less since he could have the run of the yard on demand. Then we had our daughter and life changed for everybody. Moby was the least among us, the last to get attention. Still, his name was among my daughter’s first few words, and I have vivid memories (and, somewhere, video) of her belly laughing as we toss a ball across the kitchen for him again and again.
When we anticipated our second child, we moved to a bigger house with a substantially bigger yard. Moby was beginning to get a little age on him then, was less inclined to run the whole yard. It always struck me as odd that he’d play fetch for ages inside, with the ball ricocheting off the baseboards, but you could never get him to go for more than one or two even modest tosses outside. Turn on the water hose and he would go nearly rabid, running and leaping at the water, snapping at it with his teeth and growling.
Having two kids didn’t make us much better pet owners. Moby became essentially a piece of furniture that made lots of irritating noise if someone happened to have the nerve to walk within viewing distance of the front of our house and that woke me up in the middle of the night probably three or four nights a week needing to go out and pee. More and more, he became my wife’s dog, and he would follow her around. I’ve felt guilty for a long time about the crappy pet owner I became.
As the kids grew up, they played with him some and probably would have played with him more had we set a better example. The only thing my tender-hearted daughter asked for for Christmas this year other than books was for toys for Moby and her cat. She loved him, would hug him even though he didn’t often much want to be hugged in the way kids tend to hug pets.
Moby was mostly in good health. We took him to the emergency vet once when he was pretty young, and it was inconsequential enough in the long run that I forget what the issue was (probably lots of vomiting). Once when trimming his nails, we clipped a blood vessel in the hollow of the nail and he bled all over the house, and I remember how awful I felt. If you ever graze that blood vessel, you try to get corn starch on the nail to stanch the bleeding. At least that’s what we were counseled to do and what we did, with ok results. A few years ago, we noticed that when he would run, his back legs would go kind of limp mid-stride, not to the point that he couldn’t support himself, but just in such a way that they looked kind of floppy. Just as quickly, they’d stop. We learned that this sort of disjointedness wasn’t terribly uncommon in dogs of his type. A couple of years ago, a vet said his heart didn’t sound the best, but there wasn’t much cause for immediate concern. His eyes were beginning to show the faintest hint of cataracts, and he had developed a lump in the skin of his throat that the vet had previously tried to test and ultimately decided that, at Moby’s age, it was best just to leave alone. He was slowing down as he aged but seemed fine — still full of spunk if somebody came to the door, for example — until the last couple of days.
Yesterday he became very lethargic and his breathing became labored and slurpy. He lay around listlessly, and we took him to the vet. X-rays showed nothing, and the vet said it was an infection. We got some pills in him and figured this would pass once the antibiotics and anti-inflammatory drugs started to take effect. He would drink no water, threw up a few times, and continued to be more and more listless as the day wore on, to the point that we carried him upstairs to the bedroom and made a special little palette by the bed for him. He woke me up in the night (of course — good old Moby couldn’t get out of that routine even feeling his worst), and I carried him downstairs and put him in the grass. He sat there for a minute before finally trying to do his business in the yard, with generally unsatisfactory results. I brought him back in and slept through until the morning.
This morning while I was working upstairs, I could hear him breathing from downstairs and went down to bring him up to be with me in the office. His nose was pretty clogged, and I tried to help him out there, offered him some water, petted him a bit. He napped for a little while, restlessly, before ambling off while I was distracted with work. My wife returned home and watched over him a little. He took his medicine but couldn’t keep it down, and he threw up any time he even just drank water. Late this afternoon, I came downstairs for a drink and discovered that he had thrown up some more and was clearly feeling worse. We decided to take him to the vet again, and by the time I picked him up to put him in the car (he wasn’t fit to walk), he had made himself a puddle.
I could tell from the vet’s face when she first looked at him that it wasn’t going to be a great visit. She listened to his heart, looked at his gums — which were suddenly grayish yellow — and said that with the inability to keep anything down, this was clearly liver failure. She could put fluid and antibiotics in him via IV but didn’t feel like he stood a chance of returning to good health. There were the impending cataracts, the lump, and Moby’s age to consider. While I held him during my visit, he leaked yellow fluid all over me, and there were other effluvia of various colors and points of origin. He was not well. He would not get better. It was time to let Moby go.
I called my wife, who brought the children over to say goodbye (I didn’t want to subject Moby to the further jostling of another car ride). After a few last minutes sitting with Moby in my lap in the springtime sun with the children petting him and crying, I took Moby back into the vet’s office.
Sometimes you read a touching story about a dog who has died like this one by a friend or this one by Neil Gaiman. Even if you’re a hard-ass as I tend to be, these things can make you feel for the dogs, for the owners who loved them so. I had been at best a mediocre caretaker for Moby. I petted him more in the last 18 hours of his life than I probably had in the prior 18 months combined. Hard-hearted bastard though I am, I had to bite my lip to keep it from jumping around my face in grief when I spoke with the vet about Moby’s next steps. It was hard to keep the tremble out of my voice and the mist out of my eyes. I suppose I contained my sadness more than many would, but for me it was a veritable opening of the floodgates. I feel sad that my children have to experience this (and they are of course devastated). I guess I probably feel a lot of guilt. I should have been a better caretaker.
The vet injected Moby with a massive dose of anesthesia. I continued to pet him, and as she pushed the plunger on the syringe, she said that I might want to hold his chin in my hand. I did, and his head relaxed into my hand, and he went limp and still. The slurpy breathing had stopped. The quaking he had sometimes been doing had stopped. She held a stethoscope to his chest and told me that his heart had stopped.
I brought him home wrapped in the soiled towel I had brought him in, sealed in a cardboard box, and we drove to the home he was born in to bury him with the various other pets who’ve lived and died there over the years. We stopped and bought a peach tree to plant next to his grave. My daughter buried with him his harness and one of the pet toys she had gotten for Christmas. The affair was surprisingly less somber than I had imagined it would be.
The children will cry every day for days, I imagine. My daughter asks again and again why Moby had to die, and it’s both strange and understandable, since this is a hard thing, death, even for adults, and I think it must be hard for her to imagine that it’s a real thing. When my mom died, I remember being sort of astonished that this was a thing that happened to people that was now happening to me even though it wasn’t a scenario I had really ever imagined it was possible might happen to me.
In a few weeks, when the blackberry patch near Moby’s grave starts producing berries, we’ll go back for a visit. We’ll look at his grave and water the tree. Then we’ll wade into the mire of blackberry bushes and pick our baskets full and our fingers and lips purple, delighting in the sweetness of the fruit and the jam to come, the greedy thorns be damned.