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Just a dog
The vet has not given up. He will be coming home tonight rehydrated, the poppy’s blessed gift in his veins, in a bottle of pills for later.
No betrayed look as he was led into the vet’s back room. We’d sat on the floor together, the doctor talking about humps and getting past them, and yet the final subject came up, was spoken at last. She can refer us to someone who will come to the house, when it is time.
All the walks delayed, all the impatient shoves when he blocked the hall, all the times I averted my eyes from his as I slipped out the front door, sometimes for days. He would not sleep for the first two days I was gone. He would wait for me by the front window. Opportunities lost.
On Sunday I left as he watched, hiked without him. A dog his size trotted along a trail the way he used to, and I will never see that again. He crab-walked down to the park today, falling every twenty feet and yet unwilling to turn back. I carried him back up the hill, his usual admirers slumping fatalistic shoulders as we passed.
I dread having the same conversation with them a hundred times in a week.
Just a dog, but he is my dog and far more important, I am his. He has had a good long life and I do not care that he has had a good long life. I am not ready. He is just a dog in a world of more important things, and I do not care. I would trade my sight to clear his eyes, my legs to make his whole. I would trade thirty years of my life for one more painless year for him, one more chance to run along a trail eyes shining.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Very moving. My thoughts are with you guys. Hugs from me and nips from the boston terrier in my life.
By: By Amber on 2006 09 21
I’ve never met you or your dog, but this has me in tears. I want to hug Zeke and put soothing warm things on his owie joints. My beloved dog (a labrador named Abigail) left my life nearly ten years ago at the ripe old age of fourteen, and I know exactly what you mean by what you would trade for him. It’s a cruel fact that we outlive our animals, whom we love like our children and who depend on us even more.
Give Zeke a hug and a scritch from a perfect stranger on the internet. He’s a good dog.
By: By Kathryn on 2006 09 21
My memory may be playing tricks with me, but I think one of the first huge cracks in my Christian faith (such as it was - I was 9 or 10) was learning that dogs didn’t have souls and couldn’t go to heaven. If they don’t have souls, nobody does. And Heaven without dogs? Fuck that noise. Let me romp in the fields of Hades, or wherever, with them.
By: By Rob G on 2006 09 21
Nothing in the world like the love of a good dog.
By: By Fat Doug Lover on 2006 09 21
Te amo, tío, y el te ama también, y sabe que tú le amas. Es todo lo que podemos querer, ¿no? Nadar en un mar de amor, del nacimiento hasta la oscuridad final. (O el fin brillante, ¿quien sabe?) Y eso es lo que tuvo nuestro chiquito querido. No importa, yo sé. Pero todavía la verdad.
By: By Kat on 2006 09 21
My comment to the last post was “Please.” I meant, “Please, let there be some more time for you together with him.” And the “you” is interchangeable with the “him.” I don’t really know you, we’ve never met, but please know that I understand every word of your post and that my heart is breaking for you.
By: By Charles on 2006 09 21
My heart goes out to Zeke and y’all.
Love,
Hanna
By: By Hanna on 2006 09 21
I would like to visit Zeke. I really love him.
By: By Rita Xavier on 2006 09 21
“He is just a dog in a world of more important things, and I do not care. I would trade my sight to clear his eyes, my legs to make his whole. I would trade thirty years of my life for one more painless year for him, one more chance to run along a trail eyes shining.”
If there’s a better description of what it’s like to love someone (and Zeke is *definitely* a “someone”), I haven’t seen it.
By: By Dr. Free-Ride on 2006 09 21
It does little good, but my love to you and Zeke.
By: By Amanda Marcotte on 2006 09 21
I cannot even read what you are going through without tears for you. I’ve been through this not a few times and there is no cure for the loss or the regret for lost opportunities. It might help to remember that it is Zeke’s evaluation of the love between you that is important here. I’ve read a lot that you have written about your life with Zeke and I’d have a hard time coming up w/some reason to think he found your love for him lacking.
My terrier MacGuffin still shows up 3 years after holding him in my lap in the front yard while the vet helped him out of his pain. Three years and out of the corner of my eye he still shows up, checking in, checking on me. The loss is profound and permanent. I am so sorry.
By: By Irene Gillooly on 2006 09 21
Not one more bad thing. I don’t think I can take it. (Sorry, I do actually know this isn’t about me. Nevertheless… *sniff*)
Sending strength…
By: By Space Kitty on 2006 09 21
Chris, my heart goes out to you and Zeke. I would say stay strong, but damnit, it’s hard to be strong during times like this.
And that’s ok.
Much love.
By: By kevin Andre Elliott on 2006 09 21
I’ve seen more than one cat off to the Elysian Fields. Yes, I never stop missing them; never stop thinking I see them out of the corner of my eye, hear them in the quiet of the night. When I’m half-asleep and feel a cat walking up the bed towards me, I often wonder for a fuddled moment whether it’s one of my living kitties or one of my sweet, sweet ghosts. When I think seriously about an afterlife, I find I want the best one for them more than I want it for me.
I’ll echo what others have said.
Never ever doubt that Zeke knows he’s been loved every minute of every day he’s lived with you. Never ever doubt that he knows he’s been valued as much as he’s been loved - which, with dogs, counts just as much if not more. He has mattered for more than lovies and adventure: he has saved you and Becky; he has done his dogly duty to protect and strengthen his pack, and he’s been champion at it.
By: By CaseyL on 2006 09 21
To a baby-faced dog.
xxoo
By: By Lauren on 2006 09 21
Ah! I am so sorry that you have to go through that.
I’ve been dealing with my own pet issues. My little Quaker Parakeet, Wicket, has been picking his feathers for many years. But now, it has gotten worse, as he has started picking at himself. Quite scary. I found a good support forum online, which helps. I was considering having to put him down, but the group has been helping me out with trying to deal with it in other ways first. I tried Haliperidol last month to see if it would calm him down and stop his picking, but it had no effect.
So now, I’m going to try another drug out..and get a ‘bird collar’. I hope that something helps this, otherwise I will have to put him down and he’s only 12 yrs old (Quakers can live for 30 or so years) I will keep on trying different meds till one works for him.
Carolyn :-(
By: By Carolyn on 2006 09 21
I have no words for you, except that I’m thinking of you & your wonderful pup-pup, Zeke.
By: By Phyllis on 2006 09 21
Oh. Man.
So very sorry to hear it.
By: By Timothy Burke on 2006 09 21
When it was time for my old dog Painter, my vet arranged to do it in the back seat of our car. We drove to his office. Even after her last very difficult night, Painter perked up a little when we took her out to the car, because she was going for a ride, and rides were full of possibilities.
No way to make this easy for you, but know that many of us have gone down the road before you and Zeke.
Peace to you and yours.
By: By lavalamp on 2006 09 21
I just had to bury a rat. I tried to avoid any of the other animal graves (all marked with flat rocks), but brought up a cat skull, Yorick-fashion.
I don’t know if it was Butler, or Sugar, or maybe even Ollie, who died before I met my wife. No matter. The skull went into the hole alongside Ratzilla.
And all of a sudden I’m glad we haven’t kept a dog in nearly twenty years.
By: By John M. Burt on 2006 09 22
A paragraph from A Dog’s Prayer. “And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight,do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands gant me the merciful boon of eternal rest, and i will leave you knowing with the last breath i drew,my fate was ever safest in your hands. Good dog Zeke
By: By Doris Bennett on 2006 09 22
I’ve forbidden Junebug from aging.
It’s not working—every day those little patches of white hairs on her muzzle keep inviting more friends over.
I know you’ll do what’s best for him, no matter how hard it is on you.
By: By zuzu on 2006 09 22
To die in the company of those closest; is more than many of us can hope for. Take strength from that. You deserve it.
By: By Central Content Publisher on 2006 09 22
May you and your sweet, never-just-a-dog hang in there. To have written something so heartbreaking for him shows how much heart there is between you.
By: By George on 2006 09 22
Chris,
I’m so sorry. I love Zeke and I’ve never even met him. I’ve been following his (lately slow-moving) adventures here and have grown to love him. Big kisses to him from me.
By: By jane on 2006 09 22
Dear Chris, I wish you strength and peace in this difficult moment. It is so hard to lose a beloved member of your family, one who will never be “just a dog.” Thinking of you.
By: By Fiorentina on 2006 09 22
I’m so sorry.
I was thinking the other day of the sort of “online intimacy” thing, where you can feel you know someone just on the strength of a few posts.
I’ve found it doesn’t only apply to humans (just as friendship and grief don’t)... I’ve grown to love this dog I’ve never met, through the stories you’ve told, the pictures, and your relationship with him, even though if I saw him on the street I would be (initially) terrified.
I was out walking not too long ago, when I came to an open field that was along my way… usually filled with those little ground squirrels, but this time there was a big dog in the field as well. Now normally, after my heart attack, I would turn right around and go back home, or look for a fence or pickup truck to climb over/into, or walk out into traffic or something… but this dog resembled Zeke, so I just stopped at the edge of a field (close to house with a fence, though) and watched for a moment. The dog glanced over at me and thereafter ignored my existence. I took a couple of steps and it still paid no attention to me so I kept going, and walked past a loose, big dog. And on the way home, I walked past it again. Not much to most people, but major for me. “Maybe he’s like Zeke” has become a sort of touchstone for me.
Small comfort, I know - and possibly it appears more self-serving than not, although it’s not meant to be… but know that his spirit, his essential “Zekeness” has reached far beyond just the confines of his life there, and will continue to do so for some time to come.
By: By Nanette on 2006 09 22
We walk along this road, a lonely one, and all we see is yet another turn around a dark corner. Then a friend appears, joins in and walks by our side. It’s easier to travel this way, easier to lend out a helping hand or paw. Someone to share with, someone to curl against, someone who takes care of us and lets us take care in return. It’s good and it’s right.
Then the roads diverge and it hurts to be alone, all the empty places hurt. But we did what we could, we did the right thing, we helped each other a little, and we got something we treasure, even in memory.
So we walk alone for a while, remembering and missing and wondering if the friend will be there, waiting, when we reach our destinations, if the friend will rise up and meet us with a ferocious wag and lick and a lot of happiness. And in the meanwhile another friend might turn up and walk alongside us. For a while.
By: By Echidne of the snakes on 2006 09 22
Oh, Chris. This is the first time I’ve read your blog, and it has left me sobbing uncontrollably. There is no such thing as “just” a dog. A good dog like Zeke is one of the best things in life. I’m giving my lab Muttboy an extra hug for your good boy.
By: By BikeProf on 2006 09 22
It hurts so bad, and yet the time you spend with an animal is worth all the pain. When you sign on to sharing life with an animal, you do it knowing that almost certainly, you will help your animal friend leave this world. (And, when you think of it, how could you want it any other way? I so appreciate the efforts of rescue groups in taking care of animals whose people have died and left them behind.)
Zeke - as do all of our animal buddies - needs you now. Maybe he’ll pass in his sleep. But these dear friends of ours…well, they don’t got the opposable thumbs, and their little legs can’t reach the accelerator, so they need us to do the hard stuff. They count on us to do the hard stuff, and I really believe they know we are just doing the best we can, and that they forgive us if we wait too long, or if we act a little too soon.
I don’t have an animal companion of my own, but I take care of a lot of dogs and cats. Some of them are getting on, some are pups or kits. Max the Bedlington terrier is 15, and is sturdy but has serious dental problems that I suspect will shorten his life. Zoie is just 8, but I think she has arthritis in her shoulder, and I love her so much that I worry about a world without her. Havana is nearly 12 and can’t hike any more. But she loves to swim. I will be taking care of her for three weeks (starting next week) and I’m praying for a heat wave so we can swim together every day.
They are not my animals, or my clients, or my clients’ animals…they’re my friends.
Best wishes to you and Zeke.
By: By larkspur on 2006 09 22
Chris, I’m so sorry. I’m an animal lover and have been to that place many times. It never gets easier, and you never stop loving them, and they never stop loving you.
Peace to Zeke. Tell him Shadow and Jubilee, long gone, always in my heart, are waiting to play with him!!
By: By Lizzy L on 2006 09 23
aww. zekie.
By: By kathy a on 2006 09 23
Goddamn Chris, I very rarely cry and certainly not a work. Your writing has touched me many times and today I cried at my desk for you, Becky, and Zeke. Thank you for sharing your grief with us. I really should cry more often.
By: By Jennifer on 2006 09 25
Chris,
I know you might not read this, but your writing and your love for Zeke is touching. I wrote on my blog about my beloved Sam who left me after 13 years last February. You don’t get over losing a dog after this long. You merely go on.
By: By sheila on 2006 10 02
Categories:
Zeke
