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Monday, January 29, 2007
Zeke has settled in. The sun is streaming through the window onto his bed. I need but lay him down in a comfortable spot and he goes to sleep within seconds.
I go into the garage, hoping the fire door will muffle any sounds.
Weeping has always bothered Zeke, upset his digestion, made him lick his lips in anxiety. Deep full-throated sobs make him tremble. Back in September when we first started our glissade down this slope, Becky pulled me out of a day-long fit by asking me to keep up a brave front for Zeke. It worked. It worked well. Even from the car he could summon up my ancestral Brit reserve from the id’s vasty deep, keep me stock-straight and silent as the veterinary assistants prepared his prescription. Nothing more than a silent tear leaked out as I handed over the credit card. They would all have forgiven me, and I am far from shy about such things, but Zeke’s comfort is more important than mine this week. And there was the drive home to consider.
“There comes a point where we have to start to advocate for the pet,” he said. “It can be hard to see what needs to be done when you’re so close.”
“I have all day,” I thought, standing at that counter for a million years. “I have the day alone and then the conversation with Becky. This can wait.”
The shed is out back, unfinished. It was three years ago we started working on it, putting in new windows and door, taking out an inner wall. I would wire it, I said, and put in walls and shelves, and quit my job and write, and Zeke could spend all day sleeping at my feet, wandering out into the garden to stretch. He has a peaceable kingdom in the garden. He stands there and the sparrows forage between his feet, and then he’d let me know the rain had started by rubbing sodden fur against my knees. And 2004 passed, and 2005, and the spider webs grew thick over the new windows. I’ve started work anew, but my schedule is eaten up with watching him. I will not finish in time.
A team of carpenters would not finish in time.
“You can be there to pick him up,” he said, “but one fall or another will break a bone.” I stifled a defensive protest. “He’s obviously been soiling himself for a while, and the weight loss? Three pounds in the last month. Yes, he ate a whole chicken yesterday, but he is starving. This is catabolic wasting.”
The phrase is quality of life, a damned vague standard. He takes a bit of pork loin from my fingers and his eyes flare. He makes the top of the hill and looks at me, a triumphant lupine grin spread across his face. He will keep on until he breaks, for me. He leans his shoulder against my shin as we stand together, rests his cheek on my shoulder as I carry him up the stairs. He will pace all night unless I sleep next to him in the living room. I did nothing to deserve such love, but I have it and must live up to it, up to that final act that reeks so badly of betrayal. My mind knows differently. My heart thinks my mind is a euthanizing Nazi.
“I think this week is the week you should consider,” he said.
Four lanes of high-speed traffic weave through the hills south of Martinez, past Muir’s old house and into Franklin Canyon. I drove five miles below the limit, then twenty above, then caught myself and slowed again. The new year takes hold in those hills this week, growth licking across the slopes a bright green flame. The mustard is blooming already in places, where the hills face south and the land is cupped to hold a bit of water. He used to run through fields of mustard taller than him, burst out back onto the trail eyes ablaze. Our first hike on Ring Mountain 15 years ago, some men drumming in an oak grove spooked him and he ran crazily away from me back down the hill. We did not know each other then and I imagined him lost, the first time of hundreds in a decade and a half, and yet he heard me call from a quarter mile away and ran back to me. He always came when I asked him to, and behind a street sweeper doing 50 in the right lane I could hold out no longer. He was asleep in the back seat of Becky’s car and my mouth gaped open in a silent wail, tears blurring the truck in front of me and I slowed to 45. How many years have I fretted about this, wasted valuable time that could have been spent walking with him? Always he was there, waiting for me to come back to the present. And I will never hike those hills with him again, never see that green flame with him again, the Earth and I will betray him by continuing to live without him, and I rolled down off the freeway and turned toward our house.
He struggled up from the back, stuck his head between the front seats grinning, touched his forehead to my arm.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Note: A database glitch in 2008 ate a bunch of archived comments. Don't be offended if yours isn't here, or confused if the conversation seems disjointed. Thanks!
I’m sorry, Chris. My love to you all.
By: By the_bone on 2007 01 29
Ah!
I am sorry, deeply sorry, for the three of you. Fat tears roll down my cheeks for your pain and the faith of your stalwart companion.
The only hope I have to offer is that you will know in your soul when it is time. Zeke will tell you, and you will not misunderstand.
By: By Crystal on 2007 01 29
Ah, Zekey.
I’m sorry, Chris.
By: By Vicki on 2007 01 29
(((( chris ))))
aw, zeke, you sweet lovely dog.
By: By kathy a on 2007 01 29
Sounds as if Zeek needs at last the most generous and difficult love of all - the love that lets go. You’ve given him the very best life a dog could ever have.
I’m sorry, Chris.
By: By MindSpin on 2007 01 29
Oh, no.
I’m so sorry.
By: By blondie on 2007 01 29
oh, I am so sorry.
a very gentle skritch, right where he likes it best…
By: By embee on 2007 01 29
My heart goes out to you. This is the hardest decision any pet owner must make. But it sounds like this is the most loving, courageous thing you can do for Zeke at this point. When the vet talks about “advocating for the pet,” it’s time. I only hope I have the courage to do the same when MY pet’s time comes…
Hang in there…
By: By Jennifer Ouellette on 2007 01 29
Weeping with you. When I was 20, I held my aging dachsund in my arms while the vet gave her a shot. He kindly made a house call, so she went to sleep at home in a familar place. I had had her since I was eight.
The great miracle was that I didn’t cry while the vet was with us; the moment he walked out of the house, I collapsed. That was 1987, and I still tear up about it.
Much love to you and yours.
By: By Hugo on 2007 01 29
Heartbroken for you. Already missing the best dog ever.
By: By ilyka on 2007 01 29
Zeke has taught you about love and living in the present moment. How blessed are you for having such a great teacher! How blessed am I to have had the opportunity to read about him. May you always be blessed and at peace.
By: By Steve on 2007 01 29
Thank you, all. This is harder than I could have anticipated, and yet somehow easier. Except not.
Xopher, the fact that I unbelieve in such stuff doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be appreciated. Thanks, friend.
By: By Chris Clarke on 2007 01 29
Dear Chris and Zeke,
I wrote you a long comment on an earlier post, but it didn’t make it to the page. Hopefully, this one will.
In the last 3 years, we have seen 5 of our old dogs pass away. Each and every time, we ALL knew when it was time. Each dog fought hard; some fought for days, while others fought for years. But, like another poster mentioned in an earlier post, each dog communicated to us in his/her own way when that time had come.
For one dog, it was a look and a whimper. When the whimpering continued, 24/7, we made the decision to help her along on her next journey. Another simply curled up and never left that spot. She died in her sleep. A third one knew what was happening before we did. The last time I tried to spoon-feed her the baby food, she simply put her head down and gave me the most empathetic look you can imagine; she knew it was hurting both of us. The next morning she went out into the yard, stretched out, yawned, and passed away. The fourth did followed the same routine after seeing her long-time friend go silently into that good night. The fifth was more like Zeke; she kept on keeping on, even when she couldn’t. Eventually, she too knew when it was time.
I wanted to share each of these stories - and LIVES - with you because I believe each dog knows its own time and will try to tell you. They are much smarter than we are, you know. And consider that Zeke is the smartest of the smartest.
I don’t think every person who is owned by a dog has the capacity to have the *connection* which will allow them to understand and feel what the dog knows. You do. When it’s time, Zeke will know first. Then, as you listen to him, you’ll figure out what he’s already known. When that happens, you’ll KNOW. Don’t rush it. Don’t delay it. Just follow the zen that Zeke has for all these years. Go with it. Now it’s time to follow his lead.
He will do his best to guide you down the right path at the right time. Forget your mind: you’ll know in your heart.
Love to all of you. And when it happens, however it may, please know that there are at least 5 dogs who can’t wait to run and romp with Zeke. He’s just their style.
More love, and kind thoughts.
-A-
By: By Amanda on 2007 01 29
From what I’ve seen recently with another dog with whom I’m acquainted, this place Zeke is in at the moment could go on quite a long time…. months….
I personally feel the vet is right to ask you to examine these things and at the same time, in my opinion, the decision remains one you must make with your sweet Zeke in mind because noone knows this dog the way you do.
I don’t know if I have already mentioned this to you. It was of some help to us with a cat who died of lung cancer a year ago. In her case, she completely withdrew from interaction and would not eat and the fluid that kept filling her chest cavity could not be relieved for more than about 36 hours at a time, each requiring a chest tap. The difficulty breathing and the withdrawal from life were what convinced us that she was suffering and that we had to ease that pain.
http://aah-abv.org/20060319_aaha_quality.pdf
I do not envy you this decision. It is “easier,” if that word can even be applied to these horrible decisions, when a crisis compels us to decide. I can “see” from your posts that Zeke is still with you, still holding on to living. Whether he does it for you or for himself I don’t know. But he so far chooses to stay.
I believe you will know when/if the deed is required and as long as you have doubts then I doubt that the time is yet right.
You have my deepest admiration, you and Zeke. And my heartfelt sympathy at this crossroad Chris.
Natalie
By: By Natalie on 2007 01 29
I’m very sorry to hear this, Chris. Best wishes to you and Becky. And, although I know it’s cold comfort, when the time comes, you will be doing the right thing for Zeke (damn, can’t even write this brief comment without getting all teary).
By: By Heraclitus on 2007 01 29
Chris, I’m so sorry. You’re all in my thoughts.
By: By Sheelzebub on 2007 01 29
This is a hard time, I remember. I’m thinking of both of you, and Becky.
By: By bitchphd on 2007 01 29
Dear Chris,
In my earlier post, I forgot to say that your post brought me to weeping - just before I sobbed. As I mentioned earlier, all 5 of our older dogs passed away; we have since adopted 3 wonderful adult dogs from our local shelter. Because of the memories you brought back, tonight all (literally) 250 pounds of them are sleeping in the bed with us. Thank you, Zeke, for spreading your love across the country. And thank you, Chris, for helping him share it. And thank you, Becky, for supporting both in their efforts. I wish you all the comfort that the world can provide.
By: By Amanda on 2007 01 29
As so many have said, I was moved to tears by this—just as I’ve been moved to tears on many occasions by your situation with Zeke. I’ve gone through it before and will gladly suffer the pain again and again until I myself pass from this world. It’s a measure of our compassion, of our humanity.
I admire you, Chris, but I don’t envy you this thing you must carry. Except I do envy you this thing. That we can sup from their endless offering of love is a gift, and for that gift we accept that we’ll outlive them and will have to do that which we never want to do. Zeke deserves your suffering, your sorrow, just as he deserves your steadfastness when it’s time to say goodbye. It’s the final act of love and devotion in a lifelong play full of love and devotion.
Do take special care of that dog—and yourself and Becky. And I wish it could be easier . . .
By: By jason on 2007 01 30
He struggled up from the back, stuck his head between the front seats grinning, touched his forehead to my arm.
If he’s still grinning, then he’s still truckin’. While it is proper that the vet should express his clinical opinion, he can’t tell you when. Only Zeke, beautiful Zeke can tell you that.
If he’s still slurping chickens, he’s still present. Savor him.
Everything Amanda said is right. He will tell you and you will know. In the best of all worlds he will go to sleep in your arms and journey off alone.
My empathy for you at this difficult time and know that there are two more besides Amanda’s five that will welcome him as a kindred hound.
Sheila
By: By Sheila on 2007 01 30
Mr. Populi, a first-time reader of CRN due to my tearful outburst tonight, thinks Zeke is a very lucky dog.
By: By Roxanne on 2007 01 30
I really feel for the badness of your situation. I recently had to put down a cat—now, a cat isn’t a dog, in that they don’t go on long walks with you, but this cat had been with my family for a long time. And there wasn’t only the decision to make, there was also having to explain where the cat was going to a five-year-old. I think I that rejected too-brave Cat Atheism and too-painful Cat Heaven in favor of odd but vague Cat Reincarnation / the wonders of the natural cycle. There’s never a time when I feel less like going on about the wonders of the natural cycle.
So when we went to a shelter six months later, the five-year-old picked out a cat that looked a lot like the old one and insisted on calling her by the same name. The new one is a great cat, with a very different personality, but it’s still a little like being haunted by a, well, cat reincarnation.
By: By Rich Puchalsky on 2007 01 30
Ranger’s last moment was in my arms, with Carl and I both there telling him what a great guy he was. I didn’t know whether or not he might be in pain from his condition, so I made the vet first give him a painkiller. I wanted to KNOW he wasn’t hurting at his end. The vet asked me to leave the room for the final shot; I flatly said I wasn’t going anywhere – he wasn’t going to be alone either. Today (Jan. 29) is nine years exactly since he died. I was so lucky to have him in my life.
Tito was at home, on his favorite hill, with Carl and I both there holding him and telling him what love we had for him, as we let him go. Coming up on 11 months since he died. Again and again and again: He was the best dog I ever even met.
Make these last moments bearable for YOU, for the memories you’ll carry on with you, and I believe the regret will be less.
Zeke will be at peace after this. I don’t go in for heavens or rainbow bridges, but I do know there will be no more pain, no more weight. My only idea of personal eternity is that the past really exists – all the happy moments of his life will be still back there, enclosed in a long temporal bracket receding from you at one second per second as you ride the wavefront of Now. They may be unreachable, but they’re still as real as anything real.
If you could know it, Zeke wouldn’t begrudge you living on, and even finding love again, as deep or deeper. If he could know it, he’d agree that his life made a worthwhile difference: his masterwork – you – was well done.
Allow me to promise you there will be a time when the only memories you have of him are happy ones.
By: By Hank Fox on 2007 01 30
There aren’t words.
I am thinking about you all.
By: By Renee Perry on 2007 01 30
my experience is that staying in this exact moment as much as possible minimizes the pain. holding you all in the light. standing with you.
By: By Jean on 2007 01 30
Oh, honey.
My thoughts are with you all.
By: By Space Kitty on 2007 01 30
What would Zeke do?
We know he hates seeing you cry.
He’d scold you particularly for crying
while driving. Worse yet, for
driving wet-faced in the
godforsaken curb lane
of freeway 4.
Your readers will be mourning
Zeke as if he were our very own. But we
all require his biographer to take care
as well, for he has become like family
too. Did you notice the whining and whimpering when you took November off?
So, please, drive safely, and we’ll understand
if there are new respites from blogging needed.
Come back to us if/when you can.
By: By omegapet on 2007 01 30
Your tears honour your love, Chris.
By: By Rob G on 2007 01 30
It is an aching honor to bear witness to such love, Chris.
I can think of no finer life, and no finer end to it, than to be loved this way.
My best hopes and wishes are with you and your family. I know whatever you do, whenever you do it, it will be with love—and I think he knows it, too.
I’m so sorry for your pain.
By: By little light on 2007 01 30
I’m so sorry.
It’s hard loving things that grow old and sick - but I think it’s one of the best things that can happen to us, even if sometimes it causes more pain than everything else in life.
However things turn out, I’ll be here for you with these other fine folks, even though I know, having done that silent, open-mouthed wail, that words aren’t really much more than words at a time like this.
By: By Rana on 2007 01 30
The phrase is quality of life, a damned vague standard.
No kidding. I was going to write a long comment about Tober, but maybe another time. I know you’ll make the right decision for him at the right time.
sob
By: By Charles on 2007 01 30
Oh, sweetie. Much love to you all.
By: By nina on 2007 01 30
I think about all of my “fur persons,” those gone and the two still with me, and my heart breaks for you and Becky and Zeke.
He’s had a wonderful life, Chris. Adventures, revelations, and feasts. Love, protection, and the deep soul satisfaction of being protective; of belonging and mattering.
Something you said a few months ago has stuck with me: “He is irrevocably a Good Dog.”
And you are, irrevocably, a Good Dad.
By: By CaseyL on 2007 01 30
Not to be a real downer, but I don’t believe he’ll tell you when he’s ready. He loves you too much and will keep hanging on, just to wake up and see you, to have you pet him again.
If you think of everything he’s ever learned, every trick and command that you encouraged, the housebreaking, the car riding, the amicable walks together—this, this juncture, is what *you* have to learn. This is your deal, your contract with him as his friend, and requires you to make a decision for him that he cannot.
I just put my old girl, Sierra, down in November. She would have been 14 last week. I thought I’d know when would be best, when it would be right. But I didn’t. I watched her become increasingly frail - and then I knew - my emotional attachments were only for me, she’d lived a damn good life, been loved and spoiled, and now she needed me to step up to the plate.
I took her on one last walk in the woods and then drove to the vets. I held her in my arms while the vet administered the drugs - and that feeling of her giving way, of melting into me, is how I knew it was the right time. She was finally pain free.
Now she’s in the flower garden, under the bird feeder. Resting.
Good luck Chris.
By: By Q Grrl on 2007 01 30
Just had a good cry after reading this post. Thank you so much for sharing this with us. You and Zeke have been so lucky to have each other. And even if you’re an unbeliever, I’m pretty sure that all dogs go to heaven.
By: By Jill on 2007 01 30
I have a beautiful, nearly-eight year old mastiff mix. She’s got grey on her snout now and sleeps a whole lot more than she used to. But she makes me laugh.
I’m going to go home at lunch today and give her a good skritch behind the ears. Thank you Chris. In sharing your pain you’ve reminded me to revel in the joy I have now.
I wish Becky, you, and Zeke the best. May you have no doubts when the time comes.
By: By Vir Modestus on 2007 01 31
Categories:
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