Sometime later the Mr. and I decided to go for a walk. As we left our yard and began to stroll, we were joined by none other than the red Beagle. I got a good look at him. My, he is a beautiful dog I thought again. Maybe not all Beagle, either, there could be some Basset in there, too, if his legs are anything to go by. He followed us down the street, short legs having no trouble keeping up. He wasn't much older than a pup. We hadn't gone far, when a car pulled up. Here Roscoe, (Roscoe? Didn't they mean "Flash"? Roscoe was the sheriff on The Dukes of Hazzard, Flash was the hound dog!) get in! They drove away with the dog and a word in our direction. He isn't our dog, but we've been feeding him!
Later, another walk. Another day. We had just barely gained the street, and here was "Roscoe" eager to walk with us, it seemed. We walked for a bit, and soon another car approached. A different one. Someone leaned out. Oh, that dog! He isn't ours, but we feed him sometimes!
"Roscoe" seemed to belong to everyone in the neighborhood. And to no one at all. I found myself falling in love with the dog. But I can't have a dog I told myself. I'm a cat person.
Then one day Matthew came running in the house, full speed, out of breath, eyes wide. MOM! MOM! THE DOG, THAT DOG, "Roscoe, HE JUST GOT RUN OVER!
Heart in my chest I ran outside with Matt. But I couldn't look. Matt covered him with his coat. I began to call all the vets in town, all two of them. It was a Sunday, and the only one I could get on the phone wouldn't see him unless we would pay. At that time I had seven dollars in the bank. I had no way. Then our neighbors spoke up. We will pay they said, and they whisked him off to the vet.
I didn't hear anything else for a couple of weeks. I was sure he must have died. Then one of the neighbor kids came over and happened to mention that the dog had not only survived, but escaped with only cuts and bruises. I was elated! So happy the dog had lived. The neighbors had taken him in and it seemed all was well with the red Beagle pup.
My joy, however was short lived. I kept seeing him up and down the street. He would come over and visit us, and I would take him home. He would be back the next day. If the neighbor wasn't home we would keep him in the house until they returned.
Then one day, upon his return home, she leaned in and whispered. I keep letting Wishbone (Wishbone? Wishbone was a Jack Russell Terrier!) out, and you keep bringing him back! It was a little bit unsettling. Was she serious?
A few days later I got a call from Matt at school. Mom, that dog is up here at school. I think the pound is going to take him.
I told Matt when he came home to let our neighbors know the dog was in the pound. He came back flushed and indignant. Mom, she smiled at me when I told her!
I do not need a dog. I do not need a dog. I do not need a dog I told myself again.
Tell you what. I said to the kids. We will give them til tomorrow to get the dog out. If they don't do it, we will.
So we waited. The next day I called the shelter and asked if the red Beagle was in the pound. They affirmed that he was there. I wasted no time. I zipped right up to the police station, and the officer on duty got in his car and led me, in my car, to the shelter. I was appalled at what I saw and smelled. The place stank. It was dark. It was full of barking, homeless animals, all bound for euthanasia, unless someone stepped in. It was so sad. Triplet boxers, all housed in one kennel. A big steel door with a very large mean sounding dog locked behind it. And in the middle of the melee was "Sam" with his big golden eyes, and his big floppy ears, and his little short legs.
We brought him home and never said another word to the neighbors about it. And they never said a word to us about it, either, even though they lived only two houses down and well within vision of our house.
And so I became a dog mom. And he became the best dog in the world. He certainly taught me more that I could ever teach him. He taught me to listen to his signals. I learned to know when he needed to go out, when he was hungry. When he wasn't feeling well. We bought him rawhide bones, built him a yard to play in, made sure he was well groomed. We took him to parades, we dressed him up for Halloween, we taught him to sit politely while little children and little old ladies petted him. He loved little children. He loved people. People loved him, and we loved him most of all.
We took him to the Grand Canyon, and to California with us for the eight months we were there. I took walks with him on the beach. The only time he was ever off leash in public was in Pacific Grove. I had read several articles that stated letting a Beagle/Basset off leash would be a disaster. They would take off and not find their way home. Based on his past history, I was sure that was true. But that day we were at the bottom of a cliff surrounded by rocks and ocean. There was nowhere for him to go. So I let him off. He enjoyed himself so much. He sniffed the rocks, walked to the edge of the water, dug his feet in the sand. I hated to put him back on that leash.
We brought him back home with us to Texas, and it was about that time that I noticed he was beginning to turn white. He was six or seven, then. I realized with a shock, that he was already middle aged. I had not realized how fast time flies with beloved animals. You feel like you will have them forever, but before you know it, they are aging, and then elderly. You start to wonder how many years you have left with them. And then you quickly dismiss the thought, because it's too painful to think about.
So it went with us.
Time went on and Sam began to have trouble with his eyes. His once beautiful golden eyes began to cloud and then darken. They said he had an autoimmune disease, dry eyes being a symptom. So we began treating that. We never knew that it could cost so much to keep a dog. Two dogs, actually, now that he had a "sister", a Miniature Schnauzer, six years his junior. Eye ointment, Arthritis meds, flea meds, dog grooming, regular checkups, plus dog food, of course. But it's what you do for the ones you love.
Sam got whiter, and older. Sometimes I didn't have the heart to make him come up the stairs for his supper. I would bring it down to him, so he didn't have to take his old bones up the steps.
Some days he still had energy, but most days he just slept.
And still I thought I had years with him.
But it wasn't to be.
I walked into Companion Animal Grooming to pick him up from his regular grooming appointment. Tracy had always groomed him, since that first time, when he was a pup. He was almost thirteen now. I noticed he is having some trouble with his "lipstick" she said. Tracy had always used the term "lipstick" to refer to Sam's "essentials". I thought it was kind of funny, and had been known to giggle about it, sometimes. I wasn't laughing now, however. You might make an appointment to see what's going on. It could be a tumor.
A tumor. Cancer. No, please no. I can't lose this dog.
I made the appointment. Apprehensively, I lifted him on the table. I hoped it was just an infection. She looked at him. It didn't look good, but she gave us an antibiotic and told us to come back in a week.
I hoped beyond hope that things would be better. The next week, I was back.
I lifted him on the table. She looked at him again.
No change. My heart just sank to the ground. What are the options? I asked. Well, there is amputation...We would have to reroute all the parts so he can urinate...I thought about that. He is thirteen years old. The operation sounded brutal. And very expensive. And brutal. Did I mention brutal?
Is he in pain? I asked. No she said. He doesn't know it's there yet.
Sam and I left the docs office, to go home and have a talk with the family.
And in the end we opted for no intervention. We might add a year, a very miserable year, onto his life expectancy if we proceeded with surgery. Or he could be happy until he was uncomfortable. And we would cross that bridge when we came to it.
How will I know when it's time? I asked the Doc. She gave me a piece of paper with symptoms to look out for. So far he had none of these. He could possibly live four more years with this tumor she told me. Maybe it would be so, I optimistically thought.
But it wasn't to be. Eight months went by.
He began to bark at the little granddaughters when they got too close. He had never barked at a child before. And then he began to bleed. Just a few drops at first. Then a tiny bit more.
We made "the" appointment. It was two days off, because the doc was out.
And still I wasn't sure it was time. I prayed. Lord, let us know, without a doubt that it really is "time".
The day came. I put him in the yard while I got the car ready. I didn't want blood in the car, so I fixed a nice blanket for him in the back seat. Then I went to get him. I noticed as I put his leash on that he had blood running down his legs. My eyes filled. My heart dropped. I knew my prayer was answered. I knew without a doubt that we had come to that bridge. Fittingly, it began to rain, mingling with the tears that fell unashamedly down my cheeks.
We didn't hurry him along on our way into the clinic. We let him take his time and sniff the grass, the flowers, the many wonderful dog smells left behind by other patients. For once we let him lead us. The lady holding the door open understood. She didn't urge us to hurry him along, either.
I put my arms around him as they gave him shot to relax him a bit. We stroked his long floppy ears, the Mr. on one side of the table and I on the other, giving him our full devotion. I looked into those once golden eyes, now almost closed in sleep, but not quite yet. He was still with us for a moment more. I whispered in his ear. I will see you on the other side, old boy. Goodbye, old Friend.
And then he left us for a better place.
1 comment:
I had written, lovely, Julie. I don't know what happened to it.
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