Good Dog
It was hard; more so than the usual Veteran's Day, when we think of the few who did so much for so many. It was chill but the sky was blue and clear as crystal.
The Ex called early and announced that it was The Day for the The Dog, and my older boy called to thank me for my service- he is one of the government civilians who had the day off to honor the vets who are working in the private sector who have to report to work. He also called my Dad to do the same thing, unprompted. He is a good guy.
I told him we had a mission for this Armistice Day. We needed to do a last favor to do for our old friend, and that he should meet me out in the County. I called the Vet (the other kind) and arranged for a time, and called my son to arrange for the rendezvous.
I moved some stuff on the calendar and left the office in time to get out to the house. My son was there, and Cruz was on his little dog-bed in the kitchen. I had been afraid that seeing us both would spark a rally that would make this sad task impossible, but I saw quickly that it really was time. We sat on the floor next to his bed, and gently rubbed his neck and ears as we always have. He raised his rheumy eyes, now clouded, and made himself comfortable as we stroked him.
"Let me take your shirt off, guy," I said, and took off the shoulder harness that he wears to keep the strain of the leash off his neck. He is an impetuous fellow on a walk, and sometimes does not concur with direction. He did not mind, and seemed to appreciate the special rubs on the fur underneath that are not accessible under the green nylon webbing. We spend twenty minutes or so, and I looked up at the clock. It was time. I asked my son to carry the dog bed with Cruz in it, and I picked up the leash and the plastic bag that the Ex had left in middle of the foyer. She had a way of doing that so she would not forget, with all manner of things I would find with my feet in the pre-dawn darkness, but this time it did not irritate me.
“What about his harness?” asked my son. The inevitability of what was now in progress had not penetrated yet.
“I don’t think he will need it,” I said. “We will hold him the whole way."
We walked out to the driveway and I held the door open on the Hubrismobile so he could get in comfortably. The steeply-pitched driveway has always been a problem that way. Cruz seemed comfortable in his arms.
It was only a few minutes by the back-streets to get over to the pet clinic at the intersection of Little River Turnpike and Eternity.
I left my son and the dog in the car, and went into the office to see if they were ready for us. It took a couple tries to get the words out, but the ladies in scrubs behind the desk seemed to understand. They must be accustomed to the sight of tears.
There was only one thing they needed, and it temporarily befuddled me. They wanted a last weigh-in on the scale on the entry side of the waiting room.
"Can't you do it after?" I said. "I don't want to get him agitated." It has always been problematic getting the dog on the scale by himself to register an accurate reading. He has weighed as much 250 pounds when there were other dogs waiting with their owners, and I could not get disentangled from his leash in the excitement. They were quite insistent, though, and I acquiesced.
This afternoon, when my son gently placed the dog-bed on the scale, he was thirty pounds, two ounces. He is a little guy, but has a lot of heart. The ladies waved us through and into examining room one. We have been there many times before. My son put the bed on the stainless examining table, and said he was sorry, but he had to step out.
I said it was OK, and leaned forward to wrap the little brown body in my arms. There was a mild flicker of interest in his eyes, a tentative raise of his head, then Cruz relaxed, his nose on my forearm, his chest expanding and contracting in shallow motion.
The Doc was great, when she arrived a few minutes later, and with mild procedure, a catheter was inserted in his forepaw, Cruz was resting comfortably. Three needles were filled and placed on the table. The function was explained gravely. One of saline, to ensure the catheter worked. An anesthetic to ensure there was no pain. Then, there was the last one that did the deed. It had a pink color, and I asked that the Doc ensure it did not go into my hand inadvertently. She nodded and smiled slowly.
The saline injection proved that the catheter was placed properly, and I put my face on my dog’s neck and began to talk to him of green fields that ran forever, and balls that would always be thrown and a place where hot-dogs would always fall from the grill.
The last words he heard in this world were that he was a good dog, and presently the Doc took her stethoscope away from his chest and told me he was gone. I helped wrap him up snug, and the Doc took him away through the back door of the examining room.
I folded the long-sleeved t-shirt of my younger boy that Cruz had used for his last pillow, smelling all of us on his last day. Then I picked up the dog bed and walked back to the front office. I paid the bill and arranged for the ashes to be returned to the Ex.
Numb, I almost forget the bed and the shirt on the way out. I had to be reminded, and I apologized for losing my focus.
My son and I got together for a mini-wake later, after we had cleaned out the dog stuff from the house so the Ex would not be upset when she got back from work. We told some epic Cruz stories. How he got his name, derived from the naval deployments to come, and his escapades as the Great Cruz-dini, master escape artist. His sly wit, demonstrated on the endless car-trip to California in his prime, and how he could run, those short legs pumping.
He had an endless capability to chase those rubber balls with the waffle-textured skin and the little bell inside. His firm belief, only occasionally realized, that the grill out back was a reliable source of juicy bounty from the sky. It seemed to be a religious thing for him, and maybe the only one that has any truth, since miracles really did happen in his world.
It was good, and there was laughter. but when my son was gone and the light had faded, I was back to murmuring "you are a good dog, Cruz" and hearing no more answer than when the doctor put away her stethoscope.
Of course the Ex doesn't want the ashes. What was I thinking? I'll fix that tomorrow. Based on what I saw at Old Jack's interment at Arlington last week, the niches in the Arlington columbarium have plenty of room for a dog or two to accompany my urn when the time comes.
"C'mon, Cruz. Good dog. Let's go for a walk. I will have forever to throw the ball. I promise."
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com