A Fine Friend

A tribute originating in February got shelved when our silly old dog's decline kept my emotions
in turmoil. Letting go of our furry friends weights so heart-heavy that realizing the inevitable
end brings little peace.

Maybe rabbits run across a meadow and proved irresistible chases in his dreams.

The wheeling motion of Woody’s pumping legs as he lay sleeping on the makeshift

garage floor bed showed some crazy action was happening in his subconscious. More

and more time spent in slumber each day gave old legs that could no longer steadily

carry his girth a chance to run again. Two previously torn CCL tendons saw to that. 

To watch those legs move conjured a doggy-dreamstate bicycle. Surely dogs reach REM, too.

At 98 in “people years,” Woody slept through most of his later days. 

I asked at our very first vet visit, “Is it true that puppies with a spot on their tongue are

smarter?” Dr. Peacock croaked a non-committal reply, “Sometimes they are. Sometimes
they aren't."

Woody proved to be clever if not smart, listening when otherwise unoccupied and

convenient to him. Searching the world via scent is so much more important to a

strong-willed dog. 

The thread-bare washcloths and towels we left available made excellent chew toys,

but all else on the floor was fair game. We dared not leave any shoes, lest they get

chewed to a leathery pulp, that lesson learned only once. All others went where they

belong -- in the closet, forcing me to tidy up better than normal for a few years.

A number of gross canine traits devolved into time-tested bad habits. The lovable
lummox advanced the art of fish bone scavenging and litter box sampling. Baby
gates aren't just for tiny humans. He perfected a warning growl to protect prized
possessions like a dead, maggot-infested baby possum, empty turtle shell with
bugs decimating the host's rotting carcass, residual post-deer-season legs. The
"drop it" command meant nothing from second-in-command me. Woody remained
Beta only to my husband. What about not biting the hand that feeds you?

The Kid being born put our five-year old cat in charge, proven when he went
into attack mode, I guess defending the baby and me. Woody went after a
dropped pacifier, I yelled, "No! Leave it!" apparently with too much urgency
that sounded a feline alarm. Char lit into the dog's head like only a cartoon
cat usually can. Four legs formed an aerial "X," claws pumping madly, a jab
here, a round house there.

Softer times came later. Many nighttime bottles spent with pre-dawn television
re-runs of Cops hosted a line of partners down my body -- baby in my arms, a
big silver striped cat on my lap, a smaller tabby outstretched on my legs, and a
big lummox dog on the dog at our feet. Tender wee hours stoked my postpartum
crying when I irrationally questioned God's letting him run away on a 4:00 am
escapade when let out to pee.

Neutering was one thing we did right to keep him close to home, healthier, and
prolong his life. He never destroyed baby toys, at least not with the cat in charge
and all the old ruined towels we gave him to chew. He basically teethed on them
just like the baby.

Along with allegiance to Alpha came submission and piddling, though. Being
former housebroken at the old hardwood floored farmhouse didn't earn him a
place inside our newer carpeted home when we moved. He pooped in the
basement, probably marking his new territory but sealing his fate. Instinct's
backfiring on him, our "family member" should've still lived inside instead of
simply existing apart from his pack.

Beta (me) cleaned the floors before, but Alpha (my husband) won the struggle
of Woody being banned to outdoors. The dog pen let Woody feel nature, and
the garage kept him warm at night in wintertime, but my guilt feelings still
overcome me when I get a whiff of that lingering yeasty smell out in what
became a bigger doghouse.

Our walks got shortened by old bones and sore joints, which made me sad.
A jaunt to the lake turned into a line down the street and back. Little stamina
diminished our ability to enjoy that time as much, regardless of our wishes.
Walks stopped entirely in June. Having him tug on the leash to go, that drive
to keep going, broke my heart a little. His determined will to live is probably
what prompted Alpha's absence and left Beta (don't moms always have to be
strong?) with the final vet trip responsibility. That really sucked.

It’s not all about me, but I’m tired of feeling sad so much of the time. People die, pets die, the

seasons change and nature dies, and all of it sucks bad.

No dog should be outside all the time. I now firmly believe domesticated animals belong inside --

cats AND dogs. I hope we change our ways if another dog blesses our home.

A veterinary condolence card made seeing those black pads and toenails with his inked

print bittersweet. Trying to get big webbed-foot-pawprint didn't work so well. He yelped unhappily

which seldom happened in 14-plus years.

With the cashing instinct still intact and so strong, Ol' Wood wiped out chasing a damned neighbor
poodle this summer and yipped painfully. He'd had such a high tolerance but then couldn't walk at
all, which meant we lifted him up to do his business. Pee cascaded over his feet, and sometimes
he pooped beneath himself and sat back into it. Your heart rips out watching that happen. A wise
women once told me how pets should be allowed dignity, too, and we have to decide when it's
time to let them go with some grace.

So I told his life story out loud in homage and embraced the poor fella as the vet administered the
euthanasia, my selfish olfactory sensitivity be damned, and bid farewell to our faithful friend and
my son's protector. Woody's cremains joined Char and Gris Gris up on the fireplace mantle with
my tired old heart. Maybe it's ridiculous to hold onto ashes and bone fragments, yet they may be
burnt up with my own body one day, and we can all go for a final swim in the river. Let's hope
there are a lot of rabbits to chase past the rainbow bridge.