Dos Perros
WKR
As we turned the corner I read the “dead end” sign and contemplated the finality of life. There is no getting around it, no one has yet to get out of life alive. Dogs are no exception. Ike was my passenger, lying somberly on the maroon and grey striped horse blanket I had just bought him at the western wear store. “Do you have any wool blankets?” I asked. “Hmmm, no, what for?” the gal replied. “I’m burying my dog today and I want something to wrap him in.” “Ah, we have horse blankets. That’s what I wrapped my dog in.” She walked me over. “How big is he?” “These are big enough. I just want something that says ‘I love you, I respect you.’” She checked me out and wished me good blessings. But I had already received them.
In bird dog circles there exists the concept of “once in a lifetime” dogs. These are dogs that seem to defy what should be possible. They find birds other dogs don’t. Like cowboys of lore they accumulate a supply of stories of their exploits. They are like the Bo Jackson of bird dogs. And, per the moniker, you only get one in your life. Of course some folks might get two, but some might not ever get one. There is a high degree of uncertainty to it.
Ike without a doubt was my lifetime dog.
***************************************************
In death, we often feel the need to say nice things about the deceased. Even assholes can be memorialized. “Earl was sure an asshole, but he was our asshole.” Faults become endearing. And even the acts or behaviors of kind people can acceptably be exaggerated when they die. With Ike, I won’t ever have to do that. He was that amazing, no embellishments needed.
He came from Texas and his personality showed it. He was larger than life. He ran big and fast, found piles of birds, and made some pretty spectacular mistakes (like getting sprayed by a skunk in the same field two years in a row).
He never once greeted a human poorly. He loved giving kisses. Once I met a guy who owned one of Ike’s litter mates and she was the same way. He was lanky and goofy, oddly proportioned, but he was all motor. And beautiful. Throughout his life people thought he was a puppy.
He wasn’t a great listener, never even really learned to sit or fetch. But he knew how to find birds and he knew how to stop right damn there so he wouldn’t bust them. Often times he ran so big it would take me 10 minutes to get to him. But there he would be, stoic, steady, stalemated with the birds. And my properly swung shotgun offered the favorable disturbance of balance.
****************************************************
As we waited for the doc I told him “you can die now if you want. I just don’t want you to be scared.” We waited in the natural light of the living room of my in-laws’ Abilene, Kansas, farmhouse. Outside October soybeans sat patiently awaiting November harvest, leaves browned and fell and stirred in the gusts. Ike struggled to get comfortable. His skeleton tried to push through his skin made taught by his swollen belly. His fur had quickly lightened. I guess he needed to finally get old before he died. His paws were cold. Every breath seemed like a decision. Waiting.
As I pet him I searched his body for known defects. The cactus spine was still there in his chest, years after a tough Texas hunt. Battle scars.
I hoped this is more of a “see you later” than a goodbye. I’m a doubter, I guess. I just want to live this life the best I can, and worry about heaven later if I ever get there. I read off the names of the dogs that would greet him. Doc, Duke, Lulu, Rex, Scar, Dottie, Vegas. I hoped that Ike would share the birds.
Finally I noticed the navy pickup coming down the gravel road. It was the doc and he had with him a helper. We decided the front porch would be a beautiful place to do it. I carried him out and set him gingerly on the blanket. The doc asked me to sign a form. “What’s this?” “This is just you acknowledging you’re aware that euthanasia is permanent.” “Well, as far we know I guess” I joked. I don’t know why I do that, try to ease tense situations with humor.
The helper kept Ike stood while the doc administered the sedative in his ham. I gripped Ike’s face got close and tried to smile and repeated “You’re a good dog. I’m so proud of you. I love you. Thank you.” Over and over. I wanted my smiling grateful face to be the last thing he saw. He slowly became heavy and I guided his descent. The doc then moved to give him the finishing shot. I stood in the porch entryway and looked north, felt the cruel breeze chilling my tears. After the doc was out of the way I laid with Ike and kissed him and spoke to him. I regretfully said “goodbye.” Remember, I hope it’s just a “see you later.”
The doc left and I curled Ike up and covered him with the other blanket and set to digging. I don’t know why but it felt right to keep him warm. I picked a spot on the south side of the house, where he could hear quail calling from the neighbor’s house, get plenty of sun, watch the summer storm clouds roll up from his birth state. I planned to plant a Russian olive over him. Something that would remind me of our trips to Montana, something that would attract lots of birds over him, something that might prompt someone to utter someday “what the hell is that tree doing there?”
The neighbor, Tim, stopped to offer his condolences, he had heard. Coincidentally he was going to be putting his dog down the next day. Tim fetched a better post-hole digger and helped me finish digging. We carried Ike’s body on the blanket like an elevated travois and gently laid him in ground. I curled him up to appear comfortable and, after one last ear scratch, gently covered him with the second blanket.
He’s been gone a week now and I’m still waiting for it to get easier to bear.
In bird dog circles there exists the concept of “once in a lifetime” dogs. These are dogs that seem to defy what should be possible. They find birds other dogs don’t. Like cowboys of lore they accumulate a supply of stories of their exploits. They are like the Bo Jackson of bird dogs. And, per the moniker, you only get one in your life. Of course some folks might get two, but some might not ever get one. There is a high degree of uncertainty to it.
Ike without a doubt was my lifetime dog.
***************************************************
In death, we often feel the need to say nice things about the deceased. Even assholes can be memorialized. “Earl was sure an asshole, but he was our asshole.” Faults become endearing. And even the acts or behaviors of kind people can acceptably be exaggerated when they die. With Ike, I won’t ever have to do that. He was that amazing, no embellishments needed.
He came from Texas and his personality showed it. He was larger than life. He ran big and fast, found piles of birds, and made some pretty spectacular mistakes (like getting sprayed by a skunk in the same field two years in a row).
He never once greeted a human poorly. He loved giving kisses. Once I met a guy who owned one of Ike’s litter mates and she was the same way. He was lanky and goofy, oddly proportioned, but he was all motor. And beautiful. Throughout his life people thought he was a puppy.
He wasn’t a great listener, never even really learned to sit or fetch. But he knew how to find birds and he knew how to stop right damn there so he wouldn’t bust them. Often times he ran so big it would take me 10 minutes to get to him. But there he would be, stoic, steady, stalemated with the birds. And my properly swung shotgun offered the favorable disturbance of balance.
****************************************************
As we waited for the doc I told him “you can die now if you want. I just don’t want you to be scared.” We waited in the natural light of the living room of my in-laws’ Abilene, Kansas, farmhouse. Outside October soybeans sat patiently awaiting November harvest, leaves browned and fell and stirred in the gusts. Ike struggled to get comfortable. His skeleton tried to push through his skin made taught by his swollen belly. His fur had quickly lightened. I guess he needed to finally get old before he died. His paws were cold. Every breath seemed like a decision. Waiting.
As I pet him I searched his body for known defects. The cactus spine was still there in his chest, years after a tough Texas hunt. Battle scars.
I hoped this is more of a “see you later” than a goodbye. I’m a doubter, I guess. I just want to live this life the best I can, and worry about heaven later if I ever get there. I read off the names of the dogs that would greet him. Doc, Duke, Lulu, Rex, Scar, Dottie, Vegas. I hoped that Ike would share the birds.
Finally I noticed the navy pickup coming down the gravel road. It was the doc and he had with him a helper. We decided the front porch would be a beautiful place to do it. I carried him out and set him gingerly on the blanket. The doc asked me to sign a form. “What’s this?” “This is just you acknowledging you’re aware that euthanasia is permanent.” “Well, as far we know I guess” I joked. I don’t know why I do that, try to ease tense situations with humor.
The helper kept Ike stood while the doc administered the sedative in his ham. I gripped Ike’s face got close and tried to smile and repeated “You’re a good dog. I’m so proud of you. I love you. Thank you.” Over and over. I wanted my smiling grateful face to be the last thing he saw. He slowly became heavy and I guided his descent. The doc then moved to give him the finishing shot. I stood in the porch entryway and looked north, felt the cruel breeze chilling my tears. After the doc was out of the way I laid with Ike and kissed him and spoke to him. I regretfully said “goodbye.” Remember, I hope it’s just a “see you later.”
The doc left and I curled Ike up and covered him with the other blanket and set to digging. I don’t know why but it felt right to keep him warm. I picked a spot on the south side of the house, where he could hear quail calling from the neighbor’s house, get plenty of sun, watch the summer storm clouds roll up from his birth state. I planned to plant a Russian olive over him. Something that would remind me of our trips to Montana, something that would attract lots of birds over him, something that might prompt someone to utter someday “what the hell is that tree doing there?”
The neighbor, Tim, stopped to offer his condolences, he had heard. Coincidentally he was going to be putting his dog down the next day. Tim fetched a better post-hole digger and helped me finish digging. We carried Ike’s body on the blanket like an elevated travois and gently laid him in ground. I curled him up to appear comfortable and, after one last ear scratch, gently covered him with the second blanket.
He’s been gone a week now and I’m still waiting for it to get easier to bear.
