Fiction author Robin Brande talks about writing, reading, and other vital matters

It’s our nature to take things for granted. We get distracted. We have other things to do. We simply can’t pay close attention all the time.

But this morning I took the time to really notice the dog who was leaving. He’s been around nearly 14 years–my entire married life. He was my wedding present to my husband. We picked him because he was the runt of the litter and the only one to come to me and crawl in my lap. Before the breeder handed him over, she rolled Blue in her rosemary bush to make him smell even sweeter. I sniffed him all the way home.

He was supposed to be my husband’s dog, but it didn’t quite work out that way. Blue was a momma’s dog from the start. As a puppy he’d fall asleep every night stretched out on my chest. As he grew older he always wanted to be with me, as close as physically possible, curled up against me fur to skin. He slept in the curve on my torso every night, and whenever my husband was out of town, Blue got his pillow. When we went camping he’d crawl to the bottom of my sleeping bag and stay there a few hours before realizing he couldn’t breathe. Then he’d come gasping back to the top, take a few sips of air, and dive down to the bottom again.

That dog drove me crazy. He was smart and he was willful. My husband had to build a cage around our electrical box to keep Blue from rewiring the house. We had to build an overhang on the dog yard because Blue figured out how to climb chain link, one paw at a time in the little holes, up and over the top. He learned how to trip the latches on every gate. He could open the lock on his kennel by hitting it with his nose, as quickly and smoothly as a practiced teenage boy unhooking a bra. He could open garbage cans that claimed to have dog-proof lids. He stole food off the table if you turned your back for a second.

He liked the smell of skunk and liked it best when they sprayed him in the face. On one particular excursion he took a direct hit, gave the skunk time to reload, then happily took another dose right in the kisser. You haven’t lived until you’ve driven an hour and a half with a skunk-saturated dog, all the car windows open, but still your eyes watering like mad, and your nose screaming, and peculiarly, the back of your tongue burning.

But Blue was perfect because he was real. When I was little, my parents wouldn’t let me have a dog, so I had to invent one. My imaginary dog was a collie named Laddie–a male version of Lassie–and he went with me everywhere. He’d walk me to school in the mornings then wait for me outside. He’d go with me to piano lessons and growl every time my mean piano teacher made me cry. He was everything a girl could want in a dog except real flesh and blood.

I admit that I’ve taken Blue for granted over the years. You get used to the routines of life. You expect things to go on as they always do, and can’t bother to stop and think to yourself, “Wow, this is really great. I should pay more attention.” I’m grateful that I found out two days ago that Blue’s life was ending. It’s given me the chance I needed to notice him again, even though it makes losing him all the harder.

This morning we took Blue on his last walk. He could only make it a block before gasping and straining for air. The tumor seems to have doubled in the past few days. There’s no question he was in pain, and that letting him go was the kind thing to do. But the truth is, when the moment arrived today, I didn’t want to be kind. I just wanted my dog.

At the vet’s I kneeled on the floor and held Blue while they gave him the injection. Gasp, gasp, then silence. He fell heavy into my arms and I laid him softly on the floor. The dog who had always looked me straight in the eye wasn’t behind his eyes anymore. But his ears were still warm and silky. I stayed to pet him and kiss him awhile.

I had read in one of my dog books that it’s best for the other dogs in your family to see and sniff the dead body. It might give them some sense of closure. So while I sat vigil, my husband went home to get Bear.

It was a strange scene. Bear looked everywhere in that room but at Blue. It’s almost as if he didn’t want to seem impolite by staring. He sniffed around the door for a few minutes, keeping his distance. I decided not to press it. I’m not sure how I expected Bear to act–throw himself over the body? Howl and wail? Whimper a little? Maybe it was stupid to even bring him there–I have no idea. But sooner or later Bear is going to realize that he’s the dog of the house now. That means it’s going to be his job to start stealing food off the counters.

Last year when our dog Red died, my friend Annette sent me this quote, and it’s the truest thing I’ve read:

Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really. ~Agnes Sligh Turnbull

I hope Blue and Red have found each other already, somewhere wherever dogs go. I hope someone is throwing a ball to them right now. I hope someone will let Blue sleep on the pillows tonight and cuddle with him in the morning. I’m sorry I don’t get to have him anymore–I wish that he, like Laddie, never grew old, never got sick, never had to leave me. I wish that when you gave your heart so completely, the way you do with your animals, you never had to feel this tired, bottomless sadness when it was time to let them go.

But that’s how it is. It’s what you sign up for. You pledge in your heart to take care of them while they live, and do the right thing and help them die when it’s time. I never wanted to see the lights go out of those brown, soulful eyes, but that’s the deal I made. It’s harsh, it hurts, but it was worth it for the fourteen years he gave me.

So R.I.P., Blue. You were a hell of a girl’s first dog. Tell Red hi, and I hope you’ll both come find me when it’s my turn.

Technorati Tags: Dogs, Pets

Posted on Thursday, September 28th, 2006 at 11:50 am under Dogs . Subscribe to responses: RSS 2.0 Comment Feed. . Comment, or trackback.