Good Dog

I’ve mentioned that we live in a small apartment with two cats. The future farm of our dreams, however, is chock full of animals. Dogs, in particular.

But, the truth is, I already have a dog.

And, today, I had to say goodbye to him.

And I think that single act has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my 27 years. After reading that, you may think I'm fortunate, and I guess I am.

But for the past 17 years (yes, 17 years) Nicholas has been our family dog. I was 10 years old when we made the trek out to the Pulaski County Humane Society around Christmastime.

I zeroed in on Nicholas. He was one of 5 brothers found in a pillowcase on the side of the road. He was 6 weeks old and, while the rest of his siblings slept, he crawled all over them to get to the front of the cage. To get to where we were standing so he could lick us.

Somehow, I convinced everyone that THIS rambunctious puppy was “The One.” I can remember my dad asking if we were sure we didn't want one of the sleeping brothers.

We were sure.

So we took him home. He was so tiny he could fit in one hand.

For the first few weeks of his new life, he slept in an old refrigerator box at night. We piled the bottom of the box up with blankets and towels. We even put a clock in there to simulate the sound of a heart beat.

He would have none of it.

When we put him in there at night, he would start jumping. And, eventually, this pint-sized dog got to where he could jump OUT of the box.

This one act set the tone for the rest of his life. He would not sleep in a box. He was not a dog. He was one of us.

And so he was. He became like a little brother to me.

He helped open presents on birthdays and at Christmas.

He became a willing ear to all the trials and tribulations of my junior high and high school life. He knew about my crushes before anyone else did.

He was good at keeping secrets.

And he went everywhere with us.

When we went to the lake for vacation, he came with us. When we jumped into the water, he followed suit. He didn't much like it, I don't think. He'd swim to a raft and clamber up on it as soon as he could. But he was in the water with us and that's what mattered most to him.

My mom would pick me up from school everyday at 3:00pm and he came with her. He loved to ride in the "car-car" particularly when he would be ooh-ed and aah-ed over by a bunch of kids.

He was kind of a ham.

When my sister and I practiced the piano, he would sit and howl along. When I practiced basketball in the driveway in junior high, he would try to steal the ball from me.

In high school, when my friends came over, he was there with us. He always liked the girls but would bark if one of the boys got too close.

And when we were home sick from school, he would jump up on the couch with us and doze at our feet all day long.

When I turned 16, and drove myself to and from school, he still would run to the front door everyday at 3 o'clock and sit. Ready to pick me up. Ever hopeful, he did this all through high school and, I think, even into my first year of college.

And when I left home for that first year of college, the only time I got teary-eyed was when I walked out the door for the final time and told my dog goodbye.

I'd like to think the separation was hard on him too although I'm sure he recovered. But he did sniff under my door every morning on his way downstairs.

Just to check.

At some point in college, I convinced my parents that it would be a great idea to bring Nick up to visit. I met them at their hotel which had a big lawn area in front.

And when he came running across the grass to me, I was relieved that my dog hadn't forgotten me. That he could recognize me still.

That turned out to be his last big adventure.

He was getting older, after all, and in 2005 he had a stroke. We thought that might be the end. But it wasn't. He bounced right back.

And for the past 3 years, his health and demeanor have been good. He's been normal and happy. I always knew that when he started to deteriorate, we would have to put him down.

I just figured that would never happen. Some part of me, maybe that 10-year old part of me, thought he'd live forever.

But last Tuesday, he got sick. And by Thursday it was apparent he wasn't going to get better so I took him to the vet.

And now that I think about it, this was the last time he would be the same old Nick. This was the last time he would be alert and happy. This was the last time I'd see his tail wag.

But I didn't know that then.

The vet kept him overnight and let us take him home the next day, thinking the cause of his upset stomach was the presence of a “foreign object” that would eventually pass.

But he wasn't himself.

All weekend, he paced. He was restless, uncomfortable and inconsolable.

We took him to the vet first-thing Monday. The vet said things did not look good. He said the mass in his stomach had eventually passed so this was unrelated.

Nicholas was sleeping in my lap but when I handed him over he started trying to bite the vet's hands. And then he started barking.

It was the first time I heard him bark in days. And it broke my heart.

The vet finally set Nick on the floor so he could pace. At one point, Nick walked over to my chair and licked my ankle twice.

A lick from Nicholas is his way of saying, "Hello! I'm glad you’re here!"

I think this time, this last time, he was saying goodbye.

The vet wanted to keep him for a few days.

But by Wednesday morning, it was apparent that Nicholas was dying. He had been having seizures in his cage and they were dosing him with Valium to keep him comfortable.

And his kidneys were failing.

I left work to meet my parents at the vet. We had made the decision to put him down.

The three of us stood around our dog, trying to reconcile the dog in front of us to the dog we knew. The Valium had caused him to sleep and the warm air coming from his nose created a foggy area of condensation on the examining table.

The vet said he would probably be gone before he was even finished with the injection.

The drip-drip from the sink in the room ticked off the seconds and I watched that foggy area shrink and disappear.

I tell myself that he lived a good, long life. And that is true. He did.

But as I sit here now, I still have his hair on my shirt.

And I miss him.

He was a good dog.