August 22, 2015

A DOG’S TALE – OF LOVE

Several years ago, I caught a performance by George Carlin, the stand-up comedian.  In one segment of his act he riffed on dogs. “You’ve heard the phrase: Working like a dog?” he smirked. “Anybody ever see a dog working?” We all laughed. “They lay around all day licking themselves, waiting for somebody to feed them. They don’t work! Unless, of course, they run in the Iditarod.” The audience laughed and applauded, then we all went home to feed our respective dogs. I thought no more of that evening until recently. Having had a fortunate up-bringing there was always a dog around our house. They were as ubiquitous as wallpaper. I can’t even remember not having a dog. They were just always there. Some were strays we picked up, others were offspring of a neighbor’s bitch; one or two may have been purchased but I can’t be sure. They were all mongrels, we called them mutts. Since we always lived in a rural or semi-rural area, the dogs roamed free and never knew a leash. They seemed happy: chasing rabbits or squirrels, swimming in the nearby stream or occasionally snarling at a neighbor’s pet. Our dogs never seemed to die. When they aged they just went away. There one day, gone the next. My dad explained this was the canine way, dating back to their ancestral wolves. Nature took care of the funerals.

Then, into my adult life came Hagan – a tiny ball of golden fur nestled in one of my wife’s wicker baskets and named for a brutish football player from her youth. Bred on Long Island by a famous breeder of Golden Retrievers, he was the cutest thing ever – an instant favorite among our nuclear family of eight.

A brainiac he was not. Bumbling might be a better descriptor. He knew only one trick but quickly learned to obey commands, like: sit, come and stay. He was affectionate to a fault and never mistaken for a guard dog. One day our home was burglarized. He welcomed the intruder who must have been hungry judging by the mess left in the refrigerator. Hagan apparently joined him in a meal of left-over casserole because tell tale leftovers remained in the dog dish. He probably wished our intrepid intruder well when the thief departed with two computers, my wife’s jewelry and a minor amount of cash.

Hagan loved to travel, whether by car, boat or plane. He was a big hit with the Eagle/Vail airport baggage handlers in Colorado where we had a ski house. He willingly entered his airline cage for each trip knowing there was a treat waiting at the other end.

My wife schooled him in game-bird retrieving at the breeder’s facility. On one of our Colorado trips I took him on a grouse hunt with a neighbor and his dog. When the first bird went down, Hagan leaped into the truck and hid under the dashboard. He was a lover, not a hunter/gatherer. That same night he woke us at 3:00 a.m. barking furiously. In the back yard a herd of elk was casually dining on the grass. He desperately wanted to join them. Running through the woods, hiking mountain trails and swimming in cold mountain streams were clearly his forte.

He never liked the vet. We literally carried him through the door whenever it was time for a check-up or medical issue. This may have stemmed from the time he cut his paw on a broken glass and required surgery. Something about the smell of the clinic drove him into a nervous convulsion. He was also neutered at an early age which probably bothered me more than him. We never castrated our dogs when I was a kid and the thought sent a chill down my spine. Hagan never complained but I always suspected he carried a grudge.

Despite the best organic dog food, supplemented by years of table food purloined from the kids (and me), age caught up with him. At age eleven (eighty two in human terms) he began to decline rapidly. His eyesight failed, his balance faltered and he couldn’t hear. It was time to put him down. We no longer lived in the boondocks so allowing him to wander off was not an option.

The obvious, and most sensible, alternative was to have the vet put him to sleep. Remembering his deep seated aversion to the clinic I didn’t want his last remembrance of the world to be one of fear. So I did the unthinkable. Without telling the kids or my wife, I took him for his last long walk in the woods.

It was early on a bright Sunday morning in the fall. I carried his favorite sleeping rug and lifted him into the car. His head no longer poked out the window but his nose pointed up sniffing the air. Our destination was a nature preserve surrounding a reservoir owned by the local water company.

Leaving the car, I removed his collar and scratched his neck – a gesture he always enjoyed. He turned and licked my hand. I believe he knew and was telling me: It’s okay. We began our lonesome walk. A half mile into the woods I found a grassy hollow at the base of an old stone wall. I knelt beside him as he lay down, head on the grass between his paws, questioning eyes looking up – a favorite position.

One shot. A single whimper and slight tremor, then the world became quiet. After checking that he was indeed gone, I covered him with the rug and numerous large stones to deter curious animals.

I returned to the car with tears streaming down my face, still carrying his collar. I knew then: George Carlin was wrong. Dogs do perform work. Hagan’s work was loving and bringing joy to those around him – and he was damned good at it.