OS Ruminates On Dog Ownership And Our Present Situation

After about of year of searching, Mr. and Mrs. OS finally took delivery of a new border collie puppy. The search through the rescue services had been futile, as every attempt to inquire about a rescued pooch was either ignored or rebuffed. We have land, twenty years of vet references, and three other of the breed in the house, so it isn't like we were novice apartment dwellers...oh, well.

In the end, we found a breeder with puppies from a great sire and dam--both cleared for genetic problems, so we don't end up with a blind and limping dog. And The Puppy did not disappoint. She is a beauty, of sweet disposition and an outgoing personality.

Today was the day to mail off the AKC registration, and make the first visit to the vet. She checked out beautifully, and never protested all the poking and prodding.

On the way over, though, it did dawn on OS that he lives in a paradoxical moment. The Puppy, in her lifetime, will likely receive much better medical care than most of the residents of this county.

The analogy is not exact, obviously: Dogs don't smoke, drink, drive cars, or engage in sexual behaviors that put them in the path of venereal diseases or HIV. Their life spans are much shorter than humans, and even though they are mammals, they are less complicated than humans. They don't marry, go to school like we do, earn wages, have to make tough decisions about life. It costs much less to treat a dog than a human, and if the costs are prohibitive or the dog is too far gone, the euthanasia route is taken.

They're dogs. Can't do that to people, because they are, well, people.

And yet--there are a lot of people in this county who don't smoke, drink, or screw around. They live responsibly. And they live on the fringes of health care availability, usually waiting until they are acutely ill before they hit the emergency room and hear the bad news about the serious underlying condition that caused the acute misery. The Puppy is going to fare better than they, because OS is a responsible dog owner. There is a disconnect here, a dissonance. OS doesn't exactly know how to resolve it, or if it's possible. But it makes him uncomfortable.

Something else, last week, made OS uncomfortable: An 11:00 pm visit to a WalMart in a small Midwestern town. He saw more than a few moms with little children (and tattoos) grocery shopping. He saw a lot more people who looked terribly beaten down by life, people who seemed to to have lost hope that life was going to get better.  He was there shopping for a bottle of wine to share with colleagues at a conference, and could not wait to depart the store. The conference involved teaching academic skills to motivated young people--all of them, even if of modest means, well-cared-for children from intact homes with motivated parents who scraped together money to make the week possible for their kids.

The contrast was disheartening. As proud and happy as he was about the kids he was teaching, he was shocked at the kids he saw at the Wal-Mart at 11:00 pm.

Something has seriously gone awry, and bumper-sticker slogans and thirty-second ads designed to ruin the life of a political opponent and the next tax scheme and the next election and the next aren't going to come close to solving the dilemma.

All OS could think of after his purchase was to get back to his conference and double down on teaching the kids he had in front of him. For now, that's still the only plan he has available.

Maybe time spent with The Puppy will renew his soul a bit, and some new idea will emerge. She's in her crate now, snoring away, blissfully uninvolved with any of the tragedies of the world outside her home.

She's doing her job perfectly, effortlessly.

She's a dog, after all.

Heavy Heart, Clear Conscience: Bidding Farewell To An Old Pooch

Every dog owner arrives to that day, the day he concludes that the time has come to gather up an old friend, carry her to the vet, and drive home alone. It is never an easy decision. It is a grim moment, to put the chain collar on the old friend, feed her a final favorite treat, and put her in the passenger seat of the pickup truck. The left hand drives, the right hand scratches her behind the ears, the voice keeps talking to her in the old familiar tones, assuring her that her suffering will be finally relieved, and that she will be ok.

Sissy arrived in OS's house unannounced eleven years ago, brought home by the CollegeAgeDaughter, who had spotted the little ball of fluff at the local animal shelter's adoption appeal. The standard appeal to emotion was made--

She's so cute, and I'll take her with me after I graduate, I promise, 

and how could you deny my blue eyes, 

and beside if we don't rescue her they'll put her down,

 and no one will have ever loved her.

Sissy was an unfortunate accidental cross of Cocker Spaniel and Chow (at least those two breeds could be detected). She was really not that attractive, definitely not clever, and she struggled her entire life with raging skin allergies, which came and went, but came more often and more painfully with every passing year. A crisis point arrived last year, when a young and highly self-righteous new member of the vet group refused to treat Sissy with that last-resort shot of steroid. It had been used effectively (and very sparingly) over the years, but this woman was adamant: It didn't matter how badly the dog was suffering, she would not budge. Sissy was in agony. A day later, we were back, this time with the experienced owner of the group, who said not a word as we entered the exam room, but had the injection waiting. 

This drama repeated itself twice more, with the group owner catching so much flak from the juniors that one cold winter morning he met us on the sidewalk outside his offices before office hours. The syringe was in his hand, and we bought the dog six more months of happy life. The previous day's loud argument with the junior vet, in the lobby of the practice, led OS to leave orders with the staff that only the senior was to ever touch his dogs in the future. 

All was going relatively well, but as Spring progressed, it became obvious we had reached the end of the road. The senior and I had talked it over before, and he let me know I would know when the time came. To continue the steroids at the frequency needed to keep the dog out of pain would inevitably burn her liver out. The final visitation of her affliction was simply too much. We had reached checkmate. 

So, today, we took that final drive, and the senior and I had that final conversation:

'Cremation?'

'Yes, please.'

'Do you want to be with her as we do this?' 

'Is it cruel if I don't?'

'No, of course not.'

'Then I'll remain here.' 

OS has had enough life experiences, didn't need to see his dog euthanized and spend days reliving it and getting over it. 

A few minutes later, the senior and a staffer took Sissy, and OS lingered in the lobby. After some minutes, the receptionist noticed me, and gently said, 'It's ok, we'll mail you the invoice, no need to settle up today.'

So, OS drove off, knowing he had done The Right Thing, blessed with a clear conscience; and at the same moment heavy of heart. There are limits to what we can do, no matter how good the intentions, how diligent the effort. The Day arrives, and the Correct Decision must be taken.

Sissy's final gift to OS, perhaps the reason she showed up to begin with, was that moment of insight, that a clear conscience and heavy heart must inevitably exist side by side at some points in life.  She gave him a new perspective on some of the events of his trudge through the Vale of Tears--the heavy heart need not be confused with a guilty conscience. 

OS suspects there is some provision in Providence for the souls of dogs--no proof, mind you, and nothing to construct any solid theological structure. It may just be a fond hope. But, if Providence has made that provision, then OS knows Sissy was greeted by two of her predecessors, who like her had guarded the farm and helped raise the two children. He had a sense a few minutes into his drive home that they were waiting for her. They showed her around her new farm,  a farm without ticks or fleas, with rabbits to chase, and children always around to scratch her behind the ears, toss dog biscuits for her to catch(She loved doing that!), and feed her bits of cheese.

She deserves no less, if that provision has been made.