The Dying of a Dumped Dog

Last night I was blessed with a private message from a younger new reader (thank you, April) who thanked me because she fold me she was heartened to have discovered what she described as some semblance of intelligence here on this page.

In the emotion of the moment I told her what I was dealing with at the time she sent the message, after I had abruptly left a luncheon with a brilliant new acquaintance, Jo-Ann. Tough, Irish, feminine, wise and pragmatic Jo-Ann was very understanding about the fact that I suddenly felt ill and needed to leave without understanding what was plaguing me physically. (Bless you, Jo-Ann.)

I was feeling better physically by the time I arrived home to a kind message from faraway April who had just discovered my page, so she — still a stranger to me — happened to be the first I informed of what I realized after coming through the door. Because intelligence has little to do with what I’m feeling now, at this moment, this sad morning.

I have to have a dog put down today.

A dog I love who I found (some might say “rescued”) as a puppy almost twelve years ago.

A dozen years ago I found him at the a county dump at five o’clock in the morning, in the darkness before dawn after a drunken row with my ex-wife. Somebody had dumped this tiny puppy there. He was shaky and starving, barely able to walk. And I soon discovered from a dump employee who arrived amidst this first encounter with this puppy, that some of the local workers at the dump had even been kicking him around for their idle amusement. This even gave the puppy a badly abscessed and infected canine tooth that had to be removed soon after.

But that dark morning, I managed to bring him home and this pup was perfectly named within five minutes by my beloved ex.

After he was fully fed and watered and sniffed from top to bottom by my two big white dogs and assorted felines, this new puppy suddenly cut loose with these loud proclamations: spontaneous and joyous yodeling, utterly unique hound-dog noises that seemed to be expressions of his sheer joy at being safe and surrounded by his new family, and most of all because he was simply happy to be alive.

He has been periodically erupting with these laughter-inducing yodels ever since, never taking this life to be treasured too seriously.

He’s a goofy hound dog, snaggle-toothed, the kind so many say only a mother could love. But I love him. Everybody who has ever met him has loved him. He’s even survived some rugged wounds, physical issues, and a life-saving, tough-and-go surgery (thank you. Dr Glenn Puckett and all you who’ve assisted and loved this hound at Moore’s Mill Animal Hospital. I’m afraid he’ll be visiting you for the last time today.)

I think he’s had a good life on this wooded hilltop with the other dogs. And now, he’s shaky again, riddled with tumors, breathing hard, rapid, keeping his eyes closed mostly. He wags his tail slightly when I say his name. I’ve always said he’s the happiest dog that ever lived. If he was awake his tale was wagging while knowing he would never be the alpha dog; and he could be sound asleep yet he would still wag his tail as he slept if you whispered his name.

Late yesterday afternoon he could barely get onto his feet (for the first time) when I went out to give him his prednisone (his medication to keep him comfortable). He’s been dying slowly for the last few weeks.

And for the last several hours, he has slept fitfully beside me on my bad throughout a restless night.

But I can tell today is going to have to be the day.

His name is Chili. Chili Dog. Because I originally coaxed this frightened, trembling, hungry pup into my pickup with a can of Wolf Brand chili.

His repayment has been, day after day, to make this hilltop a happier place, spreading his goofy love to everyone he encountered.

And I’m going to miss him terribly.

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RT