Good-bye Mr. Chip, my dear Intrepid Seadog

Hello, BoatUS? Houston, we have ignition

Good-bye Mr. Chip, my dear Intrepid Seadog

by Christine Kling

It is 3:30 a.m. and I cannot sleep. Outside, I hear the sounds of the world – the horns of a passing train, the low hum of an air conditioner, the breathy sound of a light rain that drowns out the crickets and leaves behind that musical patter of drops off the eaves. Inside my little one room studio it is too quiet. Too empty. There are two still damp dog dishes on the floor and a recently rumpled doggy bed that I cannot seem to be able to touch or move. I keep listening for what isn't there and I cannot sleep.

For the past several months I have been asking myself how will I know when it is time to say good-bye to my dear little 16-year-old deaf and blind dog. As I motored my way down the ICW, I lived with the carpet of pee-pee pads for his incontinence. I did my best to steer him clear of all the barriers ashore he could no longer see. I held him when his heart cough wracked his little body for what seemed like hours. He continually chewed at his arthritic hind legs and his spine had started to curve, yet his tale still wagged. When he paced the floor for hours unable to sleep at night and bumped headfirst into every bulkhead or wall, he would always calm immediately when I held him in my arms. He would snuggle his head under my chin and I would feel his body relax. He would finally be able to go to sleep.

I believe there was still enough wild animal instinct in his brain to know that he was very vulnerable as a blind and deaf dog – were he in the wild, he wouldn't have lasted a minute – and some part of him knew that. But he was safe in my arms. And, I kept telling myself that old adage that people repeat: "Your dog will tell you when it is time."

I no longer believe that is true.

The new puppy was barely as tall as the grass

When I nicknamed Chip, the Intrepid Seadog, it was with a chuckle and a giant dose of sarcasm. He was anything but courageous as a pup. I had two dogs back then and when the doorbell rang, my other dog would run to the door and bark. Chip would run and hide under the bed.

Chip was a digger for his first couple of years, and my son and I lived in a house then. Chip would dig his way under the fence, and then the two dogs would escape. I'd find them side by side walking themselves down the sidewalk around the block, just as though I were behind them with leashes. It was hardly the Great Escape.

It was just the two of us when we moved on the boat 7 years ago. Chip could run up and down the companionway stairs and leap up into the forepeak off the footstool.

Any time I started the engine, he would yelp, race down the steps, jump into the forepeak and hide behind the pillows. He hated loud noises. In 2008, when we sailed to the Bahamas together, he still got up in the night, climbed out into the cockpit and walked the deck alone, racing back inside at the slightest noise. At sea, I tethered him to the galley sink with a tether long enough that he could reach the cockpit or go to the forepeak.

We had some great times in the Bahamas that year. For a solo sailor, having a dog meant I had to go ashore and he helped me make many new friends.

Chip and his Kalik on a bar stool at Nippers

Chip going snorkeling

When I made my first solo overnight passage, he stayed up almost all night either to keep me company or because he was terrified – finally crashing in a curled up ball in the forepeak just before dawn.

By 2010, the footstool had been replaced with doggy steps to the forepeak, and for the last two years he has not been able to run, jump or climb stairs. He could no longer hear the engine – or me when I called his name or asked if he wanted a treat. He could no longer go out on deck without a leash and me right there. Yet his tale still wagged, and if I held the squeaky toy right next to his face, he would still grab it with the few teeth he had and give it a lively shake.

I hadn't driven a car much since returning to Florida, but two weeks ago I took Chip for a drive knowing how much he used to like to stand on my lap and put his face out the window into the wind. This time his back legs could no support him – even though they had in the dinghy just a few months before. He collapsed across my lap and again I felt him give that long sigh of being at peace.

The next morning, his tail wagged and he even tugged at the leash a little to go out. I told myself that he was okay. He could keep on going. Even though I had to carry him back from the grass. But the more I watched him, the more I realized that when your dog can't run or jump or play, when his congestive heart failure means you have to carry him everywhere – he's not really living the life of a dog anymore.

Yet the Intrepid Seadog turned out to much more courageous than I ever imagined. I didn't want to let him go, and I believe some part of him knew that. In spite of all his ailments, his fear and his pain, that little dog had the big heart every day to get up and tell me he would keep on going – because I needed him.

Chip wasn't going to tell me when it was time. It was time for me to be the Intrepid Captain and speak for him – to grant him the sleep he had earned.

So, ten hours ago, Chip and my son Tim and I took our last trip to the vet. I held my little partner in my arms, and I felt him give that last final big sigh of relief as he went to sleep. Forever.

Good-bye buddy. Thanks for teaching me a lesson or two about courage.