Our dog Snowy died recently. She was a rescue; she’d had a tough puppyhood as a sato (street dog) in Puerto Rico and was afraid of nearly everything : children, dogs, men, soccer balls, etc. Although she took to Joan immediately , it took me about a week of laying on the floor with a succession of nearby treats to convince her that I wasn’t a danger. At that point, she and I became good friends for roughly the next 15 years.
During that time I guided her daily through neighborhood adventures within the human world. She in turn taught me many important lessons.
She was not the first dog I have “owned” but the second. The first was a springer spaniel named Patches bought for me by my Dad. I loved Patches fiercely and did my best to care for him. He and I went to obedience school, and did fairly well, I thought, Not well enough for my Dad, though, who brought to his training sessions no particular knowledge of dog behavior, but his own serious traumas exacerbated by alcohol. Patches was terrified of him and so was I, but nonetheless we both had to obey him.
As a result Patches developed a skin condition the cure for which was unaffordable. My Dad decided to treat it with Lysol disinfectant. Patches got worse: the Lysol was seeping through his psoriatic lesions and poisoning him. We said goodbye for the last time as my Dad carried him into the car for his ride to the vet to be put down.
I thought long and hard before I decided to adopt Snowy (we kept her original name to honor her Puerto Rican rescuers). I was guided by my beloved older sister, who has helped and counseled me throughout my life (and done the same professionally for many others). My wife Joan, my other deep ally, made the decision with me, and Snowy became our dog.
I taught her that we had a right to be in the neighborhood, and we worked daily to develop her own range and territory. Her extreme fear sometime triggered other dogs, and those whose owners weren’t as careful about the town of Peabody’s leash laws sometimes came after her. One neighbor’s Anatolian shepherd broke his own leash and tried to kill her, and she slipped out of her own collar and took off. That man promised to pay any vet bills and was true to his word. His neighbor took me in his car to go after Snowy. We found her near home and brought her the rest of the way. Our own vet made a house call to treat her wounds.
Needless to say she was a fabulous watchdog, which made having guests or workmen over interesting and noisy. We found workarounds.
Snowy taught me that love is not a human invention and proved it daily throughout her life. (Recent scientific brainwave research into dogs has also indicated this.) She also taught us to cherish the present moment. When sight and hearing were gone she still had her sense of smell and she enjoyed every moment. Love and delight are built into life, folks, just like the old Shaker hymn says. Every time I bowed and bent down to pick up something she’d left and put it in a little plastic bag I was reminded of it. The excercise she gave me probably kept me in as good a shape as I am.
When it became clear that no amount of veterinary care could improve her quality of life, we called her wonderful vets to take her and put her to sleep. They have been so gentle and helpful throughout that I trusted them to sedate her in her home and end her suffering in their office. Joan called her beloved (supplementary) dog walker who came immediately to say goodbye. Snowy left home, and this life, surrounded by love, and she knew it.
Her death taught me one more thing: the pain my Dad must have felt when he put Patches to sleep, and thus one more step closer to Dad in my healing.
Good dog. Beloved Snowy, goodnight.