by Ted Kerasote
Upon our return to Wyoming, I scheduled one at the hospital, but one delay followed another since humans get first crack at the machine, which having been down for a while was now backed up with a waiting list. We waited, and I continued to take Merle with me wherever I went, letting him out of the car to walk a few yards at his favorite spots—the base of Snow King, the Cache Creek trail, the start of our old mountain-bike route at Shadow Mountain.
Some of the people who saw him during this time were merciless in their comments, as if they were talking about no more than an old car that needed to be junked. "He's sure gotten decrepit," one friend told me. "Wow, is he ever over the hill," said another. And several came right out and said it: "Have you thought about putting him down?"
I was glad I wasn't their dog.
As we drove back to Kelly, Merle would lie as he always had—in the rear of the Subaru, its seats folded down so he had the entire cargo area to himself—his head erect and turning to watch the scenery go by.
"How you doing?" I'd ask, taking a quick glance at him.
"Just fine," his bright eyes would reply, "riding around in the car with you."
We began his physical therapy by walking from the porch to the road, a distance of about a hundred feet. When he was able to do that without stumbling, we began going to the creek, which was the usual start of his rounds, a distance of three hundred yards, there and back. Then we went to the post office—a round trip of eight hundred yards. Then to the river, a little more than a mile.
Jim Davis gave him several spinal adjustments during these weeks and mixed up a homeopathic stroke-healing formula that I added to Merle's food. And as Merle's appointments at the hospital for his MRI continued to be cancelled for human patients, some sort of healing took place. His balance returned, and so did his blink reflex. He stopped missing his biscuit. He was able to shake his head and not fall over. Perhaps it had been vestibular disease after all; but dogs, like humans, also recover from strokes.
By September we managed to repeat the first grouse walk we had ever done together, the one he had fled as a pup after I shot over his head, a three-mile round trip. In a few days we followed it with our river loop, the one on which he had counted coup on the coyote, five miles—all our walks done in the early morning, for it was clear that if we went out in the heat of the day his back legs would seize up and collapse.
On our third time along the river loop, Merle spied a bison and broke into a trot. The bison didn't move and Merle stopped a good distance from it, looking back at me with a grinning pant: "You know, that felt pretty good."
A mile farther on, the herd of deer that had chased him spotted us and bounced off. Forgetting all his training, he ran after them, but stopped when he was thirty yards from them. The deer stopped as well and stared at him with bored expressions that said, "You are an old harmless dog, and if you get any closer we'll take you out again." He returned their glance and raised the ante by wagging his tail sharply and standing taller: "I could catch you if I wanted to, but I don't chase deer."
He turned his head to me with one of the most gratified smiles I have ever seen on a dog: "Yeah, I can still do this stuff." And to prove it, he trotted proudly along the road, his form trim and economical, tail washing the air at a 50-degree angle. When a red squirrel dashed in front of him, he sprinted after it, sending it up a tree, where he stared after it with glowing eyes.
Upon reaching the porch, I knelt in front of him and gripped his shoulders. He rocked back on his haunches and we looked at each other for a long time. Then he dropped his head and pushed its crown directly against my chest.
"You are the best," I said, putting my mouth on his ear.
His tail broomed the planks. Then he raised his head and laid his cheek against mine.
The recovery was deceptive, or, rather, I was unable to put what was happening into perspective: He was recovering his strength and his agility, but never to their former states. When October came around and I was loading an overnight backpack to go elk hunting, he glided between my legs and leaned against my inner thigh. He made no sound, only took a huge breath and let it out with a heartfelt sigh that said it all: "I don't see my dog panniers. Once, they would have been the first thing you took out. Once, you wouldn't have left me behind."
I rubbed his inner ears, and he clicked his teeth—chatter, chatter, chatter—meaning, "Oh, that feels good, but please don't leave me."
And this time I couldn't, though a few hours later I was regretting it. He was flagging in the heat and beginning to limp as we made our way up the very ridge that we had sat upon a decade before, where he had nudged my shoulder and said, "Look behind us, elk are walking right there."
I debated whether to press on into the next valley, unable to decide if I was trying to make him happy or denying what was happening. If he was so stiff that he couldn't walk tomorrow, I doubted that I could carry his seventy pounds to the roadhead.
I made the decision for us. "How 'bout we walk down now," I suggested pleasantly, "while we still can?"
He could hardly answer. The sun blared down on us, and he panted.
I gave him a few minutes to recover, my arm around his shoulders, he leaning into me. As we had done since we first met, we sat and gazed over the country.
Finally, we headed down, his hind end collapsing under him as he wove drunkenly. Then, either a new batch of endorphins kicked in or the horse-to-the-barn syndrome began. He picked up his pace and at the bottom of the ridge was going along smartly as we entered the shade of the conifers. A creek burbled. Across a meadow the Tetons stood. Not a cloud in the sky.
But his right leg was turned in ominously and this time I knew that he would no longer recover, at least not enough to be able to come to these high places with me. The thought crippled me in midstride. Kneeling, I wrapped my arms around him, my eyes stinging with tears. He gave me a puzzled look. What could be wrong with me? We had just been walking along so nicely. "Ha-ha-ha," he panted mildly: "It's not that bad, Ted. There have been other times we haven't found elk."
I laughed and rubbed his ears between my hands. Standing, I said, "Lead on, Sir, lead on." And down the trail he gimped, and into the cold weather he trotted. When the snow fell, he squared his shoulders and pushed his way out the dog door, extending first one and then the other hind leg behind him in his elongated stretch. Tok, tok, tok, his claws sounded on the porch, and once in the driveway he gave himself a snow bath, putting his head under the new powder, and shaking it back and forth as he emerged. Washed and ready, he set off down the road, trotting rapidly, his mayoral duties before him.
The change in him was miraculous, but I had no illusions. I simply enjoyed each day, listening for him to return from his rounds and pad into my office. Putting his chin on my knee, he'd say, "Are you still working? Very good. Let me have a little nap until you're done." And he'd go to the dedicated quadruped couch and slowly—front paws up, one hind leg up, second hind leg up—lever himself onto its comfort.
Then, in the afternoon, we'd ski for five miles along the river road, he trotting by my side, nose cleaving the cold air, eyes bright, tail waving. "Ha-ha-ha," he'd pant at me. "What a great ski!"
"What a great ski," I'd say back. "What a great ski!"
But no physical therapy or winter weather could help Brower. He grew steadily weaker despite Allison feeding him elk, organic chicken, and every natural remedy in Marybeth Minter's ample medicine bag. His surgeons said that nothing further could be done for him and that his first surgery had bought him his time—two and a half more years—and he had used it well, enjoying every minute. Eventually, his kidneys began to fail, and Allison had to rehydrate him with an IV. His tongue had been pushed out the side of his mouth by the tumor's growth, his right eye was squinted closed, and he began to have trouble breathing.
On a January afternoon she called me, asking if Merle and I would like to come over and celebrate Brower's ninth birthday—two months prematurely, she knew, but she doubted he
would make it until March. In fact, the end was probably days away.
We arrived a little after seven, and Brower came out his dog door to greet us, the right side of his face a horrible mass of distorted tissue, hard scab, and oozing sores that smelled like a rotting carcass. The disease seemed designed by an ironic god. The rest of him was as glossy, golden, and robust as ever.
Allison had ordered pizza and we took it to the great room, where a fire was going. We sat on the floor and I petted Brower, crooning, "Browse, do you know you're the best?"
"I know that," said his wagging tail.
"Merle," I called, "come on in and join us." But he wouldn't. He remained standing at the edge of the great room, watching us despondently.
Allison mentioned that Brower had rallied in the afternoon and eaten a bunch of elk and chicken. We didn't have much of an appetite, however, and put our pizza aside to pet Brower as he lay between our outstretched legs. The smell of his tumor was strong.
She began to cry, wondering out loud if it was finally time to euthanize him. His white blood cell count had gone through the roof, and his breathing had become labored. I remained silent. I couldn't answer.
She had given Brower some Tylenol laced with codeine before we had come, and he grew sleepy with the drug and our petting. Putting his chin on one of his stuffed animals, he closed his eyes. Unlike Merle, he had no inhibitions about squeaky toys.
Merle had finally lain on his belly, his chin on his paws, one brow going up, the other down, as he watched Allison with sober concentration. Then he, too, closed his eyes. Allison continued to cry, and I put my arms around her—two people, their dogs, and the life they had once shared, now reaching its end.
After a bit, she collected herself and said, "I need to give him some fluid."
She brought the IV bag and stuck the needle into Brower's neck. He sat on my lap while the bag drained, a pouch growing under his hide, and I petted him, saying, "Browse, what a pup you are, what a champ," and he closed his eyes and fell asleep in my arms.
When Merle and I went to leave, Brower tried to stand and put his paws on my chest, but he didn't have the strength. There was a glint in his eye, however, and he followed us outside. When I opened the rear door of the Subaru, he hopped in before I could help Merle up, and no amount of cajoling by Allison or me could get him out. He laughed at us, standing beside Merle, who was now also grinning.
The somber mood of the house had been forgotten. We were in the Subaru, the eternal door to fun and play.
Allison had to crawl into the car and pull Brower out.
"The power of the guys," she said, half laughing, half crying. And then she added, "He loves you so much."
She hugged me and said she would call when she decided that it was time. Then she hurried inside. Brower remained in the driveway, lit by the garage light, clouds of frosty breath rising from his bulbous snout. His left eye, the one still open, held my eyes. I sent him a good-night smooch, and he pricked his ears.
In the morning, Merle wouldn't move from his bed. I went over to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and the instant I touched him, he yelped in what I thought was pain. He tried to stand, but seemed enfeebled, whereas yesterday he had been running in the snow. His head hung listlessly; his ears drooped; his eyes were sunken. And then I understood.
Kneeling, I picked him up and carried him down the stairs, taking him outside, where he limped only three feet from the deck to pee. After making his crippled way back into the house, he ate his vitamins, but no breakfast. I brought his bed downstairs to the great room, put it in front of the fire, and he lay down as if it were he, not Brower, who was dying.
Lying before him, I rubbed his ears, and, making my voice playful, said, "Oh, he's a pup. He's a pup and a half. He's a pup and seven-eighths. He's a double pup. He's the best pup in the world." But my old ditty, which had made him wiggle with delight so many times, could do nothing to raise his spirits this morning.
He looked at me with utter sadness. He had smelled what was in the air.
Allison called the following morning, saying that the time had come. Brower's tumor was badly infected; its growth couldn't be controlled; he was ever more uncomfortable. Marybeth would euthanize him that afternoon, but I could come by earlier to spend some time with him and a few friends who would be there to bid him good-bye.
I left Merle home even though he had recovered somewhat, coming down the stairs on his own and walking to the post office with me.
"Ha!" he exclaimed in the cold January air. "I've gotten a grip."
Nevertheless, I felt that watching Brower die wasn't what he needed.
I brought Brower a last antelope bone, and, abandoning his ragged, stuffed bear and rawhide chews, he set to it with loving concentration.
Allison had invited four friends, two men, two women, and we sat in the great room around Brower, the fire going, the Tetons soaring beyond the windows. We ate cheese and crackers, drank wine and beer, and watched him work on his bone.
Marybeth arrived with her tackle box of drugs, and Allison said that perhaps it was time to say good-bye. She knelt before Brower, telling him at great length how much she loved him and would miss him, and the two women mentioned how Brower had been a model of good cheer in adversity.
I offered a poem. One day last winter, I explained, Brower had noticed that Allison had begun to cry when she had seen him leave blood in the snow from his tumor. When they had gotten home from skiing, he had written this poem, and asked me to translate it for him, and send it to Allison, which I had, and now I wanted to read it for them.
"Do not cry for me," it began. "I have lived each day like it was my first, I never know that there will be a last." It went on to say that "I have run and chased and laughed, I have smelled girl dogs and horse poop and rotten meat. I have eaten bad fish and fresh elk—mmm." It said that "I have skied great peaks and listened to coyotes and wolves," and "if I have been sad, it has never been for me, only for you when you have been low." It concluded by saying that "I am the happiest of creatures—a golden dog of yours." And for this reason, "Do not cry for me. But you can cry, and I will be there. For I know one thing—I am first in your heart. Which is why I always sleep the utter peace of always seeing you."
The sky had turned a deep cold blue; cloud tufts hung over the mountains. Brower went from person to person, getting pets and hugs, and worked on his bone. Allison began to waver, saying, "He seems so vital. How can I put him down?"
Marybeth said she could make room in her schedule tomorrow, and I said I could return any time.
So Allison postponed, walking around, unable to sit, seeming to grow more gaunt and hollow-eyed by the minute. Brower stood between my legs, and I held my face on his back, and we just felt each other. At last, he became very tired and went to his bed. But after smelling it carefully, he continued to the hearth, where Allison had lit several white votive candles. Giving them a sniff, he lay on his belly before them and closed his eyes. She got his teddy bear and put it between his paws, and he rested his chin on it, his ears splayed out over his elbows. He breathed softly, the breath hissing through the now tiny opening of his nasal passage. He looked content and at peace.
Allison turned to Marybeth and asked if the injection was ready. Marybeth said it was, so Allison knelt by him, and Brower, without any prompting, rolled on his left side and put his head on the floor, his legs outstretched. Marybeth gave him the injection in his ruff.
Kneeling next to Allison, I touched Brower's leg, and he opened his left eye a moment, looked at me, lifted his paw, and placed it in my hand. I clasped it with both of mine, and he closed his eye and began to breathe deeply.
Allison had her face pressed to his neck, telling him that she loved him and would never forget him. Up until this moment, the afternoon had seemed well scripted, everyone sad but behaving nicely. Then an abysmal moan came from her, a sound that I did not believe Allison capable of, a sound so awful in its grief that I had heard it only once before.
It was the sound that the mother of my six-year-old friend had made when, on our way home from school, he had been hit by a car and killed. The sound of irreplaceable loss. There would be other dogs for Allison, but not the dog with whom she had set out on her own and become an adult.
She reached out and clasped my hand. When she let go, I put my face on Brower's cheek and whispered into his ear, "You fly on, Browse. Thank you"—the words I next spoke took me by surprise. "Thank you," I whispered, "for scarring my floor."
I laughed to myself, remembering how he had run through the two dog doors—slap, slap—and had torn across my new pine floor, greeting me ecstatically and leaving scratches everywhere with his nails. I had complained to Allison, and she had said, "You don't have to let him in." I had considered it, but not for long. After all, it was just a floor.
He continued to breathe, a whistling, grating breath, and I wondered how long it would take for him to die. Then Marybeth said to Allison, "Whenever you're ready." And I realized that she had only given him a sedative and still had to administer the lethal injection.
Allison covered Brower for many minutes, talking to him so no one else could hear. Still, I held his paw. At last, she took a scissors and clipped some hair from his chest, stomach, and tail. Then, she nodded.
Marybeth shaved a bit of his hock, the electric clipper making a jarring noise. A moment later, she injected the solution. Brower's tail lifted high in the air and fell to the ground. Allison began to weep convulsively, and we all put our hands on her back, though I still held Brower's paw in one hand, feeling his rough pads and the lovely filaments of fur between them.
Who knows how long we sat there. It grew dark. And finally we let go.
Chapter 18