"He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast."
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (lines 612-613), 1798
Today I cried as I watched a beloved dog die at a veterinarian's hands. Strong emotion bubbled up, as is did one spring day in 1980, by my dying mother's hospital bed. I felt better after each cry. I miss this dog, not three years old, more than I expected to miss him. His name was Happy, and he almost always was happy.
"I can tell he's a good-natured dog," the vet said. "Some dogs in this state try to bite when I pick tem up. He didn't." The vet said he was some kind of terrier, with a mixture of other dog genes. "We call this a Chilcotin special."
Happy was indeed a Chilcotin special, special to many Chilcotins.
"There's where the bullet went in," the vet said, pointing to the red spot on Happy's abdomen. He found almost no feeling in Happy's back legs.
"Partly-severed spine?" I asked.
"Yes." The vet explained the heroic measures necessary to save Happy, who would still never control his bowels, nor walk again. He recommended putting Happy down. Happy's mistress sadly agreed.
I was relieved that Happy felt no pain in the 24 or more hours since someone shot him. Bob Dylan has a line in the song "Joey:" "I know the men who shot him down will get what they deserve." I bear no grudge against Happy's attackers, however; but I admit some comfort from the fact that such demented people never experience the depth of joy that normal people experience. Their perverse upbringing and pathological habits drive them to such remorseless deeds. That's punishment enough for them.
There but for the grace of God go I, as my siblings and parents used to say upon learning of another's sorry state.
One needle put Happy to sleep in a few minutes. I lay four fingertips on his shaggy, light brown side. Another needle put him to death. I lay those fingertips on his side again. I was glad that his face, lolling tongue, and open eyes were turned away from me. My daughter saw them.
In life, Happy's big brown eyes, behind wisps of blond and brown hair, were so expressive. They looked up at me from the back seat of the car a few times, as I drove him and his already-grieving mistress to the vet today.
It was a bright, sunny, warm day, like spring, a spring that Happy will not see.
His family acquired Happy a few months after his mistress's mother died in November, 2011. Her father named him Happy. Her father died in November, 2014.
Two weeks ago, her sister brought her aging, ailing, likely-blind and pained dog Mandy, 13, to that same veterinary office for mercy killing. A different vet helped Mandy past her pain, past her life.
We are less surprised by death in the sick or old, whether person or dog, than by death in the young.
Mom was young but sick; her death was therefore no surprise. One of my two older sisters died young, suddenly. That was a surprise. I am older than Mom was when she died, and more than twice the age my sister was when she died. Those deaths were decades ago, but today's death overwhelmed me more than any death since my dad's death, also decades ago.
I am not angry. I am only sad, very sad. I grieve the young, dead dog. I sympathize with the dog's mistress and her twin brother, in their house now more lonely than it was after their dad's death three months ago. May they find comfort and joy in the future, as I found after my parents' and sister's deaths.
This writing began with a quote from an English poem more than 200 years old. More than 2000 years ago, the Greek philosopher Aristotle said that catharsis, the exhibition of strong emotions, was healthy. Some of you readers know the poem, the poet, and the philosopher. Draw what parallels you will. All my adult life, I have found solace and inspiration in words, whether from others or from myself.
I wrote for a beautiful, friendly dog. I also write for myself, "like one that hath been stunned/And is in a sense forlorn.... (Coleridge, lines 622-623)
Goodbye, Happy. You were a good dog.
Readers, be kind to one another, to other animals, and to yourselves, as Happy reminded me to be.
