He's been dead for six months, but it feels like six years. Except for when it feels like only six days, or six hours, and I realize I still miss him with an intensity I never thought possible. Those are the bad nights. There aren't as many of them recently, but when they're bad, they're really bad and often last well into the next day.
His name was Burr, but as with many pets, he was called a variety of names at the whim of his absurdly doting owner. He was Sir Burr, El Burrito, Der Burrgermeister, Burr Buddy, and, most often, Burrrrrrrr. Maybe all he really understood was the one syllable sound, the "burr" part, but for over 18 years, he answered to all of the above.
Burr was given to me as a gift by my then-boyfriend (I'll call him Randy) only a few weeks after my beloved Husky mix Balfour had to be put down at the age of 11. I never imagined I'd have another dog that would outlive old Balfour, or one that would mean as much to me as he had. But like me, Randy was also a dog person, and his short-haired dachshund, Stacey (on her second litter), and German Shepherd pup, Gram (only about a year old), had somehow managed to produce an adorable litter, and 8 weeks later the puppies were going fast. Randy's grandmother, with whom he lived, had already claimed what she'd decided was the prettiest one, dark and sturdy like Gram, but told me I could come over and pick out either of the two puppies that no one had yet taken. When I went to see them, I realized one was the runt, smooth and favoring his mother more than his father. He was a cutie, but shy, and he scampered away from me as I stepped up onto Randy's grandmother's porch. And then the other puppy, long-bodied and long-haired, an apparently equal mix of his parents' features, walked right up to me as if to say, "About time you got here." I picked him up and he immediately made himself comfortable in my arms and fell asleep. "Why, that one's already took up with you!" said Randy's grandmother, and she was right. This puppy had picked me. From that moment on, I totally belonged to him.
If that wasn't the instant I fell in love with Burr, it certainly didn't take much longer for it to happen. He turned out to be the best dog I've ever known, and very likely the last dog I'll ever own, since I can't imagine another dog that's not Burr in my life. The Jekyll and Hyde transformation from dog person to Crazy Dog Guy, however, doesn't require 18 years in most cases. One could argue that heredity and environment play a big part in the onset of the syndrome. If that's a fact, I come by it honestly. My Aunt Annabel had been in the habit of attaching a house key to her dog's collar whenever he went out roaming her North Knoxville neighborhood, just in case she didn't hear him come back home. And my Cousin Patsy would bring her dog, Max, bags of Cheese Krystals with no onions and no mustard. (The onions were bad for a dog's digestion, and Max simply didn't care for mustard on his hamburgers.)Burr liked his doggy bags as much as the next guy, but he was not, for the most part, a high-maintenance pet. He was kind of laid back, actually. One of the more interesting things about Burr was that he would never ever try to snatch food out my hands unless I offered it to him. He wouldn't even gobble up something from the floor unless I told him it was OK to. I've never met another untrained dog with that kind of self-discipline. I say "untrained" because I never felt the need to teach Burr not to grab for food, or for that matter to make him obey me in any way. He always just seemed to do what I asked him to do, even if he didn't quite like it. It's for sure that Burr was smart enough to learn tricks. I suppose it's possible he had a form of canine ADHD. He could easily pick up on how to fetch a rolled up sock, for example, delightedly running for it and bringing it back to me . . . one time. The next time I'd throw the sock, he'd look at me as if to say, "Again? You saw me do that already, right?"
Scientists are discovering that dogs are able to learn a far more extensive vocabulary of human words than was once believed possible. Burr apparently understood a great deal of what I said to him, not the least of which was the phrase "Not for dogs." If I happened to be eating chocolate, something one should never give a dog, I'd simply say, "This is not for dogs" and Burr would walk away with a resignation somewhat akin to logic. No begging, no continuing to watch me with pitifully sad eyes. He got me. That's something I can't even say about most human beings.
Going from dog person to Crazy Dog Guy does not happen abruptly, but is rather a progression-- no, make that a digression along a continuum of emotional attachment and loss of sanity so gradual that you can convince yourself it's not noticeable to others, and therefore not at all pathetic. Then eventually you just don't give a shit. This can be precipitated by a lack of fulfillment in other aspects of one's life, difficulties with interpersonal relationships, and the stress of work and family commitments. In my own case, I'd spent years bouncing from one short-lived grant-funded job to the next while caring for an aging mother. This left me too tired to get out much and unavailable to friends with whom I'd previously spent lots of time. My interests waned, my social life fell by the wayside. But I couldn't wait to get home to Burr each evening, and I spent my weekends, my vacations, and all my time off just hanging out with him. And that was absolutely fine with me.Even when they recognize it for what it is, most people don't understand the transformation into Crazy Dog Guy. A psychiatrist I sought help from when I was extremely depressed at watching Burr's health decline in his later years had the insensitivity to tell me I should go ahead and get another dog before Burr died. A backup dog, as it were. She claimed she understood what I felt about Burr because she'd just spent $35 at a pet salon to have her dog's toenails painted electric blue. I told her I would probably kill myself instead, she agreed to write me a prescription for antidepressants, and I never went back.
After my mother's death, I spent even more of my free time with Burr. He had grown to be as much her dog as mine, the two of them keeping each other company while they waited for me to come home every evening. Now, with no one else at home, Burr got lonely and bored, so I tried to be there for him as much as possible. The expected health problems of a long life were subtle-- a cough, the eventual inability to jump up on the couch with me-- and toward the end he'd go through spells of feeling so bad that I pondered having him put down. Each time, though, he would rally, and I was grateful that he hung in there as long as he did, even though it must have been tough on him. In his later years, when he slept, Burr's nose would twitch and his legs would kick and he'd emit low woofing noises. By this time he was a geriatric dog, barely able to walk from room to room without stumbling, but in his dreams he was a Warrior Pup defending our backyard from wildlife intruders. On the night before the morning he died, Burr couldn't bring himself to eat, could only drink water, and I knew it was time to take him to the vet the next day. Late that night, as I lay down next to him, I told him he could let go if he needed to, that I would be all right. Crazy Dog Guy that I am, I'd swear that Burr looked back at me, right into my eyes, and understood just what I'd said. Then he sighed and put his head back down. When I woke up a few hours later, he was gone.
Was he an extraordinary dog? I think so, but I'm aware that everyone thinks that about the dogs they love. I will say that he was as extraordinarily devoted to me as I was to him.Burr always wanted to be in the same room with me, so I eventually had to place several dog beds around the house: in the living room, my bedroom, the room where I have my computer. He didn't even like to eat in the kitchen, probably because I rarely did. I would put his food in his dish next to the kitchen door, and he would promptly pick it up, Snoopy style, and carry it to where I had settled in with my plate. Wherever I was, there he was. For 18 long, too short, wonderful years, there he was.
No comments:
Post a Comment