Our Little Old Man

We went to Wal-Mart on a December day and there was a lady there giving away pit bull puppies.  One little brindle stood out to Rob.  We took the little guy home.  He was still so tiny that all he wanted to do was snuggle (and for months Rob snuggled him in our bed – over my objections).

He was never a particularly exuberant puppy.  We often said he was more like a silent little old man in a soft puppy body.  He always seemed put out for some reason.  We decided he needed a little old man name.  We settled on Amos.

Well, six and a half years later I sit here at this computer knowing that later today I will put that little old man in my front seat for his last car ride.  We found out a few days ago that Amos has cancer and that he won’t recover from it. 

I think of myself as a fairly practical, logical person.  I know that dogs don’t live forever.  As the author wrote in Marley & Me, “. . . owning a dog always ended with this sadness because dogs just don't live as long as people do.”  Intellectually, I know that.  And I know that Amos is uncomfortable.  He just lies around, not wanting to move much.  His breathing is shallow.  But his blessed tail refuses to quit wagging, just a slow rhythmic beat, reminding you that he’s there and that underneath the gray hair and the now gaunt frame and beyond the tumor, he’s still alive.

I’ve had numerous dogs die on me, in tragic, traumatic ways.  I’ve been sad, but really only momentarily.  This is the first time we’ve known the exact date and time of death.  I know because I chose it.  How can that be?  Who am I to choose when something lives and dies? 

Especially when I’ve said repeatedly how the dog annoys me and is rude to me.  How hypocritical is it of me to sit here now and have sadness over his death?  Who am I to make this about me?

For his entire life, Amos only had one goal -- to run away.  You couldn't let him just run and play in the yard because he would just head on down the road.  He might come back that night, but if the new house he found seemed interesting enough, he was content to live there (just ask our former neighbors).  Amos would stand by the storm door and just breathe in the air… it must have smelled like freedom to him.  This didn't change even after he was neutered.  Still he waited.  Waited for his opportunity to head off into the sunset.

At the time, this made me crazy.  For six and a half years, I threatened to give him away.  If he didn't want to be here, then fine - he didn't have to be.  But for six and a half years, it was just talk.  His big dumb head was always just there, waiting, with his tail slowly flap-a-flap-flapping.

“Such short little lives our pets have to spend with us, and they spend most of it waiting for us to come home each day.”  Marley & Me.

In the rare moments he wasn't patiently waiting for an opportunity to make a break for it, he would come easing over to the recliner that Rob frequents.  He would first gently and silently lay his head in Rob's lap.  Then slowly, ever so slowly, one paw would come up.  Then another... all the while, the tail was slowly wagging.  Generally, Rob would say, “What?  You want to come up here?  Then come on.”  Amos would climb up and do his best impression of a lap dog (you do realize that we are talking about a 75 pound pit bull, right?).  There would be legs sticking out all over the place.

So I'm steeling myself for this afternoon.  I'm reflecting on too many nights we made him sleep in the yard, too many times we didn't buy him the high quality dog food, too many times I yelled at him for being in the way while I was trying to get through a door, too many times I passed by him and didn't pat him on the head... and I’m hoping that grace covers me...

“When you have dogs, you witness their uncomplaining acceptance of suffering, their bright desire to make the most of life in spite of the limitations of age and disease, their calm awareness of the approaching end when their final hours come. They accept death with a grace that I hope I will one day be brave enough to muster.”  Dean Koontz, A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog. 

I wish Amos didn't have to die like this.  I wish he would live to a ripe old age and just quietly pass in his sleep.  But those aren't the cards he was dealt.  I will be there for him in his final moments, to make amends for those missed pats on the head, and to see him through to the freedom for which he always longed.

*** Thanks to the courteous staff at Cheatham County Animal Control.  They were so sweet and kind.

Here's a photo of Amos that I took today just before we left the house.  You can see even today he had no interest in me and had his gaze fixed on the horizon.  I hope he's somewhere running through a field and, for once, not looking over his shoulder to see if we've caught up to him yet...