Of Dogs and Men

As time goes by I keep missing my old dog Luke. And I killed him.

His fate was set the day my ex-girlfriend called and said we had to do something about him. At that point she and I couldn't get along anymore, but we did share, amicably, custody of Luke. I'd keep him awhile until I had to take a trip, then I'd pass him to her. She'd do the same. He seemed happy enough to be with either of us and ran eagerly into whichever house he was revisiting.

Now there were to be no more returns. He had pancreatic cancer, she reported, and an operation would cost thousands of dollars, and the vet wasn't encouraging about the outcome. Also, Luke's hip displasia had become so severe that he had difficulty getting up, and the condition had led to pelvic nerve damage, and he was losing bowel control.

Wasn't it time to put him down? Would I go with her to the vet's, for support?

I did and it was worse than I'd expected. Luke sensed the difference of the visit. He was subdued, trembling. The needle didn't deliver death as quickly as I'd thought it would. He shuddered in my hands and took faltering breaths, struggling for life as every living thing does before he went still. I rushed from the room, leaving my old girlfriend to wrap up details -- arranging Luke's cremation, ordering his ashes delivered to me --while I cried in her car. So much for manly support.

Luke was 11, not so old for a border collie. I had foreordained his death on this day by another decision I'd made several years before when his hip condition began to get serious. Quit throwing balls and Frisbees to him, the vet advised then. Take him for walks on a leash and he'll get sufficient exercise, and he'll live longer.

I refused the advice. Luke was of a breed developed to run 50 miles in a day. When cooped up he made mischief or moped. Let him have a shorter and happier life, I decided. As long as he wanted to race around the park, I'd let him. Hard play was his nature.

Dog smarts, I believe, is something often misunderstood by dog's best friend. Often what we consider their intelligence is really instinctive behavior. This isn't to say Luke wasn't smart, too, because he was, but I came to see that much of his intensity was purely his nature. When the time came I could decide on his length of life, I couldn't deny his instincts any more than he could.

Here's what I think proves this: my new dog. When I moved to Maryland's Eastern Shore I decided mourning Luke for five years was long enough, and it was time to love a new dog. I chose a breed appropriate for hunting lands and one locally bred, a golden retriever. Tallulah, my little female, does some things better than Luke ever could. When I toss the ball for her, she "tracks," following with her head up, watching its flight, marking where it goes down, as retrievers are bred to do. Luke never could retrieve, not really. He'd go racing off before I could throw, and if I made the toss while he was running he could rarely find it. What he liked to do was run out in a hook-shaped pattern, then stop and stare back at me. Then I could make the toss and he'd get it. He'd bring it back but never to my knee as Tallulah does. He'd drop it a little short of me. I never could train him to bring it that last six or eight feet. He'd look at me and then stare intently at the ball, like he was making sure it didn't try to bounce away on its own.

Luke wasn't retrieving, he was herding. He was running that hook pattern as if circling to the far side of a clump of sheep. Anyone who's ever seen a border collie trial will catch on to why he always stopped a little short on the return. Luke was staying back and on the other side of it to make sure that little round bouncy sheep didn't bolt away from us. Bred to do it.

I'm not suggesting Tallulah or any golden is, or isn't, smarter than Luke or any border collie. But consider: when Tallulah's urge to relieve herself comes on her, she stops retrieving and hunkers there with her pink ball in her mouth. It's a comical sight but it's pretty good dog etiquette. When the same need came on Luke, he drop his toy, do a 180-degree turn and frequently make his deposit right on it. Then he'd look around, discover the accident and turn to me with a stare of deep perplexity as if to say, "Will you come look at this? Somebody just $#&+ on my Frisbee."

He wasn't about to grab it in his teeth, either, until I walked over and made matters right. To be fair to Luke, it's likely his displaysia was already damaging pelvic nerves and his need to relieve himself was catching him by surprise. Yeah, I still miss him and the tricks he played on himself.

My playing God with his lifespan got personal a little while back when I saw my doctor about my arythmia. He suggested I take coumadin, a blood thinner that can, maybe, stop heart attacks and strokes. I refused it. I use a wood-splitter, climb ladders, ride a bike, go kayaking, hunt when I'm invited -- activities a prudent person with chemically thinned blood would quit. The doctor said he wouldn't want to take the stuff either but, "Just don't blame us if. . ."

I won't. My frailties are hugely due to how I've lived, the 40 years I smoked, the nights of eerie ruckus. I don't claim my behaviors were instinctive, but all are definitely in my nature. As I accepted responsibility for shortening Luke's life, I have to take full blame for a lifetime of chasing after and herding home the fleece and not complain about that nasty surprise, someday when no one can make things right, I'll find upon my Frisbee.