My fifteen-year-old Maltese dog, Truman, passed away last month at the ripe old age (in dog years) of fifteen. An aunt of mine bought Truman when he was just six weeks old from a breeder and shortly thereafter she discovered that he was much more trouble and work than she had bargained for. He was virtually ignored until the day I went to her house to visit and she asked if I wanted the dog. She gave him to me. A six-hundred dollar dog with papers was just given to me for free. I took Truman home, changed his name (I refuse to utter his Before Me name) and lopped off his tangled Bob Marley fur to reveal a black nosed, black eyed dog who would be my friend for many years through the empty nest saga as my kids left home one by one, my new marriage at the age of forty-seven, the death of my father, and the loss of my teaching career due to a chronic illness. Through it all my True Man was there.
On April 6th 2019 after fourteen years of love and in-sickness-and-health with Truman, a relationship more committed than some of my relationships with humans, I knew the end was close for my furry friend. Over a three month period I had watched helplessly as his health had rapidly deteriorated. We had made several vet visits, one of which was to have his eye removed due to an ulcer. Then his herniated disc in his neck started acting up again and this time it wasn’t getting better. I had stayed up three nights straight while Truman whined in pain and fought to find a position in which he could find comfort. He could no longer climb up and down the steps to go outside to use the bathroom in the backyard, so I would wrap his dog bed around him to cushion his aching body while I carried him gently down the steps and placed him on the grass in the yard, but he still yelped out in pain every time I touched him. The last day of his life, his one remaining milky black marble eye looked up at me with a trust so raw that it made the blood in my veins almost freeze with the weight of responsibility. I owed the little dog nothing less than a graceful, painless exit from this world; this world in which he had been my friend and my champion. He had loved me unconditionally and in return I owed him this one last gift. To say that letting Truman go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done would be an understatement.
The drive to the vet took forty-five minutes and I held Truman the whole way as my husband drove. Once inside the sterile office the vet inserted an I.V in Truman’s front leg. The vet gave me time to say goodbye and I held Truman against my heart and thanked him for being part of my life. I cradled Truman in my arms and when I nodded to the vet she injected the killing combination into the I.V. First the medication to relax him. Truman gazed at me with complete trust and then closed his eyes. Then the vet injected the medication that stopped his heart. A second later Truman’s head lolled back in my arms and he was gone. My little Truman had completed his earth’s task; to be the best dog in the world.
At home I felt as lost as Gretel in the woods with no breadcrumbs to follow. No more looking under my feet to see where my friend was so I wouldn’t step on him, no more scooping him in my arms at night to place him on his dog bed that stayed beside my queen sized bed, no more running when he barked for me because his failing eyesight made it difficult for him to locate me anymore. His blue bone patterned dog bed now lay empty and his food dish sat undisturbed on the kitchen floor. I couldn’t bear to put them away. His ashes arrived from the pet crematorium and I placed them on my study bookcase with his dog collar looped over the plain white plastic container. I placed a photo of Truman beside his ashes. I found my eyes straying to this mini-memorial several times a day as I attempted to write. I found it hard to write without my Truman curled beside me. My fingers would freeze on the keyboard. For fourteen years Truman had been by my side. He had been my friend long before I even met my husband, Jim. After Truman died, Jim started telling people that he didn’t know if he could stay with me now because when he had met me I had been a complete package: me and Truman. Now I am half of a package. I knew that Jim was only half joking. He missed Truman as much as I did.
Two weeks after Truman dies I find myself scouring pet rescue websites. I keep telling myself, “I’m only looking, not being disloyal to Truman.” Not long after, on a Saturday, I stop in at PetSmart when I know they are having their pet rescue adoption day. Just inside the doors ten varying sizes of dog crates line the front perimeter of the store. The dogs are big, small, long haired, short haired, old, young, brown, black, skinny, husky, napping, awake. Some pace their crates, others look out at the people inspecting them with curiosity, and some gaze out in trepidation. Some even seem to be trying to ignore their surroundings. There are three Dachshund looking dogs in one crate: two young, yippy, energetic short-haired light brown ones that I dismiss as too active for a long-past middle-aged woman like myself and one quiet one curled up in a ball of black silky fur. I kneel down and the ball of fur raises his head, unwinds his body, and stares motionless at me. Soft brown eyes peer into my blue ones. The dog is small with squat stubby legs and he has dashes of gold above his eyes like perfectly formed eyebrows. I ask the rescue lady if I can hold the dog and she identifies him as a long haired Dachshund mix. The minute the lady opens the cage the dog pushes his nose out and cautiously, with his tail between his legs, approaches me as the crate door is closed behind him. He slowly crawls into my lap while I hold my breath. He places his head on my chest as a sigh escapes his little body. I exhale too. Ten minutes and two-hundred dollars later I am holding the squirming dog while I try to fill out paperwork that will ensure that we belong to one another forever.
Now Duncan- named after the often overlooked king in the Shakespeare play Macbeth- sleeps at my feet while I write this. He inherited Truman’s dog bed and his bowl. Duncan is a young two years old and when we go outside he likes to dash around the yard in every expanding circles until his tongue lolls and he is panting with exertion, yet he never lets me out of his sight. He runs so fast sometimes that his legs outrun his body and he tumbles head-over-tail across the grass, but it doesn’t slow him down. If Jim and I go away for a few hours I put Duncan in his crate with his stuffed squirrel, otherwise he scratches the paint off my study door in a panic. When we arrive back home Jim has to go into the house and let Duncan out of his crate while I wait outside. Jim opens the back door and Duncan barrels out looking for me. When he spies me he lands at my feet, rolls over onto his back, and gushes a stream of urine into the air in a perfectly formed arc of joy. That’s the reason I stand outside, but Duncan and I are working on solving that problem. At night Duncan creeps into my bed and sneaks over Jim’s snoring body and curls on the pillow above my head like a cat. I pretend not to notice. When I walk out of the room Duncan’s little feet pad behind me, he buries toys under couch cushions, and dances on his hind legs like a performing bear in a circus when he sees me putting his food in his dish. He snuggles on my lap and demands my undivided attention, which I give willingly.
Would Truman mind this new dog in my life? Would he be hurt because I have replaced him, so to speak? Knowing Truman I don’t think he’d like Duncan much merely because Truman never tolerated any dog, but I do think Truman would approve that another unwanted dog in the world is now very much loved and wanted. So, I will love Duncan just as I loved Truman. They are two different dogs and Duncan will inhabit a different era of my life than Truman did. There will be new memories and new challenges. There will be times when Duncan’s fur will be wet with my tears and times when I will laugh at his silly dog antics. There will be trails to walk together and games of tug-of-war and catch to play. Maybe he will outlive me. Who knows? I only know that if I am still around when Duncan is old and ready to go home, I will be there to help him on his journey as painlessly as possible and with as much love as possible, just as I did for Truman because that is what dogs have taught me: how to be a better human being.
