The passing of a noble hound

By Doug Page | Wednesday, September 24, 2008, 01:29 PM

I am not one to ascribe human behavior or emotions to animals, particularly dogs. They are wired in a different manner. Their eyes see a world different than ours. Their sense of smell and hearing are more refined. They process the world in a way we can only imagine.

That we would project our thoughts and emotions onto them is proof enough of the difference between out species. A dog’s world revolves around am I hungry, thirsty, warm, cold, loved?

But if you seek unconditional love, get a dog.

The house was silent this morning.

There was no clicking of nails on the hardwood floor. No galumphing down the stairs as the sun rises. No hissing of cats, awakened in such a rude manner by inquiring cold, wet nose. No muted wake-up yelps.

No prancing and bowing as the coffee brewed. No annoying metallic scraping of teeth on stainless steel as breakfast was inhaled.

There was silence and a hole in our souls.

The wife did not have her 70-pound shadow — he liked his handouts, and she was a sucker. There was no greyhound dance when the grumpy teenager came down the stairs heading off to school. And as I started my day at the kitchen table, my co-author and sometimes editor was not at his usual place on the rug.

How can a graceful, sleek animal look so doofus, napping on his back with four legs in the air?

The cancer came swiftly. The vet found the mass in his massive chest at noon yesterday. Chemo and surgery were nonstarters. Nature would take him when it was time. There was nothing anyone could do. It was my call when to end it.

I called the wife at work. Explained it all. Hung up and cried in a corner. It wasn’t as if — God, please, no — I was losing a child or my wife. I thought myself inured to death, violent or otherwise.

He was a good and faithful friend. We had rescued him — or he us — after much pleading by the then 9-year-old Siberian princess. She wanted a puppy. She got a 2-year-old retired racer. She was not pleased. First, he was not a licker. Second, he wasn’t cute. Third, he was bigger than she.

But he was gentler, quieter and faithful. The wife started leaving a Milk Bone in the mailbox so when the daughter got off the school bus, she’d enter the house with a treat in hand.

Soon he had us trained. Come in the door, and you’d better have a Milk Bone.

Our faithfulness to our new routine was repaid a thousand-fold. We could put the daughter on on end of the lead and the dog on the other. We knew both would return safely. Once on their daily “walk”, surprised by the sudden appearance of a stranger, he jumped between the daughter and the stranger, baring his impressive teeth.

“I wasn’t scared at all,” she said. “He was there.”

Though his muzzled grayed and his step slowed, every time a new swain passed over the threshold to call on the now-teenage daughter he galumphed down the stairs and take his stand between the daughter and the boy. Some made it no farther than the foyer before fleeing. Until he was sure of their intentions, they would come no farther. The ones the daughter liked were warned ahead of time to bring a treat.

At 5:58 p.m. yesterday, while I was arguing with a wrong-headed colleague, the wife called. She was cradling a convulsing dog. The vet was on his way. The dog would not go gentle into that good night.

I called Son No. 2 who rushed to our house, left the colleague to his own devices and sped home.

I was not in time, nor was the daughter. The vet knew what needing doing. He eased our friend’s journey into the dying of the light.

So tonight, the figurative drinks are on me. Hoist a cold one for Ty, the Wonder Dog, a good and faithful friend, the noblest of hounds.

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