About a Dog
I write this week from the bottom of a deep well of grief. On Saturday morning we had to say goodbye to Cal.
Cal was my dog for 15 years. But to say that doesn't really do him justice, or tell the whole story. I don't know how to tell the whole story; I don't have language for that. The best I can do right now is tell you the part of the story that that makes sense to me. His death does not make sense to me and probably never will.
I met Cal in a Long Island animal shelter on October 30, 2011. He was 10 to 12 weeks old and seven scrawny pounds of legs and ears. My then-boyfriend picked him out; truth be told, I had my eye on another dog. When we drove him home, he slept in my lap the entire time, clad in a tiny sweater someone gave us. That first night, we tried to have him sleep in a crate in the kitchen. When he began to cry, my boyfriend went and slept on the floor next to him, and that's how we made it through the night.
Walking the streets of the Lower East Side with Cal was like walking with a supermodel: so many people stopped to stare. I know that every puppy is adorable, but Cal was drop-dead gorgeous, jet black save for a tiny patch of white on his little chest. He was also a bit of an asshole, if I'm being honest, so prone to chewing me with his needle teeth that I began to refer to him as a land piranha.
But he grew out of that, and when my boyfriend and I broke up, Cal came with me. During the 15 years we spent together, he was with me for three long-term boyfriends, two fiancés, and one husband, along with two cities and six apartments. We drove cross-country together on four separate occasions. I used to joke that he was a terrible conversationalist but an excellent traveling companion.
When he was young, Cal was fast. So fast that many people asked if he had any Greyhound in him. I don't know. I never got his DNA tested. To me, he was just Cal, and that was all that mattered.
Cal loved people. He loved pizza crust and stinky cheese and chicken and his own eye boogers. He loved taking long walks, rolling in terrible things, stealing my shoes and slippers and hand lotion, having his ears and chest rubbed, destroying stuffed toys, and rummaging through open trash cans, the grosser, the better. He loved it when we had friends over for dinner; he was a very social boy. During the summer, he loved chasing flies. We had a tag-team system, me with a shoe in hand. Once I killed the fly, he would eat it, because he also loved eating flies.
Cal loved female dogs but was hit or miss with the males, especially if they weren't neutered. He also didn't like skateboards or fireworks or, when he got older, traveling in the car. When we went out, he hated sitting still; he was too high-strung to take to a sidewalk cafe. He wanted to be exploring, always exploring, following his magnificent nose.
I said that Cal was my dog but it's more accurate to say that he was mine and I was his. I fully belonged to that dog. With apologies to my husband, he was the love of my life, and for 15 years, I built that life around him. I never liked it when people referred to me as his mom because I wasn't; I was simply the human who would do anything for him. In return, he gave me steadfast companionship, joy, and so much laughter, and made me a better person.
About a year and a half ago his back legs began to weaken, and from there it was a slow decline. As he grew weaker, I had to grow stronger. For the last several months I carried him up and down three flights of stairs and physically supported him when he went to the bathroom. When he became incontinent I followed him around with paper towels and disinfectant. I bought him little boots to make his walks easier, diapers that I put on him whenever I carried him down the stairs, and a special harness with a handle on the back. I bought him an orthopedic bed and wet food that I fed him by hand. I did everything I could because I wanted him to be comfortable, but also because, semi-consciously, I somehow believed we could just continue on like this indefinitely.
And then last Wednesday he couldn't get himself out of bed. We were out of town, so our vet said to bring him in after we returned on Saturday. But by Thursday he was refusing all food, and could no longer walk. On Friday, we brought him home. It was a long, arduous trip, but I was secretly grateful for it because for eight hours it allowed me to cradle him in the back seat, to feel his heart against my palm.
On Friday night, our last night together, I slept in the living room next to his bed. I tried to give him water and cleaned him when he soiled himself.
And then the vet came on Saturday morning. By that point, the dog I knew was gone. The one that remained was very calm, in and out of consciousness. He was ready; I was not. The vet, our kind and compassionate vet, gave us some time, and then took out her equipment. And then there was nothing left for me to do for Cal except to stroke his head and tell him, over and over again, how much I loved him.
