The J Letters: Good Dog
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post::Back in the early days of the Lone Prairie web site, circa 1999 and 2000, I didn't have a blog. I had The J Letters, semi-weekly writing installments. Most of my current blog readers were not around then. After reading about Abbye being sick (now better, thankfully), it reminded me of a particular J Letter, one that started out with a poem by John Updike that has stayed with me the moment I read it.::
Dog's Death
by John Updike
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
----------
Dear J,
I read this poem in college. It never left my mind.
Another Good Dog died. She listened to me ask her on Friday if she wanted to go out, if she was OK, with eyes that were glassing over, having messed herself. She was silent as we lifted her out onto the deck and covered her with her heavy rug, knowing that she'd not go back inside again. She lay silent through a cold night, and a cold day as we said goodbye in keeping with our schedule. She didn't leave, she waited for us to come back.
I thought about our Good Dog all day. When the moon was good and high and we pulled into the yard, I jumped out to see if the rug still moved.
I patted her head. My sight was blurred. When everyone else had gone to bed, I went back. With a fist, I broke the ice on her water dish that she hadn't touched since Friday, crying. Her eyes didn't see me either, but her ears heard me.
I thought of how good a little water in the mouth felt when I was thirsty, and so I cupped a bit of cold water in my hand and began to moisten her gums, her teeth, her tongue. So dry. A body shutting down. Her tongue tried to lap the water, and so I continued, my hand blue and numb.
Her body convulsed with uncontrollable and barely audible yelps and barks. I could see her shutting down, trying to die. "Shep," I said with my hand on her thick fur behind her ears, "it's OK for you to go. You've been a good dog." The water was gone and so was the dog I knew. I said goodbye, but felt sick as I watched her trying to die.
Trying to die. Some people foolishly believe it just happens. I went to bed knowing she was cold, shaking, but not quite gone.
On Sunday, the deck was clear, with only a tuft of fur left. Dad had to do what I never could have. The hard memory is his.
The UPS man has no excuse to not deliver packages to the door. I will walk alone. I will have to pay attention to hear visitors pull in the yard. No more ears covered in pink fly cream. No more white fluffs of fur for the birds to line their nests with. Nothing will come when I call.
Good dog. It's the best I can say.
Labels: pets
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 11/29/2005 12:31:00 AM
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2 Comments:
We never understand until we lose our own Good Dog.
By 
girlfriday, at
29/11/05 00:52
Momma Kitty died in August. She was 18. We sat with her in the sun till she was gone. Friends don't understand why I cried for a cat. Will I cry when they die? Don't know. Doubt it.
By 2Hotel9, at
11/12/05 12:05
