Buddy's time

June 10, 2010

Dear Pat,

On a summer day 15 years ago, DC heard whining coming from the park next to our house. It was a mixed-breed puppy we named Hank. When we learned that someone had dumped a whole litter in the park, we found one of his sisters at the Humane Society. We named her Lucy.

When Hank died last week, we buried him in our backyard next to our beagle Alvie.

Hank had refused food for five days beforehand, the end of a downward spiral that began six weeks earlier. We found out that Hank had kidney disease and colitis. He couldn't control his bowels and sometimes was disoriented. Our veterinarian flushed his kidneys and gave him an antibacterial drug that stopped some of the symptoms.

Most worrisome was his refusal to eat or drink willingly. Every other hour he grudgingly accepted a syringe of water and electrolytes. Sometimes the syringe contained a doggy dietary supplement or a mashed-up pill meant to protect his stomach. Some days he was OK; most days he wasn't.

The weekend before he died, DC took him to her family's cabin, one of his favorite places. He swam and walked around some, but the disease affected his use of his hind legs. On their return DC told me he'd refused all food, even the syringes.

I took Hank to our veterinarian to see if anything more could be done. He said Hank wasn't in pain, that his lack of interest in food was similar to a human's who has a cold. Humans with kidney disease get dialysis and wait for a kidney transplant. Dogs just hang on. But the most recent day-and-a-half infusion hadn't helped.

We're wondering if Hank is ready to leave, I said to the vet. It's probably a good decision, he said. He said we could come back after 5.

That was the longest of afternoons. DC was off work. We just sat with Hank and touched him and tried not to show him how upset we were.

Buddy was the nickname DC and I had for Hank. Before becoming ill he loved to run in circles as fast as he could in the backyard. Sometimes with DC's encouragement he did a little dance. That is my lasting image of him, dancing with DC.

Hank had a full if fear-filled life. Dog trainers refer to animals like Hank as fear-biters. They don't bite because they're mean but because they're afraid. A trainer we consulted looked at Hank for 30 seconds and refused to work with him. An animal psychologist in St. Louis suggested a collar that would squirt lemon juice on his head whenever he barked. We hoped she found a psychologist of her own.

Ultimately we located an Iowa animal psychic who told us Hank was an alpha male overwhelmed by his responsibilities. He took those responsibilities -- basically to protect us -- perhaps too seriously.

He frightened some people, as was his intention. He didn't act snarly around DC and me or our parents, although he didn't allow himself to be held, in fact resisted it vehemently. He bit a few people, including a niece and an aunt. One occurred at the cabin, the other on our back porch.

Hank also defended my mother-in-law against a cottonmouth snake they encountered while walking along the river at the cabin. The snake bit him instead of her and then took off.

A decade or so ago he got loose and bit our neighbor's little boy. We apologized often, and our insurance company paid up.

A few weeks ago DC was walking Hank and Lucy on the sidewalk next to the park when one of the basketball players stopped the game and came running over to them. It was that little boy, now grown up. He recognized DC and wondered if that was the same dog that bit him. DC said yes and apologized some more. The basketball player smiled and said it was nothing. He probably could see that all the fight was gone from Hank anyway. Closing that circle made DC feel better.

If Hank felt responsible for us, DC and I had responsibilities to him as well. Since he was young our top priority has been to keep him out of further trouble. That made us more reclusive than we naturally are. We couldn't take chances with him.

Hank resisted being held, but at the end of his life he didn't have much choice. He was weak and couldn't walk very well, so DC or I would carry him upstairs when we went to bed and back downstairs in the morning. At the end he leaned into us, much like a baby ready for sleep.

So long, Buddy.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a former reporter for the Southeast Missourian.