At 4:45 a.m. this past Friday morning, my beloved dog Indy
died. Two things. First – he was beloved.
He was my soul dog. When I once repeated the old quip to a friend – “the more I
get to know people, the more I like my dog,” she very condescendingly told me
how foolish I was. But right there, she proved the saying to be very accurate.
Second – I know the time of his passing because I was right there next to him,
he on the blanket on the bed, me watching him take his last few breaths and
then easing away. He had been so restless the past few days and nights,
panting, eating and drinking very little.
He got up at 4:27 a.m. to be lifted off the bed to go outside to pee,
before coming back in and dying. He was a neat and tidy gent to the very end.
Phoenix O’Reilly joined us on the bed, sitting quietly. Good kitty. I wrapped
the blanket around Indy and between the crying and nose blowing, I made some
coffee, did the dishes in the sink and waited. Waited for a decent time to
share the news of his passing.
I made it until 6 a.m., then texted my daughter, which was 5
a.m. her time. I wanted her to know first. It was a respect thing. You see,
when my dad died last August, I got the news in the middle of the night. I
busied myself making flight reservations, talking to my brother and then wrote
an email to several of my friends. I held off calling my daughter because I
didn’t want to wake her in the wee hours of night with bad news. At the core, I
am a protective mother always, and wanted to protect her from the grief – as
impossible as stopping the tides, but still so instinctive. I realized that
night after I sent the email, that I was not giving my daughter the respect she
so deserved, of telling her immediately that her grandfather had passed away. I
called her right then, apologized profusely for the oversight. She, of course,
was sweet and generous in her words of love and support. So when I got her return text after
telling her of Indy’s death, it was as full of love and sympathy as ever.
I called Carmon next. She was awake, and had been so since
about 4:50 a.m. when she woke suddenly and then opened doors and windows in her
house to let in the cool morning air. She came over a bit later and we shared
coffee and stories about our dogs and people that had passed away, crying and
laughing and just being sad. I sent a text to Melanie in Portland very early –
and Mel is NOT a morning person. She reminds me of that frequently. But her
call came in as Carm and I were crying in our coffee and going through copious
amounts of toilet paper (I had no Kleenex in the house…). We actually laughed about fashioning a
necklace to hang a roll of toilet paper around my neck to have a continuous
supply for the day. Let me tell you, it was needed.
And there’s always the logistics to tend to with the
dying. What do you do with a dead
dog in your bed? I made a few phone calls and did some on-line research and
discovered that the High Desert Humane Society in Silver City will cremate your
deceased pet for a modest fee and return the ashes if you so desire. Carm and I
drove Indy up the hill to the humane society when they opened and I will get
his ashes next week. I’ve decided to spread them in the hills nearby. He made
the journey here with me, and I think it only fitting.
I want to end this post with a little eulogy for my
wonderful dog:
Indy was a New Orleans Katrina rescue. One of those dogs forcibly
abandoned during Hurricane Katrina in the late summer of 2005. He, like so many
animals left to starve and suffer in the aftermath, was a skinny, smelly, rangy
mutt barely getting by. A wonderful journalist, Carreen Maloney, was in New
Orleans doing a ‘one year later’ story about the rescuers and the rescued
animals when she spotted Indy on the side of the road and got him into a
shelter. People from Portland brought him to Oregon to be fostered and placed.
I didn’t know any of his back story when I agreed to meet and greet. I just
wanted a dog to walk with.
When they brought Indy over, you could see every rib and
vertebra on his bony body. He smelled like a garbage dumpster, because that was
probably what he ate out of for a year. No amount of bathing was going to get
rid of that stink. His teeth were bad. He had no hair on his back haunches and
very little on his tail, and his bare skin was sunburned black. His hind legs
were so weak, he couldn’t even jump up on a low ottoman. I fell in love
immediately and said I would take him.
 |
| Who could resist? |
It took months of a good diet to get the garbage dumpster
smell to go away. I was reminded early and often that he had scavenging deeply
ingrained in his being. If I was gone too long, I would get home and find the
garbage can had been raided. He once managed to pull a pan of brownies off the
top of the stove and eat ¾ of the tray.
Colleen, on a visit to me from San Diego, left coffee beans and a candy bar
in her backpack and we went out. When we came back, the pack was dumped on the
floor, coffee beans strewn about and the candy bar eaten. Over time, Indy developed
the good grace to look contrite and adorable when confronted with his mischief.
His crowning achievement though, was something we call ‘the
pot roast incident.’ My friends Amor and Melanie and I had dinner at my house
before Mel and I were going over to friends to play cards. I had prepared an
expensive, organic, grass fed beef pot roast for dinner. Expensive. It was
delicious. There was a nice 2 lbs left over and it would make for some great
future meals. As we were running late, Amor told us to go on ahead and he would
do dishes and clean up the kitchen. About 15 minutes later, Amor called me and
asked if I had put the pot roast away before leaving – he couldn’t find it. He’d
only left the kitchen for a moment or two. But there was a plate on one of the
kitchen chairs that looked like it had been licked clean…. Yes – Indy. He did
eat well in my house, I’d say.
Indy had a fondness for the postman, but not in a good way.
He managed to nose open the screen door and chased my very nice letter carrier
into the street before he got a face full of pepper spray. My letter carrier
apologized and suggested I wash his face well with soap and water. I didn’t
blame my postman. I would have done the same with a charging dog. Indy
continued to bark and carry on with every delivery person, but both he and I
were much more careful about keeping him at bay.
As I wrote in one of my earliest posts, I knew Indy’s days
were numbered when I came to Silver City. This past month, I fretted about his
weight loss, and lack of appetite. He was content to walk a just few yards up
the street and then go home. I felt he wasn’t in pain or uncomfortable, just
slowing way down. I contented myself the best I could with the notion that when
it was his time, it was his time.
No death is easy. And for those who know me, know whereof I
speak. Indy eased into death and in some strange way, gave me a better
understanding and acceptance of all the deaths that came before. He has been a
gift, a lesson, a companion, a mischief maker, and a comfort. How much more
lucky can a person get? Rest in peace, my friend.
