There is no death. Only a change of worlds. – Chief Seattle
Blonde wife and white Pomeranian actual size. Hagrid has NOT been photoshopped. He got bigger still.
National Rum Day.
Ten years. A solid decade by my side. Like going through life with an AK-47 on your hip.
The sweetest creature. Left the national breed club because I tried to explain not all these dogs are stone killers.
You can have a gun, you don’t have to use it. Your gun might not always be loaded.
Mine was always loaded but rarely in the mood.
Hagrid had the personality of a heavily-armed Chocolate Labrador Retriever with a saint’s disposition.
Like some freaking super-hero. The Jack Reacher of Dogs.
My one and only favorite uncle died last month. Knew the man some sixty-four (64) years. Sharp, tough, fit. Bit of a hero, to be honest.
I knew him when we were both young and I knew him when we were both old.
Know Hagrid the same way.
He came rolling out of that red travel kennel. A baby. A forty(40)-pound puppy totally covered in poop.
Which we expected. Still a stinky ride home.
He never did like baths. Never did like loud noises, as if imprinted in the cargo compartment of a large jetplane.
When I vacuumed, he’d go outdoors, smell the quiet. As he got older, he’d just move to a different room.
I haven’t vacuumed in two weeks, but the house isn’t as dirty, since he’s not in and out a dozen times a day.
Rolling in the yard. Shaking off dewy debris inside. Allegedly a dry-mouth breed, his drool has hit eight(8) feet up the walls. With the adhesive/tensile qualities of a space age compound.
He’s acting just like us.
Mind is sharp and he is willing to do whatever it takes.
But unlike us, he’s done.
Wouldn’t even eat a Vienna Sausage. His heroin.
Did swallow some cheese balls laced with Tramadol.
Finally, he came indoors where he’d lain drooling in the heat on the concrete floor.
Came up the short ramp and collapsed.
Ate a few ice cubes. Stood up and came into my office.
How we work.
Now he’s snoring. Sounds like a lumber mill in Albany, Oregon.
I am going to kill my dog and sell my car.
Then I’ll take a deep breath.
He stopped eating basically two weeks ago.
We’re down to ice cubes and human treats.
Still life in the old boy but he becoming rapidly immobile.
Drugs and ice cubes. Guess that is the end.
He wakes me up in the middle of the night.
Standing at the bedroom door, staggers to the front, lurches down the ramp and heads out onto the grass.
I have started just him leaving out there. Don’t worry, he won’t get far on foot. The world’s greatest escape artist ain’t going anywhere these days.
I will call Dr. Brannon. Mobile vet.
I called Dr. Brannon. Turns out you got to schedule your buddy’s demise according to his convenient schedule. Frankly, kinda kills the idea of “mobile.”
I can come to you except when you really want me there.
As if it’s not enough to try to extract the last good moments out of the dog’s life.
Scared to go outdoors, afraid to be indoors at night.
Scared and confused.
He has no more idea how to die than the rest of us do.
But when you can’t manage even a little tiny ball of your most favoritest cheese, well, then it’s time to go.
And so you might as well do it this afternoon because the mobile vet likes his long weekends.
Excellent vet, by the way. Don’t get me wrong.
The dog lets out a whimper and looks at me. He knows I am on the phone with the vet. He knows.
Hagrid Hippocrates Little Bear might not have made it to Monday.
Kept hoping he’d go in his sleep.
The Caucasian Ovcharka is a giant breed. Wolf killers, they’re called in Russia. Gulag guardians.
Independent thinkers, famous for that. Haggy blew right past “independent.” He was a free thinker.
Such an incredible bad ass with teeth like a saber tooth tiger, six-feet long, amazingly athletic with a bark that shook the walls.
What a sweetheart he was.
Just now he got up, walked into the dining room, dropped, rested, stood up, drank from his water bowl and lunged down the ramp.
Out, grass, in, drop. The lanai’s concrete floor, what passes for a cool surface in Florida’s August.
Folks asked all the time, how does he like the weather? Just like I do. Spend a lot of time in the air conditioning. Love the shade.
I take him some ice cubes.
I turn on the fan.
We wait for the vet.
Vet gets here. Gives him enough drugs to kill a four-hundred (400) pound dog, he actually said that.
I was conflicted. One, sounds just like Hagrid and, two, damn, I would so love a four-hundred (400) pound dog.
I used to watch my father’s stomach, just to make sure he was still alive. Up, down, up, down.
Used to do the same thing with Hagrid.
Used to joke with him, all the time, as he lay by my feet. You would make a great rug.
After the vet left, I looked down and thought he was still getting it done.