Compassion or Murder

by Lyn

I finally came to a decision today, after months of putting it off. I must have my little dog put to sleep and the pain and the frustration with the decision has made me tearful, weepy, frustrated and deeply depressed.

She is an ancient thing for a dog -- 20 years old. She has lost one eye to glaucoma and the other is covered with a cataract. Her hearing has diminished such that I'm fairly certain she can't hear any but the loudest sounds. She has kept a slight ear condition that has resisted treatment for years, and now her balance has been affected, such that she tends, with the one eye, to go in circles. The muscles in one of her back legs has atrophied, and there is spondylosis in her spine that is causing the extensor muscles of her back legs to operate while the contracting muscles do not. She is able to extend her legs, but not pull them back, effectively causing her to have to walk on stilted legs behind. Added to this is a little doggie Alzheimer's which causes her to become confused and disoriented. When all of the conditions are acting together, she walks around and around in circles, becoming frantic, panting madly, running into walls, and falling because her back end goes out on her.

As I write this, I think, how absurd that I should feel badly about putting this dog to sleep. What a selfish person I am to keep her alive, just to ease my pain. And yet, there is that thing about her that she has had all of her life -- this never say die attitude. She never quits and I hate to be the one to make her do so.

I got her 13 years ago. I was a respiratory therapist working at a small hospital in Harrison County, Kentucky, and I passed her on the road on the way to work one morning. She was sitting in the road, I thought for the warmth, as some old dogs will do. It was in the brief flash as I passed her that I noticed the blood. I turned around and went back and walked over to examine her, and that's when I saw what was really going on. She had obviously been hit by a car or worse. Her jaw was fractured, and one eye was hanging out. And she was sitting because she had obviously been hit such that she couldn't walk.

There was no picking her up without getting bit, so I threw a blanket over her and carried her into work with me under the disapproving stares of my co-workers -- that I should bring a dog into the hospital. I put her in my boss's office, prayed I wouldn't be paged, and called the local dog warden. He showed up a little later and took her to the vet. I told him to tell the vet to do what he needed to do (which I thought surely would be to put her to sleep), and to send me the bill.

Several hours later the vet called to ask me what I wanted him to do with the dog. She had a fractured jaw, a dislocated hip, a broken pelvis, and seven broken ribs, but nothing vital had been injured. I was amazed, but told him to "fix" her. It didn't seem right to put her to sleep after surviving that kind of injury. When her owner called later to thank me for rescuing her, she also told me she didn't have the money to pay for the bill, and did I want the dog? So by the end of that day, I was a new dog owner.

I took her home a couple of weeks later not sure if she would ever walk again. I made her comfortable in a box in my bedroom, then joined my roommate to watch TV. Shortly we heard a dragging noise and looked down the hall to find her dragging herself towards the living room. A couple of days later she was walking and within a week she could run enough to enjoy going outside like a normal dog. I re-named Zena, Princess Warrior. I was amazed by her heart.

She was never an affectionate kind of dog. She was a cross between some kind of hound and some kind of terrier and had the spiky hair of a punk rocker that defied brush or comb. The eye that had been knocked out had been put back into place, and was functional, but was now slightly rotated to the outside. Her jaw, which was wired back together, was slightly rotated in the other direction. Hers was truly a face only a mother could love. She was content to be picked up and cuddled only as long as your hand was constantly scratching her or rubbing her. The moment that stopped, she was struggling to be put back down again. She would never lay content, dozing in your lap.

Outside her nose would immediately go to the ground and she was off and running (albeit rather lopsidedly) chasing down a smell and totally impervious to the call of her owner. She had a nose that could smell any kind of food, any where it was. She had no fear when food was concerned. My boyfriend, when cooking out one day, learned to become ever vigilant around her. He had the grill too close to the porch on one occasion, and when he became distracted and turned the other way, she grabbed a 16 oz T-bone steak off the grill and, waving her tail in delight, went bopping off to her lair underneath the porch. Eating was the most important thing in her life, and the very moment she smelled cooking she would bounce about the kitchen voicing a cross between a bay and a bark that could slice through the thickest insulation or consciousness. My father, who was the world's worst at feeding snacks to animals, adored her.

My Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1995. He had complained for months of an aching in his shoulder which his doctor attributed to "Uncle Arthur." Of course, a respiratory therapist could have told him it was an early symptom of lung cancer, and I did, but his particular doctor was old and content in his ways and was not the least bit interested in listening to anyone else, not the least a newly graduated RRT. Finally the cancer was discovered, way too late, and an emergency left lung removal was done. My father, always a tough nut, sailed through the surgery and chemotherapy with no outward affect. However, shortly afterward he developed an aneurysm and had to have surgery for that. Shortly after that it was a hernia operation, which he said was the worst one. By the end of that one he was in severe pain and for the first time in his life, I think, fell deep into depression.

That was when Zena began to shine. She had long realized that Dad was the bearer of such delicious treats as the chips from Long John Silver's fish and chips, or roast leavenings, or slices of country ham fat, pieces of hamburger from Arby's and the coup de foudre, the creme de la creme, the ham bone. All it took was the sound of his truck coming down the driveway, and she was voicing like a bloodhound on the hunt. Dad would make her and Ladybird, our other dog, sit politely and wait for their treats, but Zena, so excited and hungry, would bounce in place. He was tickled. He was charmed. He was enthralled. He was delighted. And once again he began to laugh the laugh I was beginning to think I would never hear again. I watched him watch her as she zig zagged lopsidedly through the tall weeds one day and I could almost hear him say "if she could get through it, so can I." He never complained about the pain again.

She has been to me my little monkey sent from God. Her comical antics, her crooked grin, her lopsided lope all reminders of the cruelty fate can sling at you, but that, with perseverance, can be overcome. Strange to credit such power to a dog, but without her in my life will I begin to falter?

Gretchen Jackson, Barbaro's owner said it so succinctly. The price of love is grief. To have to say goodbye suddenly to someone you love, without warning, is horrible. To have to say goodbye in a slow, painful way is just as bad, if not worse. To have to say goodbye in a clinical, controlled, planned way feels like insanity to me. Yes, she's old, but so am I. Yes, she's lame, but so am I. I have glaucoma, I have inner ear problems. It's altogether likely I could develop Alzheimer's. They would not put me to sleep, because I am human. She is "just" a dog. But in many ways, she has been more human to me than many people I have known.

I prayed to God to help my father die at the end. I prayed for my mother in that way as well. God apparently heard and granted both of those prayers. I have prayed the same for my little dog, but unfortunately, God's grace is not forthcoming this time. And so I must take His place. There's no vital organs affected. Amazingly, there is no heart or lung disease, no diabetes or any of the other arrows of old age. Simple mobility issues and a little confusion. There's times I wish it was cancer or even diabetes. I could act swiftly and easily then. But this is not easy.

When she is frantic and agitated, whirling around her pen, panting like crazy, I say, "No, no, no more. I can't stand it." And when she is asleep, curled into a little spiky ball, snoring softly, paws twitching after dreamy rabbits, again, I say, "No, no, I can't take it." There is no feeling of correctness, of making the right decision, of feeling I've done the best for her. It's a sad, sad thing, and I do not like playing God.

Jumpin' Jack Flash

by Lyn

It was the first anniversary of my father's death and I was on my way home from work, traveling the back roads of Harrison County, and feeling very sad. I spied the Harrison County Animal Shelter on my left in the distance and once again felt the same sadness I felt in passing any animal shelter, thinking of all the animals needing a good home. This afternoon, though, was to be a little different.

As I got closer to the shelter I began to have this "feeling" that I needed to stop there. I can't say where the feeling came from or why, but, at the same time, I noted, I had been looking for a way to commemorate my father's passing and I guess it was this extra added little "umph" that made me pull into the shelter, park, get out and start walking around.

I have friends who go to animal shelters with the express purpose of spending time with the animals, and I think they are God's angels, but personally I find that hard to do myself. I am one of those people who, when walking into a shelter, instantly want to take every living animal inside home with me. Since I can't, I then grieve for hours afterward remembering the hopeful little faces I left behind.

I certainly had no need for another dog - I already had two, plus two horses and five cats. So I'm not exactly sure what I was looking for when I rounded the corner and, amidst all of the dogs who were yelping and jumping against the cages, saw the border collie lying flat down on the concrete, in the middle of his cage. His head was on his paws and a look of utter and woebegone hopelessness covered his face.

I stopped in front of his cage, and amid the chaos of his kennel mates said to him, "Hey feller, what got you landed in here?" He did not even raise his eyes to me. "Come on," I said. "You know I'm talking to you." This was rewarded with a couple of dull thuds of his flowing black tail. I laughed in spite of myself, and persisted, "At least you've got food and shelter." Three more thuds of the tail. I hunched down a little in front of the cage and tried to get him to come over. He pretty much ignored me until my haunches were getting just stiff enough to where I had to stand again, then he slowly got up, stretched and came over to sniff my hand, and looked up at me with the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

It was a couple of days later, adoption papers in hand, when he was leaping for joy at being let out of his cage that I gave him his name, "Jumping Jack Flash."

Jack was a handful from the very start. Headstrong to a fault, he insisted on doing every thing in his own way, only yielding to my authority when all else had failed. We had issues immediately. He threatened to rip my face off when I tried to brush him one day. Being brushed the next day with a muzzle on was the result.

All of our interactions went something like this:
Me-I want you to do this.
Jack-I don't want to do that, I want to do this other thing.
Me-No, I want you to do this.
Jack-What if I do this other thing first?
Me-No, I want you to do this first.
Jack-Well, okay, maybe I'll do that, but I'll stop over here and do something completely different before I come back over and then we can talk about it.

I knew border collies required a lot of attention and work. I knew you essentially had to "work" them to keep them happy and content, as left to their own devices and ignored, they could be very destructive. I had watched all of the border collie agility trials on TV and thought perhaps Jack might become an agility dog and we could have fun attending the amateur trials and such. On our first attempt I asked him to sit. I was encouraged as he sat perfectly, tongue lolling, looking at me with the "what?, what?, what?" face. I showed him the frisbee. "Here Jack, look, this is a frisbee." I was rewarded and excited when he looked at the frisbee with interest and even lifted his haunches off the ground a couple of inches. I threw a frisbee past him and cried "Get it Jack! Get the frisbee!" Jack watched the frisbee fly past him and looked back at me. "Get the frisbee Jack," I repeated. Jack sat perfectly still, panting. I retrieved the frisbee myself, showed it to him again and sailed it past him again. "Get it Jack, get the frisbee!" This time Jack didn't even watch it sail past. Instead he rolled over on his back and let his tongue roll rackishly out of the side of his mouth. I left the frisbee in his area hoping he would develop an interest in it, but he studiously ignored it. Thus it was with balls, chew toys, ropes, etc.

Bobby was intensely aggravated with me for getting Jack. He felt it wasn't fair to our two other dogs, who were smaller, and that Jack wouldn't fit into the program. Jack, though, had other plans regarding him and worked non-stop to make up with him regardless of my husband's disaffection. Bobby, who loves all living things, was soon caught stroking Jack's slick, black head and ears.

"You know Grandma's getting old," I pointed out to him. Grandma was our oldest dog and at 16 years old, was becoming ancient. "Yeah," he muttered. "And you know Grandma's a lot older than Ladybird..." "Yeah," he replied. Ladybird, the other of the two girls, seemed to bond instantly with Jack, especially in regard to bolting out of the house and running through the fields together. "Well, what's going to happen when Grandma's gone?" I asked. "Who is Ladybird going to run with then?" He muttered something unintelligible. "Dogs are pack animals," I said. "They really need that family thing happening." "I know," he said. "He's (referring to Jack) alright I guess."

I found them later, both asleep on the couch, Jack with his head in Bobby's lap.

Jack is a talker. He must have great thoughts, because he will, all of a sudden, come up to me, sit down in front of me and proceed to "tell" me something of great importance. He will not utter a decent, full-throated bark, but instead will whine, yip, dance and then do alternating combinations of the above. Sometimes I can figure it out - maybe he wants out, he needs to pee, or he wants a treat, but most of the time it's Greek (or dog) to me.

The early wee hours of April Fool's Day, we were sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. My mother had passed away a month earlier, and the night before we had lost a dear friend in an auto accident, so we were dull with grief when we stumbled into bed and instantly fell asleep. It was a couple of hours later that I awoke to hear Jack talking to me. He was not just talking. He was jumping against the bed, actually shaking it, and jumping on and off the bed, painfully stepping on my stomach and legs. I awoke up crying "Ow, ow, ow," into a dense fogginess where I could barely hear what I thought was Bobby's cell phone alarm going off. I turned over groggily and shook him awake, muttering "Turn off your #!?!# phone!!," then fell back asleep, vaguely feeling him leave the bed.

Seconds later he was back, pulling at my arm, shouting, "Get up, the house is on fire!"

The word "house," in this particular case, is a bit of a misnomer as our house was actually a 30 year old mobile home way out in the country. We all know the statistics re: rural mobile home fires - I believe the current time is about 5 to 8 minutes for it to burn completely to the ground. Also most mobile homes, and especially the older ones, are constructed of horrific volatile chemical compounds, from the paneling to the flooring, resulting in a noxious black smoke when it burns. Needless to say I was awake in an instant and ran into the hallway only to see the kitchen nearly engulfed. Everything after that was blur. I remember grabbing animals, stuffing them under my arms and then into the cab of our truck. I made the foolish mistake of going in a second time to grab my beloved guitars and throw, yes throw, them out the door. I made the foolish mistake of going in a third time to turn the power off, this time not without consequence. I could feel myself starting to go down and just managed to crawl back outside again coughing and hacking for my very life. Somehow Bobby had found a water hose and had it turned on the fire and all the area around it, trying to wet it down so it couldn't burn. He was cussing fluently and shouting his defiance to the fire gods. Through the flames and the smoke I could see a familiar black form shadowing his every footstep, yipping and whining in chorus. Jack was not going to let him fight that fire alone.

An hour later the firefighters were there, I was being given smoke inhalation treatments and the kitchen was a rancid, smelly, smoking, soaked ruin. Bobby was talking with the firefighters who were congratulating him on doing the impossible -- the unbelievable accomplishment of actually putting a mobile home fire out and saving most of it. Jack was going back and forth between Bob, the firefighters and myself, poking his cold nose into and underneath our hands.

Jack still gets muzzled when we groom him or clip his toenails - something that he still cries like a baby or growls like a rabid wolf over. But he gets away with a lot. I'm left with some questions about that awful April Fool's Day. How did Jack know to try to wake me instead of Bobby, who sleeps like a log? Why was I prompted to stop in at the dog shelter in the first place? I'll never know the answers, but I know I'll always be grateful to a pound puppy named Jumping Jack Flash.