Dog Talk: We Had a Great Ride [9-10-17]

Dog Talk: We Had a Great Ride

Matthew “Uncle Matty” Margolis

One of my dear friends recently lost their beloved dog. I encouraged her to share her experience in words, and she did:

It's been three weeks since my dog died. When I realized that just now, I made a quick and quiet wish that time would stop. Or better, reverse. I don't want to be any further from the time when he was still breathing, still working that sniffer, still soft and warm in my arms. I don't want it to be real.

Some call it self-indulgence. I call it grief.

I resent the clock and its relentless ticking. Time moving on. The earth spinning. The sun setting. The moon smiling, taunting. The only thing that feels good is the rain. Seems right. Some acknowledgment from the world that mine has forever changed. A nod from Mother Nature.

He was just a dog.

And I am just a woman. Why is the death of a person more important, more profound? Why is it supposed to be felt deeper? Is it because we put a man on the moon? Because we invented the wheel and took flight, tamed fire and electricity, created a new universe of sorts with the Internet and kept 33 men alive half a mile underground for 69 days?

That's the anger talking.

It's all very impressive, the accomplishments, the developments. But impressive doesn't make you feel like skipping.

That's the truth.

Percy Burtch was born on March 1, 1996, the smallest of a litter of six dachshund/beagle/Chihuahua pups. My roommate at the time plucked him from the bed of a pickup truck somewhere on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. On a college-girl whim, she brought Percy home to our apartment that didn't allow dogs.

On that very ordinary day, everything changed.

It was clear from the beginning that Percy was, in a word, unusual. He was alternately standoffish and playful. Shy and bossy. Sweet and sour. Jekyll and Hyde. Even as a puppy, he gave the impression of having deeply entrenched opinions on the life he should be living, the company he should be keeping, the things he should be doing, eating, playing with, gnawing on. My roommate decided she couldn't hack it and put an ad in the paper: "Adorable puppy -- free!"

He was adorable. But I feared she and the ad would mislead Percy's next owner, making it likely he'd end up being passed off to yet another home or dumped at a shelter. As the voice mails came in responding to the ad, I deleted them. All of them. There was no way this handsome pup with the deep brown eyes was going to suffer that fate. I was in love.

I learned so much trying to figure that dog out. The two of us being of German stock, we were stubborn and butted heads. I was young, impatient and still indulging my desires for instant gratification and anything that felt good. He was food-aggressive, hyper-territorial, resistant to my amateur attempts at training -- a total Alpha nightmare.

But the good trumped the bad, and I smelled potential. He was remarkably smart and curious, not to mention exceedingly loyal and protective. He chased away more than a handful of unsavory characters. He prevented a break-in while I was home alone. He made me feel safe when my peace of mind had been assaulted. He made me feel like skipping.

Over the next 14 years, Percy and I reached an understanding. And I learned three very important things: 1) A good walk has the power to erase bad will. 2) It's vital to stop and sniff. Often. 3) There's nothing like a road trip to cure what ails you.

I've done two things in the past two months of which I'm very proud:

When it became clear that Percy's time would be shorter than expected, I cleared my calendar as best I could and we hit the road. I will never forget the toothy, tongue-dangling grin on his face as we crossed the Continental Divide together for the umpteenth time.

And two weeks later, when it was obvious that Percy's kidneys would not rebound, that his quality of life was not what he deserved, was not what I wanted for him or would want for myself, I asked his vet, an exceptionally kind and compassionate man, to come to the house to administer an injection that would end my little guy's suffering. And he did.

Rest in peace, sweet Percy. We had a great ride.