Thursday morning, I sat outside in the chilly air, waiting for the fire to reach the right temperature to smoke a tri-tip. While I sat there, My Little Red-Headed Dog came up and looked right into my eyes. His body completely lacked a fat layer by then, thanks to the tumor on his pancreas that squeezed his duodenum nearly closed, causing him to throw up most of what he ate for the last six months. He had perked up for a few weeks while we were feeding him prednisone-spiked cheese bites, pureed chicken and beef, rice, and scrambled eggs. But the in the last week he lost interest in eating again, and the smell of him losing control of his bladder daily alerted us to an infection. He went on antibiotics a few days ago, but they didn't seem to help in time. When he looked at me Thursday morning, there was a different question in his eyes. I patted him on his thin, pointed head (where the contours of his skull were so painfully visible), and I asked him something I didn't expect to say. I asked him if he was frightened. I told him not to be. He was loved and appreciated, and it was going to be okay. He pressed his face against my leg. I think between us, we passed a milestone right then. He accepted that his job was done.
We were driving down Rte 66 in Barstow, California, on our way to the Home Depot, when we swerved around a dog who had been hit, lying half in the center turn lane, half in our lane. Right as we were about to pass him, he picked his head up, and Mr Smith realized that he was not dead, merely injured. He slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding being rear-ended by the car behind us. He jumped out, and scooped up the little red-headed dog and put him in the back seat of my Chrysler. We didn't live in Barstow, but rather on the army post near there, so we didn't know the lay of the land well. We drove around, trying to find an emergency vet. These were the days before we had smart phones (this was early March, 2007, I believe). I cooed soothing words to the dog, who was little more than a puppy, not knowing what sort of attitude he would have when he was fully awake. His eyes took a while to clear, and a drip of blood ran down from one nostril, but otherwise, he was not visibly in distress. He didn't shift in the seat, though. Eventually we learned there was no 24 hour vet in Barstow at the time, and were told to try Victorville, 40 miles from where we were at that point. Instead, we took him back home to Fort Irwin, and decided we would get him checked out in the morning. X-rays revealed that other than a tiny flange chipped off of his hip, he was okay on the inside.
I honestly believe that the way we were introduced, with him coming out of a haze of pain to find me murmuring love and reassurance to him was what sealed our bond. He and I had a connection I've never felt with any other dog before. I was scared of dogs for a large part of my youth, and barely tolerant of them as a young adult. But The Captain's Speed Bump, as the guys at the squadron called him, was an entirely different sort of dog for me. He was fiercely loyal, staying close to me when I needed him most. He stayed up late every night while I was working on my master's degree, having to answer class discussion questions online until midnight. He waited until I was done, and then he followed me down the hall to the bedroom. When other dogs I've known would have taken off like a shot when a gate or garage door was opened, he was content to wander around off-leash in the front yard or driveway, never wandering farther than the perimeter of our property. And in his golden years, once we had purchased the mining claim in the mountains, he was my guide up and down the hill. I was very slow learning the route where I couldn't see the path, and he would run ahead just a little, but stop before he was out of sight from me. He would come back to make sure I wasn't lost, and then run ahead again. He did this over and over, every time I went up to the claim.
I slept poorly last night. I woke around 3, and I was up for more than an hour, watching TV and reading Twitter. I tossed and turned after that, and was instantly awake when Mr S-P walked in at exactly 7 am to say, "Bumpy's dead."
Even knowing it was close, and knowing I had a great luxury of a long goodbye, it still felt so abrupt. I am so glad I took every opportunity, dozens of times a day, to tell him I loved him, and that he was the best dog of all time. I don't think I will ever meet one like him again. He was a once in a lifetime kind of love.
I am going to look through my files for pictures of him in better health, maybe four or five. I want to warn you that the very last picture was from this morning. He died right next to the garage door, and Mr S-P carried him out in to the yard and laid him on the ground. Murray and Elsa sniffed him, and I don't think Elsa was ready to absorb what happened. Murray reacted in a way I didn't expect. He stayed next to him for almost half an hour, not barking, not doing much of anything but keeping vigil -- like a dog version of sitting shiva, I suppose. I took a picture of it, and I'm going to include it at the end. Up to you whether you look.
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