I've said this before but this time I really, really mean it. I don't want any more dogs.
I have two living in my house now. Technically, they are my 22-year-old son's dogs. He lives with me. He's gone a lot, working or playing in his band or doing whatever 22-year-olds do (it's been so long I've forgotten).
So, much of the day-to-day upkeep falls to me. The feeding, the watering, the letting out and the sleeping arrangements. I get about a third of the bed, if I'm lucky, and they get the other two-thirds.
I bring this up because I recently lost my dog. My 13-year-old beagle, Queenie, just gave it up. I knew she was getting in bad shape. She had stopped eating and showed no interest in treats. When a beagle gives up on treats you know there is something wrong.
I had planned to take her to the vet on Monday morning. I knew what was probably coming. About a year or so ago I had to put down my cherished cockapoo, Gracie. She was around 17.
Anyone who has had to put a dog down knows how difficult it is. I grew up on and around a farm. I am supposed to know that animals are animals, not humans. Still . …
Queenie was named by my son, Sam, when he was 8. I got her for him upon his return from a trip to California with his mom. We were lying in the den floor playing with the new dog and I asked Sam what he wanted to name her.
We were listening to a Chuck Berry CD at the time and at that moment Chuck began to sing "Little Queenie." Sam immediately chose the name. Over the years, Queenie became my dog (it happens in every family). I have trouble listening to that song now.
Monday morning I got up early to get Queenie to the vet. She didn't sleep in my room that night, but I figured she was just too tired to get there. I knew she wasn't there because I didn't hear her snoring. Believe me, when Queenie snored everyone in the house knew it.
Fortunately, the night before I had spent some quiet time with Queenie. She flopped down by my chair and I rubbed behind her ears and scratched her hips (her favorite thing other than treats) for a while. Before I went to bed, I soaked a cloth in water and rubbed it on her mouth, hoping to get some water into her. I kissed her goodnight and went to bed.
I found Queenie in the den. She was gone. I have never had a dog die in my house before. Figuring out exactly what to do is difficult.
The other two dogs were equally perplexed. Looking, sniffing and generally seeming to be sad. I know, dogs aren't supposed to have emotions. But the oldest, Layla, (she's only 2) seemed definitely sad. And Queenie didn't even like Layla or the youngest, Gully.
At 7 Monday morning, I was digging a hole in the far corner of the back yard. Layla and Gully showed a great deal of interest. Me working in the yard must have been a shock to the dogs as well as my neighbors. At least Queenie was considerate enough to wait until it had rained for a couple of days. It made the digging easier. I knew she loved me.
Nevertheless, I got the hole dug. I went back inside and said my goodbyes to Queenie. It's been almost two weeks now, so I can write this without falling apart. Well, almost.
Queenie never had a favorite toy or anything like that. So, I put a couple of treats in there with her. And covered her up.
Layla still sits at the patio door and stares out to the corner. Maybe she's just staring off into space or looking for another squirrel. I think she is looking at that hole. For days Layla wouldn't get within 20 yards of the grave. She's getting a little better now.
They say dogs have no sense of time. Ten minutes, 10 years, same to a dog.
Well, I'm human. I have a sense of time. And regret. And sadness. All those things dogs aren't supposed to have.
But, when I watch Layla, I do wonder.
Correction: In a recent blog about the Olympics I said I was pleased to see that ribbon dancing had been dropped from the competition. I was wrong. It's actually called rhythmic dancing. Softball is out. Baseball is out. Ribbon dancing remains. I stand incredulous but corrected.
