The End of (Dog) Days

Is there anything harder than putting down your dog? Don’t answer, I don’t want to know.

Judy & I have put down three Vizslas in our married life. It’s an odd euphemism. Some say “put to sleep,” others “put down” and of course there’s the old “sent to the farm.” But in the end, it means the same thing.

Our first two (consecutive) Vizslas each lasted to ten years old, which is pretty good for a large dog breed that has been inbred for generations. Both developed cancer, and showed signs of physical decay and pain that made our choice somewhat easier. The decline was sudden–weeks not months–and obvious. The veterinarian told us we could wait a little longer, but the likely outcome was painful internal bleeding leading to sudden collapse: hardly an option to choose. Still, it wasn’t easy, and I (actually the whole family) cried like a baby.

Dogs will do that to you. Both Judy and I had grown up with dogs as family pets. Yes, they cost a lot. Yes, they take up time. Yes, they’re inconvenient when travelling or with visitors. But then again, so are families. And dogs are a chance to teach your kids about responsibility, about growing up and growing old and dying. And in between, they give unconditional love. Kids need that; sometimes parents have to be the provider of tough love, but that dog is always there, wagging a tale, just happy to see you.

The best dogs don’t think they’re dogs any more. They think they’re slightly smaller, oddly-shaped humans. They want to be with you, they need to be with you, they’re only happy when they are with you. When our kids were grown and off to college, we rescued two Vizslas at once. Even though we understood the breed, the balance of two Vizslas and two humans turned us into a pack rather than a family, with negative behavioral consequences for all concerned. We quite literally found a farm for one of our Vizslas, and things returned to normal.

Tucker was our fourth, and almost certainly our last, Vizsla. We rescued him around the same time we committed to retiring to Mexico. He was “four or so” according to the breed Rescue Society, but we had just turned down a five year old since the pain of putting down a dog at ten was fresh in our minds. Suddenly a “four year old” became available. Hmmmm, something suspicious about that, what?

Tucker was a three-time loser, a dog who had been turned over to rescue at least three previous times, and this was his last chance. We had to say yes. We knew that his most recent owners had been in the midst of a divorce, and there had been an incident of domestic violence (the wife attacking the husband, who was the pet’s favorite, we were told). This would show up again once we rescued him: if Judy started walking quickly toward me, he would move between us, a trait which foreshadowed a sad end.

The Tucker we knew was a sweet dog, very smart, but also very stubborn. He learned several words (outside, w-a-l-k, treat) and many commands (sit, stay, and even “hurry-up” to poop, believe it or not), yet he practiced being deaf at times, too. He was afraid of smoke, even steam, and fire engine sirens. The chirping of the smoke alarm, signalling the need for new batteries, was an existential terror for him. He was only social with humans. When we took him to the dog park, he ignored the other dogs and introduced himself to all the owners. The few times he played with the other dogs, he would show-off by outrunning or out-cornering the other breeds, but then turn the pack on some smaller dog like a schoolyard bully.

After much work, we eventually trained him to ignore other dogs, which was fine with him. I noticed how he watched me go running on the weekends, so one time I decided to take him with. He fell into a heel position and ran at my pace for three miles! Either someone had trained him well, or he was natural born runner’s companion.

He started to “go white” almost immediately, confirming our suspicion he was older than we were told, but he was healthy and well-adjusted. We joked about him joining us in moving to Mexico, which was still five years out when we rescued him. Obviously he took us seriously, because those years flew by and at ten, he was till healthy and active and cancer-free. So we loaded him up in a tiny space in the back of our SUV and drove him south of the border.

Expat life was as kind to dogs as human retirees, and he remained healthy. Over the course of five years here, he lost some hearing, although he feigned losing even more. His depth perception and visual acuity declined, leading to some hysterical encounters with Mexican squirrels, including even stepping on one. He took longer and more frequent naps. He became more sensitive to those loud noises he could here, especially cohetes, which required mild sedation at times. But he was still active and alert. I think he got a kick when people asked how old was my puppy and I told them “fifteen years!”

In the past year, he stated displaying some confusion. He was prone to barking attacks where something set him off–he was clearly agitated, not startled– but could not be easily calmed. He started charging at Judy more often, sometimes just when we were talking. Finally, he took a small bite at her, (Strike One) and we knew trouble was brewing.

The drama of selling our house, buying a new one, moving, and having renovations only added to his confusion and agitation. When the grandkids were visiting, we left Tucker home one day, and when we returned, he ran out the door, jumped in the rented mini-van, and would not leave it. I went out and reached for him, thinking he was having trouble navigating getting out of the vehicle: no, he went off and tried to bite my hands. I backed away, so he leapt out of the vehicle and bit my leg (Strike Two). Then he stopped and looked at me with a “what was that all about?” look.

Two nights ago, Judy walked toward me and Tucker dashed across the room and nipped at her. I shouted and kicked at him (never reach for an angry dog), but he bit her a second time and clamped down. I smacked and kicked at him, and he let go, but she had a tremendous bruise on her thigh from the attack. Strike Three; you’re out.

He laid down in his dog bed, clearly upset, but whether that was remorse or shock, who knows? For us, the die was cast; you can’t keep a dog which might go full-scale beserk at any moment. In some sense, putting Tucker down was more difficult, since when he was normal, he was completely normal. In another sense, it was easier, as we had a sense of relief at not waiting for the next attack.

I still cried.