On the loss of a dog …

Yesterday, Friday, Feb. 13, my dog Chaplin was put down. Just shy of his 16th birthday, the infirmities of old age had taken their toll on him.

Chaplin, in happier times.

Arthritis, incontinence, failing eyesight and hearing, and likely a bit of senility had, within the period of little more than a year, transformed him from the bundle of mischievous energy into a doddering, often-confused and pain-ridden old man.

From last spring through October, Chaplin had trouble climbing stairs. Several times a week, he would attempt coming upstairs to my second-floor bedroom, and, with alarming frequency would fail, falling in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. By November, he had given up trying altogether, confining his living to the ground floor.

It was also about that time he started having trouble getting up from uncarpeted floors; at times, he’d panic, and his bladder and bowels would protest.

By January of this year, he began refusing my help in trying to get him upright. He’d bark and growl at me, baring his teeth and, on occasion,  snap at me, managing 3 or 4 times to connect. And once, he broke the skin on my forearm. This behavior tore at my heart, as Chap’s disposition had always been sweet, unerringly friendly (if somewhat aloof) and happy.

He soon began waking up in the middle of the night, howling and moaning, seemingly unaware of his whereabouts. He’d often pace aimlessly after these awakenings, panting and whining.

In the last two weeks of his life, I took to sleeping on the couch, near his bed, to calm and reassure him, or to let him out for his ever-increasing and more frequent calls of nature.

While all these indignities were difficult to bear, the worst was witnessing the loss of his spirit and his zest for life (and food). This was a dog who, as a puppy, would unfailingly greet me (and anyone else, for that matter) at the door with spastically annoying enthusiasm — jumping, yapping, tail-wagging, bladder-emptying joy at seeing me, or anyone.

In his first year of life, the list of things he consumed read like a list for some bizarre scavenger hunt: A leather-bound volume of Mark Twain’s writings, a bag of Werther’s butterscotch candies (wrappers and all), countless shoes (never mine — always a girlfriend’s), a large clump of toadstools from my backyard, a steak fresh from the grill,  a bag of barbecued potato chips, a pair of woman’s panties.

His forays were stuff of legend among my friends and family. He once got loose and was found, later the same day, more than two miles from home, having crossed at least two major thoroughfares (and, knowing him, he crossed each several times). The look on his face when I picked him up from the animal shelter was the embodiment of shame and guilt.

Once, he even leapt from a moving car to chase something only he could see. And, foodie he was, he was found a few minutes later, in the kitchen of the Red Parrot restaurant, begging for scraps.

He wasn’t the best-behaved dog, nor the most loyal. I am certain that if I passed out or fainted while eating, his primary concern would have been the food on my plate. His love for pizza, or more specifically, pizza crusts, meant the instance a pizza box entered the house, it never left his sight. Even on the day before he died, when my dinner was pizza, he stood by me as I ate, waiting dutifully and eagerly for the crusts.

As much as his appetite for food was unwavering, his spirit, however, was waning — especially in the last months of his life. He often would not even hear me enter the house, still soundly asleep as I’d walk to his bed and stand over him. This from a dog who would bark his head off at someone merely walking silently by the house. Our forays outdoors began to consist of nothing more than heeding the demands of his bladder or bowels. He even lost interest in going for a ride in the car — a joy he once so anticipated he would hop into the parked cars of complete strangers unfortunate enough to leave their windows down.

Despite the disparities between young Chaplin and old Chaplin, the idea of putting him down — or rather, the idea of me making that decision — was unthinkable, even repulsive. It’s almost as if I wanted him to tell me, or make it so obvious that I’d have no choice in the matter. My friends told me, rather mysteriously, I’d know when it was time.

And here, just 24 hours after making that decision, I know now it was time. As painful as it was watching his last breaths, his final resigned whine; as much as I miss even the neediest behaviors of his final weeks, the idea of watching him decline even further, of witnessing his dearth of joy, his pain at doing almost anything dog-like, is what is truly repulsive.