My daughter and I reached a milestone in our relationship last week. Most fathers, assuming that they stick around long enough, end up burying at least one family pet before it’s all said and done. And while I had already achieved that objectionable goal (thanks to the passage our floppy eared bunny “Rabioli” several years back), yesterday brought with it a new challenge for a soft-hearted father like me – putting an animal down.
My faithful blog readers will remember that, several months back, my puppy Lola had children of her own. And like an idiot, I agreed to let my kids keep one of the pups. Zoe – the much loved half-breed (see puppies story below) had a rather tumultuous life. She was abused by her mother as an infant. Lola, though a good mother, likes to play rough. And Zoe learned the hard way that when another dog pins you to the ground with her teeth around your neck, you should just play dead until she leaves you alone. When Zoe was 4 months old, Isaac shot Lola in the foot with his BB gun – on accident of course – but he didn’t tell us until after the vet had run extensive tests to determine why her ACL appeared to be torn, only to find a small BB lodged in her ankle. Isaac’s little shenanigan netted us about $350 in unnecessary bills, and as a result, I sat Emily down to break the news that we could no longer afford to keep Zoe. After about 30 seconds of uncontrollable crying, Emily had me convinced that we should not only keep Zoe, but that I had better not ever discuss the idea of getting rid of her again, for as long as Zoe lived (a promise, I am proud to say, that I kept). About a month later, we noticed that Zoe wasn’t putting on weight like she should. Come to find out, Lola was eating more than her share of the food and poor Zoe was getting next to none. We rectified the feeding arrangements, and Zoe soon put on weight. After another month had passed (just last week), I came home to find Zoe extremely lethargic and unresponsive. She had been healthy and vibrant the day before, but now she just stood over her water dish, barely moving. Fearing that she had come down with something serious, I did what I could for her, trying to get her to drink and eat – neither of which I could do successfully. With the vet already closed for the day, we decided to take her in first thing the next morning.
When I woke up the next day, I discovered Zoe up under the shed in my backyard, lying as stiff as a board. I pulled her out, thinking she was dead, only to find that while rigor mortis had already set in, she was still breathing. Immediately, I set off to dig her grave. After a half hour of fighting the tough, red clay of South Georgia, I laid Zoe down into her final resting place, and headed towards the house to fetch the pistol. With every step, I wrestled with the idea of shooting my daughter’s favorite pet, but I knew that Zoe was as good as dead. She was as stiff as a board, and every breath was a chore. I imagined how the scene would play itself out, and I winced at the idea of having to tell my daughter the truth, “Zoe is dead, and I pulled the trigger.” But knowing it was the right thing to do, I decided that I was actually the hero. After all, weaker men would have let the dog suffer. Not me. I was a true protector of the innocent.
I gathered up the gun and several bullets (just in case I missed the first time), and I told Heather to move the kids to the far end of the house and make lots of noise. I didn’t want to have to explain the loud banging noises coming from the site of Zoe’s death. Upon my return to the freshly dug grave, I was relieved to find that Zoe had already breathed her last. I thanked the Lord and quickly covered up her remains.
I still had to break the news to Emily, which was as bad, or worse than, having to actually pull the trigger. She didn’t take it well, to say the least. We visited the grave as a family to say our final good-byes. Then, thinking the worst was behind me, I then set out for work.
Lunchtime brought about an even more grizzly scene for me.
As I pulled my truck into the driveway, I noticed that Lola was lying around, kinda sad-like, in the yard, chewing on a bone of some sort. I went over to console her. As I approached, I noticed that the bone in her mouth was rather large. Instantly, my already stressed little mind went into overdrive and filled itself with the most horrific of thoughts. The closer I got, the more convinced I had become that Lola had exhumed the remains of little Zoe and barbarically picked her carcass apart, only to have dragged the femur of our little puppy across the yard to gnaw on it tauntingly in front of those who still bore the pain of the morning’s events. My knees weakened and a wave of nausea hit me like a pillowcase full of soap. I bent over to throw up, but nothing came out. I accepted the fact that my dog was not just a cannibal, but an incestuous one at that. “Get a hold of yourself, man!” I mumbled quietly and then turned towards the grave to confirm my fears. I couldn’t tell, from that distance, whether it had been disturbed or not, so I ran, not walked, to get a closer look. Discovering that it had not, in fact, been tampered with, I soon relaxed. Visibly shaken, I walked slowly towards the house to get a grip, and maybe grab a sandwich and some chips.
I busted through the door and immediately asked my wife if she had given Lola a bone. Turns out my father in law had bought Lola one of those rawhide doggie bone things at the store. I then explained, with a slight degree of embarrassment, my dark thoughts to both my wife and my mother in law. While they laughed out loud, I was relieved that my eldest dog was not the monster I had believed her to be only minutes before and that Zoe was resting quietly beneath the red clay in the back yard.
Yes sir, this was a milestone moment I’ll never forget.
