I am raw. There’s a hole inside of me roughly the size, shape, and weight of an elderly American Staffordshire Terrier we called Zoe, and not much will make me feel better right now except maybe writing this and remembering all the happy times I had with her.
First, I should establish that I had her put down today slightly before 5pm. The vet was professional, and the procedure (a massive overdose of barbiturates, like Marilyn Monroe but without the conspiracy theories) was peaceful and painless for Zoe. She simply slid off to sleep. It was actually a relief to hear her struggle end in peace. No more labored breathing, no more groaning. Zoe was a tough, tough dog who didn’t show pain easily. That she was groaning as she labored to breathe or moved around says a lot about what she was going through.
She had a growth next to her kidneys or spleen (the vet wasn’t really very sure on which), but the consequences of the operation given her age and condition were likely to make her full recovery unlikely. We elected not to put her through the whole ordeal, and instead focused on making her as comfortable as we could. In the last week she’d really started to go downhill, and had begun to have trouble sleeping. Today, after conferring with the family, I elected to end her suffering and say goodbye. It should go without saying that this was one of the harder things I’ve ever had to do.
So, that’s got me torn up 10 ways from Sunday, and second guessing everything, for all the good that will do now.
We got Zoe out of the paper, in 1997. This was back when things called newspapers (bits of dead tree with black stuff on it called ink) were still published on a regular basis, and when they ran something called Classified Ads. They were in their own special section, and ran into many many large pages, all in small type. The ads had a section for dogs, and there was a simple listing: “Am. Staff, brindle” and a phone number. I was newly graduated, and decided that I had the time and wherewithal to find a companion for myself and my two housemates (sister Joanne and friend Jeff.)
I had grown up with Staffordshire Bull Terriers in England, and had fond memories of all of them. They belonged to my Aunt Gillie, and I knew that they were the kind of dog I wanted to own. So I called on this number, and got no response. I kept calling and explaining that I was serious and that I knew all about these dogs and that I really wanted to meet this Am. Staff, brindle.
It took about two weeks, and finally we made an arrangement to meet at a Petco out near Rogers, on I-94. I arrived first, and met this little bundle of energy they had named “Turbo.” She wanted to do nothing but play tug with her leash, growling fiercely but playfully. She had a bit of mange, smelled horrible, and looked a bit on the underfed side. She had been picked up by the city pound in Elk River because she’d been coming into a schoolyard and playing with the children. A lucky transfer to a no-kill shelter in Monticello, a few weeks in the St. Paul paper classifieds, and she found her forever home with us. (Homeward Bound)
We brought her home, and she trotted around the house with her head up, tail wagging, as if realizing that she already owned the place. We named her Zoe, because her personality reminded us of a person we knew, and she quickly became part of our life. First order of business was a bath, which she took great offense to. She stuck her head in the corner farthest from the showerhead and made a plaintive yowl I will never forget. But we got her clean and smelling better. She filled out quickly, we got the mange taken care of, and her coat rapidly turned into a beautiful shiny brindle.
The first night, I was resolved that she would sleep in her crate, next to my bed. She was resolved that she would sleep in the bed. Under the covers. In the middle. She turned out to be more stubborn and persuasive than any other being of any species I’ve ever met, so the spot in the middle, under the covers (if it was cold) was what she got. This would prove to be interesting when I had company, but we worked it out.
She chewed a lot, but a liberal supply of toys meant that not too much got damaged. When she was little, her favorite target was the trash can. She hated the crate, but we used it to minimize the number of messes while we were out.
She was a good dog. We had some trouble with training. It took her a while to train us to do whatever she wanted. This task was made easier by her mind control radar-dish ears, which she used so expressively you didn’t even need to be in the same room to get what was on her mind: