11 June 2011 - Gozer and Sweetie

Audio Version

I called him Boy; I called his sister Girl. They were dogs, and I figured I’d spend most of their lives saying, “Come here, boy,” or “Come here, girl,” so why not just use proper nouns and be done with it?

I didn’t mean to own dogs. I didn’t seek them out. They came to me, as the best things in life often do, as an unwelcome surprise. A friend was passing through rural Louisiana on his way back to Dallas in December 1998, and saw one of those horrible pet shops with puppies in the window. He stopped to lecture the shop owner about puppy mills, and, while inside the store, noticed a basket in the back with two nearly-dead puppies mewling pitifully. They were the last from a litter of seven, and had been taken from their mother before being fully weaned. The first five dogs were stronger, and had gnawed most of the hair from Boy’s hind legs and tail in an effort to continue suckling. Much of the hair from one of Girl’s forelegs was gone, too, and her ear was torn. The puppies could barely stand, and were clearly going to die soon from malnutrition and maltreatment.

My friend scooped them up and brought them home with him, acting more from emotion than thought. He had several large dogs at home already, and two of them were rather vicious – he had rescued those dogs, too. If the puppies from the basket were to have any chance at life, it wouldn’t be at my friend’s house. So he asked me if I wanted some puppies. I said no, but then he conned me into visiting so I could see them. I growled, but agreed to look at them. The next thing I knew, I was headed home with two tiny fluffballs in a cardboard box.

They were about the size of those nodding-head bears some people put in their cars, with reddish-brown fur, soft as down. I could hold them, one on the palm of each hand. The vet said they were “mostly Chow-Chow,” but had almost no idea what the rest of their lineage might be. Maybe Golden Retriever. He put their age at a couple of weeks, perhaps a month. I arbitrarily selected Thanksgiving Day as their birthday. He told me that Girl would probably live if we gave her a lot of help, but that Boy would almost certainly die soon. He’d been abused by his litter-mates more than she had, and, being the runt, had not been big enough or strong enough to wiggle his way in to nurse. He also had a heart murmur. Girl was strong enough to eat very soft foods, but I had to feed Boy from a bottle for a while.

I transformed my kitchen into a dog nursery, and put in a doggie door to the side yard so they could get outside while I had to be at work. To the vet’s surprise, both puppies thrived. Their fur grew back, thick and luxurious, and their tails lifted up and over in that characteristic Chow arch. I got them vaccinated, de-wormed, house trained, and healthy. I moved the doggie door to another spot, giving them access to the whole house and the back yard.

Of course, anyone who knows me knows that I love to nickname things – people, animals, objects – the more I like something, the more likely it has a plethora of nicknames. And I liked these dogs. Over time, Girl became “Sweetie,” and Boy became “Gozer.” The only time I called them “Boy” or “Girl” was when explaining their names to a visitor. Collectively, they responded to the name “Puppies,” but only if said in a high sing-song voice.

Girl was “Sweetie” because she was so loving. She liked to snuggle by resting her head on my foot or knee, and would often fall asleep that way, trapping me wherever I’d happened to sit down. As Boy grew, he would exuberantly leap across the living room when I came home, sweeping his large fluffy tail from side to side. Nothing on the tables or couches survived that tail. He broke lamps, flung remote controls, and generally destroyed anything he could knock down. I started calling him “Gozer the Gozerian,” after the god of destruction in the movie Ghostbusters. This soon shortened to Gozer, or just Goze.

Gozer and Sweetie were best friends. They raced around and around, chasing each other, first one direction and then, with a reverse that sent gravel or grass spraying, back the other way as fast as they could go. As they grew, they took their guard duties seriously: They had set patrols, and took turns making the rounds. Gozer surprised us by not only recovering from his early bad start, but by becoming much larger than his sister. They struggled from time to time over dominance – was the hierarchy me-him-her or me-her-him? – but eventually settled down with Sweetie in charge.

I taught them to sit, lie down, and shake. Sweetie learned to fetch, but just barely – she didn’t enjoy it. Gozer never doubted what I wanted him to do when I threw a ball or a stick, but, with typical Chow aloofness, refused to cooperate. His look seemed to say, “If I get that thing, you’ll just throw it again, so let’s leave it over there, okay?”

I tried teaching them to put their toys in a box. Sweetie complied a bit, but Gozer refused. After all, he was just going to take them out again in a minute, right? They were both very bright, but very Chow: Aloof, regal, and proud. They would do anything for me except tricks they didn’t like. I got fifty-percent success getting them to go to certain people by name, and full success with going to various rooms by name. “Go to the bar!” was a favorite for some reason, perhaps because it was small, dingy, and a bit den-like. I could send them to the bar and they’d scamper off, totally out of sight, and wait for my shouted “Okay!” before running back for a treat.

Sweetie died unexpectedly during the night on 26 July 2003. She wasn’t yet five years old. The only warning sign was that she was unusually clingy the evening beforehand. She followed me around the house, staring at me, never more than a foot away, and eventually sleeping at my feet. I had no reason to think she was in distress. We all went to sleep, but only Gozer and I woke up the following morning.

The vet suspected that some congenital heart defect had finally manifested, or perhaps she had had a severe allergic reaction to something she found in the yard. For months afterward, when I came home from an outing, Gozer would race to the garage and sniff all around the car, looking for his sister. Then his tail would droop, the light would go out of his eyes, and he would give me a wounded look.

Time went by, and we adjusted to life without Sweetie. Although Gozer regained his enjoyment in life, he never again displayed quite the same level of energy and excitement he had shared with her, racing around the yard.

In April, 2007, we moved to a house with a much larger yard. Gozer immediately took possession of the yard and established a patrol schedule. Although he was only nine years old, he was showing signs of slowing down. The average lifespan for Chows is 10-12 years, so I was worried he was declining too soon. In December of 2007, we adopted a shelter dog, Sammy, to keep Gozer company.

For a while, we saw the old Gozer. He and Sammy raced around the yard together, tussling and playing like puppies. Gozer was even tolerant of the affection my boys showered on the new dog; he was willing to share his new friend with us without any sign of jealousy. Unfortunately, Sammy died in April, 2009. It was traumatic for the whole family, because Sammy was so young – only three years old – and had no history of illness. He started having seizures, and eventually went into status epileticus. He could no longer lift his head, eat, drink, or recognize us. We took him to the vet’s office and all held him, crying, while the vet administered euthanasia.

I swore at the time that we’d have no more dogs, but as time went past and Gozer got slower and sadder, we tried again. We found a tiny fluffball, part Chow like Gozer, part Corgi like Sammy, and adopted her. Despite my best intentions, we called her “Girl 2.0,” and eventually just Girl.

Unlike Sammy, Girl 2.0 did not become best friends with Gozer. As puppies do, she wanted to play all the time: Gozer mostly wanted to sleep. Where she wanted to bound and leap, he wanted to walk with stately grace and dignity. Where she wanted to nibble and play-fight, he wanted to be left alone. She hounded him unmercifully, and for a while his snarl of exasperation was the most common sound he made. Eventually they came to get along better, mostly because Girl was growing up and acting less and less like a puppy.

Gozer continued to slow down, aging gracefully. Our first hint that something was wrong was when he developed pancreatitis in the summer of 2010. We didn’t even know what it was at first. The vet could find nothing wrong, yet Gozer was breathing hard, chattering his teeth, and clearly in distress. He had also lost of lot of weight, which we hadn’t noticed because his thick, regal mane and fur mostly hid his body. All of his blood levels were normal, his heart and lungs were fine, the X-Rays didn’t show anything amiss, and he didn’t have any tenderness. Then the episode passed as suddenly as it had started, leaving the vet scratching his head.

Over the summer, he had more and more frequent attacks. Finally, his blood work showed some small abnormalities, including elevated amylase and lipase, which indicated pancreatitis, even though he didn’t have abdominal distension, dehydration, or stool problems. He responded well to a no-fat diet, and, for a while, the symptoms disappeared, but by December of 2010, it was clear something else was going on. Even though he didn’t have overt symptoms of pancreatitis, he was still losing weight, breathing like a bellows from time to time, and occasionally refusing to eat.

Ultrasound examination revealed tumors in multiple organs, and in the abdominal cavity. It was unclear where the cancer had started, but it had spread through his liver, kidneys, pancreas, and lymphatic system. The vet said he could last anywhere from a few days to a few months, but most likely would die within a few weeks. Gozer had just turned twelve years old the month before.

Gozer responded well to tramadol, an opiate agonist, which changes the way the body perceives pain. He regained his appetite, and even put back on a few pounds. He survived December, January, February, March, and April with very few physical changes. He was continuing to lose body mass, mostly muscle, which indicated that even though he was eating, he was not able to extract sufficient nutrition from his food. He still had episodes of heavy breathing, drooling, and teeth chattering, but the tramadol seemed to control it. Some weeks he needed the tramadol several times a day for several days in a row, other weeks, he did fine without it.

On 06 May 2011, at 6:00 p.m., he had a small seizure. He’d been in usual pain earlier in the day, but had recovered from the episode, so I thought he was okay. I happened to have been right beside him when the seizure occurred. He was standing by the door, looking perfectly normal, then a moment later was down on his side, seizing. It lasted for about a minute, with his eyes unfocused and his forelimbs jerking and paddling. He did not lose consciousness, but was completely unresponsive. During the tonic phase, he either didn’t recognize me or couldn’t hear me. Eventually, he fell asleep. By 8:00 p.m., he was responding to voice and touch, and even ate normally.

For the next ten days, he was almost his old self. He was bouncy, happy, eating, drinking and playing, all with no pain pills. Then on the morning of the May 17th, we found him on the floor in a puddle of urine. He clearly had had another seizure, or a series of them. He could get up and move, but was very shaky. He staggered, and seemed to have trouble controlling his limbs from time to time. He either continued having occasional small seizures, or just took a long time to recover. For the rest of the day, he had a staggered walk, stupor, mild confusion, and continued incontinence. He moved seldom, and seemed exhausted by the smallest exertion. He slept most of the day.

By 10:00 p.m. that night, he had mostly recovered, but something had changed that day. My old faithful companion was no longer really himself. He still barked when the doorbell rang, but no longer went to the door most of the time. He still ate, but it seemed to be the only thing he cared about. He refused to take the tramadol, no matter how cleverly we hid it in various foods. He even turned down treats and cheese sometimes. I started leaving my bedroom door open so he could go in and out. He spent his days sleeping, moving mostly to get food or to go outside. The only hint of the old Gozer was that he still followed me around the house, choosing to sleep near my office while I worked, and in my room while I slept. If I sat beside him on the floor, he would move a small distance away. He wanted to be close, but didn’t want attention or touch. We thought he would die very soon, but he pulled an amazing turn-around.

Gozer had a glorious last two weeks. He spent his days relaxed and happy, eating well, ears and tail up, engaged with the family, and – as far as we could tell – free from pain. He pranced in the yard, ran to greet visitors, and played with the other dogs. He even managed to find a skunk and get sprayed.

Then on Thursday, 09 June 2011, he was listless and sad. He had trouble coordinating his legs, stumbled while walking, and lost control of his bladder. In the evening, he gave evidence of being in pain. A little after 4:30 Friday afternoon, the vet came to our house and eased Gozer’s way into the last sleep of all.

Dogs do not share our whole lives with us, but they share their whole lives, their whole hearts. They come, sometimes by choice, sometimes by chance, and somehow work their way into our deepest emotions. They do not hold grudges. They will always forgive you, always remain loyal. They do not judge. They will always be faithful, always give more than they take, always love more than they are loved. From playful puppies to wise old dogs, they choose to give us their best. Nothing makes a dog happier than pleasing its human family. They would die to protect their humans. They are always hopeful, even amidst the ravages of disease. They will always trust you, whether you deserve the purity of their adoration or not.

Thank you, Gozer, for the gift of sharing your life with us. Like your sister and Sammy, you became a part of us, then went on to the greatest adventure of all without us. The sorrow is ours; for you, there is no sorrow now. You are finally free, free of pain, free of the daily struggle to linger for our sake. You showed us what it means to be brave, loyal, loving, and forgiving. I can only hope we learned a tiny part of the lesson you offered. And although we must say good-bye to you now, it is only your body that lies here. Your spirit is already free, living in our hearts and memories for as long as life persists. I’d like to hope you have found your way to a bright green field, with rabbits to chase, wild scents to invigorate you, good food to eat, and treats whenever you want them. And I’d like to hope that you find a friend there, to share your life, to put a hand on your head, to stand beside you as you survey your new land.

Sleep in peace, my faithful friend. Your work here is done. Know that you took excellent care of us, and that we loved you.