Margaret's Bench -- October 2007
In mid-August, our dog Katie got sick. During
the same period of time, my second book, Sacred
Attention, entered into the final stages of editing and page
layout, with mark-ups, lists of corrections, questions, and
answers flying back and forth between me and the publisher,
SkyLight Paths. The book went to the printer near the end of
August. Katie died about three weeks later. There’s more about
Sacred Attention elsewhere in the courtyard. Here on this
bench, let me tell you about Katie.
We adopted Katie from the local animal shelter about four years
ago, just before Thanksgiving in 2003. The folks at the pound
had the phone number of her former owners, and before signing
the papers, I gave them a call. It was an awkward conversation.
Here was an adult dog, friendly, leash-trained, seemingly
mild-mannered. Mixed breed with border collie showing. Soft
black coat with white feet. About eight years old. I wanted to
ask, “How did this dog come to the animal shelter? Why did you
leave her here?”
But I had trouble putting the words together. The questions in
my mind felt intrusive, even accusatory. I imagined hard times
leading to this choice—the death of an elderly owner, perhaps,
or some other break-up of a home—temporary lodging with a
neighbor or relative, maybe—no one in the extended family
willing or able to take the dog. And finally, the decision to
let her go. I had no basis for these scenarios besides Katie’s
gentleness and good manners. Still, I felt shy about intruding
on what could be a painful situation.
I ended up asking whether she was an indoor or an outdoor dog.
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Katie |
Outdoor, said the voice on the other end of the line. The voice
was neutral, a little cool.
Hesitantly, I asked if Katie was well behaved. Was she house
trained?
Oh yes, the voice said. She goes to the door.
But she’s used to staying outside most of the time?
She doesn’t like to be fenced in. She jumps the fence.
Does she run away? I asked.
No, she doesn’t run away. She stays close to home. But she
doesn’t like to be inside a fence. She jumps the fence.
I said thank you and hung up. We don’t have a fenced yard. David
and I signed the papers and paid the fee. Katie got her shots,
and we had a dog.
In the following weeks, my imaginary early life for Katie tended
more and more toward her being the companion of an older owner.
She had excellent car manners, leaping into the back seat and
lying down, happy to go along for short or long rides. On a
walk, she was civilized on the leash, trotting along at my side.
Off the leash, she bounded ahead or behind, but stayed in sight
and came when I called. She wagged her tail at strangers, never
jumped up on anyone, tolerated children, welcomed human guests
into our home, and accepted dog biscuits with gentle courtesy.
But she was less certain around other dogs—easily startled and
defensive about butt sniffing, stand-offish with the
neighborhood dogs until they got to know each other, and
downright mean to my brother’s family dog Henry, an inoffensive
standard poodle. Eventually she made friends with all the dogs
up and down our lane and even joined in a few outdoor doggie
games, though she never initiated play herself. She was
intensely territorial about our house and didn’t welcome any
other canine crossing its threshold. She didn’t know how to play
catch. We tossed balls, we rolled them right past her nose, and
she was unmoved and unmoving.
All this strengthened my image of her growing up as an only dog
in a quiet home.
She was indifferent to rabbits! All our neighbors’ dogs chase
rabbits with joyful abandon. But a rabbit could cross just ten
feet in front of Katie, and she’d break into a half-hearted
trot, then immediately abandon the chase when it hopped into the
woods.
She was not indifferent to all wild animals, however. In a
blink, she could transform into a raging growling fierce black
bullet, shooting into the woods after some beast that I usually
didn’t even catch sight of before she chased it off. Once I just
glimpsed a raccoon racing up the side of a fir tree. Other times
I suspect she’d surprised a coyote—I know they live in the
area—and felt it her place and duty to scare the living
daylights out of it and establish beyond all doubt who ruled
these woods. Then she’d trot back to me, tail up and wagging,
her point made.
About a year after she came to live with us, Katie fell
seriously ill from a disorder in her immune system. She pulled
out of it and seemed to make a full recovery, but the vet warned
that the problem might recur and was often fatal. For the next
couple of years, she was fine. Then about six weeks ago, she
laid down and rested for a few minutes in the middle of our last
walk before bed. The next morning, she could barely stand.
Left on her own, she probably would have died in a day or two.
But since she did recover the time before, we decided give her a
chance again. Which meant many trips to the vet, blood tests,
decisions. Pills that seemed to help but made her pee a lot and
were hard on her digestive system, requiring other pills and
food specially prepared by me. It wasn’t easy. What do we owe
our pets? How much time, money, effort? Every decision has its
rationalizations. The proposition “This is too hard on her,
she’s ready to go,” can’t escape its subtext—“I don’t want to be
bothered by this anymore, I’m ready for her to go.” More than
once I thought she was dying. Then she’d pull through and get a
little better. My pleasure at her renewed strength, trotting
gait, and wagging tail would be mixed with shame-inducing
disappointment that she hadn’t yet passed away peacefully in her
sleep. This was not fun.
I suppose there’s no such thing as a convenient time for a pet
to get really sick. Now, in retrospect, I’m struck by the irony
of having my attention so deeply torn in the final days of work
on a book about paying attention. The galleys finally went to
the printer at the end of August. Which felt something like a
birth, and something like a death. To me, a piece of writing is
never so alive as when it’s being written. For this particular
work, that life is over now.
Katie passed away on September 18 at the vet’s office, after it
became clear that, this time, she wasn’t going to pull out of it
on her own . The choice was between a tenuous life on medicine
that she could barely tolerate and no life at all. The phone
call setting up the euthanasia had been harder than I expected.
How I wanted our vet to say the words first! But he just laid
out the treatment options again, making it plain that none of
them looked good. Gradually, I realized that the words were mine
to say. I had to squeeze them out. “I want her put to sleep.” He
said that they could do that. David and I were with her when she
died. I felt great sorrow and also great relief. She’s okay now.
The studio where I work feels empty without her.
Any day, I expect to receive a package in the mail, open it, and
take out a brand new book.
Yesterday I drove out to the vet’s office and brought Katie’s
ashes home.
-- Margaret
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