The email said “Free puppies.”
Yes, we’d talked about getting a dog in the hypothetical, “Sure,
it’s a good idea” sense, but…
And, Yes, it was Valentine’s day…
And, certainly, the puppies were free to take and they
needed good homes…
But there’s no such thing as “free puppies…”
…
Winston August Guiffre-Jensky died today. He was two months
shy of his twelfth birthday. That’s a long time for a big dog, and Winston was
a big dog. When asked what type of breed he was, I’d always reply, “Part black
Lab, part dalmatian, part horse.”
He wasn’t really part horse, obviously. That third part? Rhodesian
Ridgeback. Honestly, I didn’t see it in him until I was dropping him off at a
boarding facility for Thanksgiving Weekend. When Winston was happy to meet you,
his favorite thing in the world was to walk between your legs. Much to my
shock, he started straight for the facility owner’s legs. “Oh, I see he’s part
Ridgeback! That’s a classic Ridgeback trait!”
…
He had been going downhill for a while now. A few months ago
his back legs stopped working properly. At first it just manifested as a wobbliness,
but in a surprisingly short time he had trouble standing up. He’d get his front
legs up fine but then he would have to do this lean-tuck maneuver to pull his only-partly-useful
legs under him. It worked on carpet or his bed, but on tile or hardwood… forget
about it. But if I lifted his butt up to get his legs under him he could coax
enough movement out of his rear legs to walk, but it was tenuous.
…
Anna picked him up in what we called a “puppy drug deal.”
Winston’s family was from Vacaville and when Anna called them, the mother was
already en route to Napa to drop off two of Winston’s brothers – could Anna
meet her somewhere halfway? Maybe Sonoma?
They met at the historic square in Sonoma, a pickup truck full
of boisterous, jumpy, oversized-puppies in a pickup truck. Anna looked at the already
enormous and hyper dogs and wondered whether these “free puppies” were maybe
too much… And then she saw one dog – the runt – asleep on the lap of the boy in
the cab.
“That one’s not available, is he?”
“They’re all available. We can’t keep them.”
Anna eventually got over the stigma of taking a puppy from a
developmentally disabled boy. “His name is Levi,” the boy told her. “Please
keep his name!” he requested.
“I will,” Anna told him.
We totally didn’t.
She voted for August. I was pitching Winston. I think she
gave me Winston for the first name because she thought it would assuage my reticence
about this “free puppy” that already was costing us vet bills, and toys, and a
crate, and…
Winston August.
…
His labored breathing caught my attention this morning
first. It came on suddenly. His lousy hind legs meant that the squat-poop that
all dogs do was no longer an option. Instead he just kind of pooped where he
lay. If I was lucky he would be on his side and wouldn’t notice and I could
clean it easily and disinfect the surface. If I was unlucky he’d be realize he’s
pooping and try to stand and end up smearing it everywhere. Every. Where.
He pooped at 4:30 this morning and I was able to get to it
and clean it and the area without any issues and was back in bed surprisingly
quickly. His breathing was fine. But by 5:30 his breathing was really labored,
coming in quick deep breaths. Not panting – that I was used to. I thought maybe
he was in distress because he had to pee, so I went to lift his butt to help
him to his feet.
He flailed his front legs uselessly.
And then he peed himself.
Sure, the poop thing was annoying, but it was livable. One trait
I found remarkable about Winston was that he had an iron bladder. That dog
could hold his pee for an eternity! Seriously, 12-13 hours? No problem.
I can count on one hand the number of times he had peed
inside over the course of his adult life (not including puppyhood – if you raised
a puppy, you totally know what I’m talking about).
I set him back down on his bed, and he settled back into
that labored breathing.
Thirsty? I brought his water bowl in. Not interested.
Hungry? I brought a piece of pork from last night. Not
interested.
I sat on the floor with him, listening to his breathing and
knowing what this portended.
“I don’t know what to do!” I said to Akilah.
…
People had a hard time believing this 100-pound dog was the
runt, but I believe that utterly informed his personality. He had this inborn
sense of compassion and caring that was palpable.
I took him to the dog park at Ragle Ranch in Sebastopol. Just
as we came in a mastiff and a pit bull were going at it in the middle of the
yard. The owners stood nearby, watching, sure this was just a territorial
dust-up, they’d figure it out. But it started getting heated, the dogs more
than gentle nipping each other, and by the time they got excited both owners feared
for their own safety trying to break up what had turned into a dog fight.
Winston bolted for the fight at a full galloping sprint.
Before I could even call him back, he was at the melee where he jumped right in
between the pit and the mastiff. Both dogs were so surprised that they stopped
for a moment. You could practically hear Winston saying, “Look guys, let’s just
play!”
At my friend Jen’s cabin, up in Fish Lake outside of
Yosemite, Winston earned the moniker “Big Dog Ambassador” when his patience and
calmness helped a Chihuahua terrified of dogs bigger than her (read: all of
them) reconsider her position. It was just a weekend, and he wasn’t a miracle
maker, so the small dog never completely let her feisty guard down, but she
came pretty close.
While he was an only dog, Winston’s fur family consisted of
up to three other cats, to which he was always deferential despite his size.
When he was a puppy, our smallest cat, Clementine, took evil delight standing
on the sofa swatting his tail so he started bounding around the couch as she
would run to the other side to swat at his tail again to keep him moving. He
never turned on her, never even complained.
We would get big beef knuckles from the butcher and they
were Winston’s absolute favorite thing in the world. On warm summer afternoons
we’d let the chickens have free rein of the yard and throw Winston a meaty
bone. Chickens, in case you didn’t know, also like meaty bones and they
instantly found Winston’s bones very interesting, crowding his space. But he
didn’t bark or snap. He’d pick up his bone move to a chicken-free part of the yard,
place his bone on the ground and start up again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
…
The discussion with the vet was brief and had the feeling of
a fait acompli.
When Winston hobbled on his mostly-useless rear legs, his
toes would often curl under and he’d walk on them without noticing. At one
point recently, his folded paw caught in the gap between driveway and walkway
and Winston fell. But he didn’t howl or let out any noise of pain whatsoever.
He just sort of fell over with this look on his face like, “Well, this is
annoying!”
David Erik was the first to put it into words.
While I initially thought his legs were the result of the
deteriorating hips of a big dog, DE suggested the folding paw and dragging legs
didn’t look degenerative. It looked neurological.
This morning, the vet agreed. She couldn’t say whether his
inability to now use his front legs well enough to stand was a progression, but
it didn’t really matter at this point.
His breathing, she said, “scared” her. Scared. That’s the
word she used.
She looked at his gums to check his circulation. It wasn’t
good.
She said we could do a full run up on him and see if we
could figure out what was going on, but…
…but…
…I had said Winston had started to go downhill a few months
ago. At one point recently as he lay on his bed panting, I said, “Winston, we
know what’s coming. I don’t want you to suffer. When it’s time, let me know,
please. Please…”
This morning Winston told us, in unequivocal terms, he was
ready. It was time.
…
I will miss his booming barks.
I will miss him insisting on walking between my legs as a
greeting.
I will miss the comfort of him breathing softly in the
middle of the night.
I will miss him asking with his eyes “Are you done with
that?”
I will miss his Dalmation spots on his chest and his “socks”.
I will miss the equine-like gallop he got into when he started
running.
I will miss his expressive eyebrows.
I will miss countless more things that I can’t think of
right this second because my dog died this morning and, yes, I’m absolutely sobbing
as I’m typing this and I know that a light in my life has just winked out and
that light will never re-light and it’s one light in a constellation of lights
in my life, but that light is gone, and as the years go by other lights have
flickered and gone out and for many of those dimmings Winston was there for me
to bury my face in his thick black fur and cry until he turned his head and
licked my tears….
…
You may not want to read this next part. But you’ve already
come this far with me…
In the room at the Vet, Winston lay on his side on the cart
they wheeled him in on. I sat with him, his head on one of my hands, the other petting
his side. He looked up to see what was going on when the vet techs came in. He
looked at me and we made eye contact. He knew. He was ready. This was okay. He lay
his head back down on my hand. He didn’t move at all when they put the catheter
in. Minutes later when the vet back in with the syringe he didn’t move. He lay
there, his body heaving with his labored breathing, his mouth open, a little
drool pooling on my arm.
I had told him a million times that day how good a boy he
was. How much I loved him. How thankful I was that he was in my life. And that,
yes, it was okay to go, that I didn’t want him to suffer, that I knew it was
time.
And then it really was.
And then he was gone.
The labored breathing stopped.
He was at peace.
A minute later, the vet places her stethoscope against his
still chest for verification. He lets out a gasp. She turns to say something,
but I nod that it’s just muscles. He’s gone. She moves the stethoscope around.
A minute later he starts to pee. My dog held his pee until
he died! Best. Dog. Ever.
…
There’s a brief section here where I had Winston’s body
released to me to take to the pet crematorium but they weren’t answering their
phone and I started to freak out because now I had a 100 pound dog body in the
back of my car and nowhere to take it…
…it ended fine – they turned up. His body was wheeled off.
And now I’m home. Alone. Well, with Kione. But not Winston.
And the place feels interminably empty without him. I can’t move his bed. I can’t
move his food. I can’t move his leash. I can’t, I just fucking can’t…
…
Anna posted a farewell to Winston on Facebook shortly after
he died, and people are sharing condolences and memories and I’m grateful and
thankful…
If you met Winston, you loved Winston. He was that kind of a
dog. He was my friend, my companion, my buddy…
The email read “free puppies,” and in a way it was true.
Winston proved over the course of his life to be so unbelievably
priceless and my soul is greater for having spent time with him.
Thank you, my friend. May you enjoy your nom bone in peace.
