<< back

Hootch

Hootch became our family dog when I was in 4th grade. We got him from the local dog pound, where he had been staying for months, constantly over-looked by dog-seekers due to the "pit-mix" label he held. On April 24, 2008, at the age of nine years, my mother and my brother brought him to the vet to be euthanized. He had been with our family for eight years at that point. He was a happy dog with great vitality until about a week before his death.

He became ill suddenly: he could not keep food down without vomiting. The first time we brought him to the vet, we were told just to give him antacid. The next time, there was no denying that a serious problem was underway. He was taken to a specialist in Shelton for further tests. It was determined that something was wrong with his liver. It may have been cancer--we don't know, for sure. By the time surgery was an option, he only had a fifty-fifty chance for survival. Considering the surgery was only investigative, we rejected it. He spent most of his remaining days on IV drip at the veterinary office, and we brought him home in the evening to be with us. At around 7AM on the 24th, he began to go into convulsions. I believe that he would have rather died in pain at home than high on valium in the veterinary office, but my brother and mother disagreed.

He is now buried in our backyard next to my mother's garden.

Had he been any other dog, I don't think he would have lasted so long. As I watched him on his final day, his eyes stuck open, how most animals seem when they are dying, I recalled Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night", which I had read my junior year of high school. It occurred to me that the intense openness in his eyes was not fear, but rather, his final fight. And as I held his paws during the first convulsions, and heard the sputters of his growls, I knew that, too, was his fight against "the dying of the light."

That previous night, my brother had slept beside him. He said that Hootch would constantly look toward the door of our pantry. There were times in earlier years when Hootch would bark at the pantry, as if an invader were present. We believed, then, that he had seen spirits there. I believe, now, that the angel of life visited Hootch that night prior to his death to calm him, to explain how things would happen, and to introduce him to his new life.

When I was younger, when my parents were divorcing, I had a dream that the dog became a human. His name was Danny, he was a brunette, very intelligent and objective. It was more than once that we referred to him as our "almost-human", rather than our "dog". After seeing him do peculiar things for a dog, such as grabbing at doorknobs with his front paws to open them, or even the way he folded up blankets and towels he vomited into in his last days, I began to consider this a premonition. We did treat him like a human; he couldn't hold forks, but he knew how to eat off of them without hurting his teeth. What's more is his astounding sense of empathy, his brilliance and his undying love.

I'll always be on the lookout for someone in my life 18 years younger than I am. I know he will be back in our world one day, and I believe he was born again on April 25th. He and I will love one another just as much, although probably in a different way. He may date my daughter, or perhaps he'll just be a young neighbor. In any event, I know that his heart will continue to help and heal the world, the same way he helped and healed me throughout my adolescence.

It is hard to walk into the family room and accept the fact that he isn't on the couch chewing on his fingernails, or to enter through the front door and not see his wiggling body slithering toward me. It is hard to come home from the grocery store and not have his nose in every bag and his paws under my feet in the kitchen. It is hard to sleep at night knowing that he won't be barging through the door to wake me up in the morning, or sneaking into my bed at all hours. It's hard to sit at the computer without having his nose creeping up to poke my ear. It's hard to drop a piece of food on the floor and resist the urge to call his name for clean-up. It's hard to accept the fact that he's gone from his life as a dog.

It's not hard to remember him and continue to love and cherish everything he was, and still is to me.

In closing, I'll say the following: