Cognosco

So, once upon a time, I had this dog named Batchelor, with a ‘t’. I spelled it with a ‘t’ so that his name was ‘Batchy’ for short instead of ‘Bachy’ because ‘Bachy’ would sound like a pet name for a classical composer. I was told he was an Alaskan Malamute - German Shepherd mix. I’m pretty sure that there was Doberman in there too, but the Husky was the predominant personality.

I had him for 8 years, from the time I was 17, until I was almost 25. I was a total idiot when I raised him and trained him, and he could be a monster (only to inanimate objects and fences), but I loved him so much. He had terrible separation anxiety, so I had to get a dog friend for him. Turns out they were both escape artists. The only thing that ever kept him in was electric wire. Don’t judge. I touched it myself before I ever let him get near it.

When I divorced my ex-husband, I let him keep the chow I’d originally gotten to be Batchy’s friend because I wanted his son to have a protector and they were both very close to her. Because of the separation anxiety component, I took Batchy to doggie day care every day while I went to school or work. Because seriously, he couldn’t be alone. He broke through a window once. He chewed up seat belts. Destroyed carpets, furniture, you name it. He even managed to escape not one, but two, kennels at the doggie day care that were designed for pit bulls!

I know now that they have medications for this kind of thing, and would have considered it had I known. Instead, I just lived with it and did what I had to do because I loved him so. The day care people loved him too, in spite of his fence damage. Because he was such a PERSON.

About two months before he died, I took him to the vet because he had a cough. The vet said something to the effect of, ‘Yeah, these old huskies, they have loose jowels’. And I was stunned for a moment. Because it never occurred to me that he was old. I still viewed him as "entering his prime". But I looked at him that day and realized, yes, he was getting old. 

I was currently living with my mother after a few very stressful months, and it was not the optimal living situation. I was working on getting a place of my own, made all the more difficult by the crazy dog factor. I was really depressed at the time. When I wasn’t manic.

When we got home from the vet, I was snuggling with him on the bed, and I told him I knew he was getting old and that it had been a long, crazy, life with me, but would he please promise not to leave me until I was out of my mother’s house and in a better situation? And happy? And would he please try to make sure I was there when he passed? And if there was an afterlife, would he promise to be the one to greet me?

Don’t worry. He didn’t actually reply to these pleas. I wasn’t THAT depressed and delusional. But I think he understood.

Fast forward to January 15th, about a month after the vet visit. I was moving into an apartment owned by someone I had known as a customer from a coffee shop I worked at for several years. He even let me paint the apartment. And it was a cool little complex of only 4 apartments with a nice big grassy courtyard. Every day, I dropped Batchy off at doggie day care on my way to school. On my way home, I picked him up and we’d go to the park for awhile. It was a really nice few weeks. So nice, and so surreal, that I even remarked to a good friend of mine that life was really good and I wanted to really memorize this time with Batchy, and that I would look back on it as a really positive time in my life. The week before he died, I felt compelled to take mental snapshots of our moments together. I really appreciated our time together.

Around this time I met Hyrum. We had our first "date" on Feb 2. It was dinner at my place because I couldn’t leave Batchy home alone. Or in my car alone. Or anywhere alone. But Hyrum was cool about it. We talked for 6 hours that night and made plans for the following weekend. I was going to have my brother come over to babysit Batchelor so we could go out. Seriously, it was like having a baby.

The next day, I spent a lot of time cuddling with Batchelor. We napped on the couch together. Keep in mind, this was an 85 lb dog. I was memorizing the feel of his fur as I stroked him. Some part of me must have known what was to come.

He got sick on the night of the 5th. He had bloat. My options were an operation to rearrange his internal organs or to put him down. The operation was risky. They’d have to keep him for a week. I didn’t want him to die without me there in some recovery room or kennel. And then, he would have "special needs" and I just didn’t know how the hell that would be possible. And I had always secretly hoped that he wouldn’t have a long, drawn out kind of sickness or death, and so in some way, this sudden sickness was a twisted blessing.

He saw me through so many changes and growing pains, and when he died, I was devastated.

On the plus side, had I not been an emotional wreck, I don’t know that I would have been "needy" enough to let Hyrum into my heart. And I’m so glad I did. In a funny way, it was like Batchelor’s gift to me. Either that, or when he met Hyrum he was like "oh, god, not another man for me to tolerate–I’m out of here". I actually like to think that he saw that Hyrum was a good man, and figured he didn’t need to be around to protect me any more. And the timing was hauntingly perfect–the lack of freedom due to having to care for Batchy had probably literally saved my life when I was initially manic after the divorce. If I hadn’t had to look after someone and had to be home most nights…I don’t really want to think about where I would have ended up. But now I was in need of more freedom, and as much as I loved him, he was kind of a burden.

Need I mention that it is spooky how well he kept his deal? I was out of my mother’s house. I was happy. And he didn’t get sick while I was in school. I didn’t show up to pick him up to find him dead or in the hospital. I was right there with him. If there is some sort of afterlife, I am positive he will be there to greet me.

It’s been 5 years today since he died. I have three dogs. There is no dog shortage in this house. But there is also no Batchy.

About six months after he died, I wrote this poem. I don’t even think it’s very good. But I thought I would post it, for no other reason than maybe someone else will read it and totally know that they are not the only ones who have cried spontaneously for years to come over a lost furry friend.

For Batchelor

December 21, 1994-February 6, 2003

The night I lost you,
you were so sick,
and it came out of nowhere,
no warning.

It had been the perfect day
in the park,
you’d gotten in
up to your belly–
you, the dog who hated water.

And when we crossed the bridge–
click, click, click,
your paws on concrete,
every few seconds
looking back at me,
of course
I was always right there.

Always.

When the pain started,
I knew
this was no bellyache to pass,
and somewhere,
in the back of my brain,
I heard the word ‘bloat’
and remembered
it could be fatal.

I had no phone book–
called a friend for a number
to an emergency vet.
I knew
time was running short–
your quiet whine–
no dog so big
should ever cry so small.

And when you went to lay
in the bathtub,
the line was crossed
and off we went.

The x-ray came back,
I was right,
it was bloat,
and you would die
without surgery,
and probably die
even with surgery,
and I asked someone,
something,
you,
what to do…

and I knew
it was time.

All I’d ever hoped
was that I’d be there
when the time came,
and that you wouldn’t die
a slow death
in months of pain.

They gave you drugs to calm
and sooth
and let me sit with you,
while I waited for my mother
to arrive
and give me strength.

And you knew,
you knew,

your huge head in my lap–
your head now bigger
than your entire body
the day I brought you home–
so long ago.
You knew,
and you conceded.

The doctor entered
and explained
there might be
twitching,
convulsions,
spasms,
but not to be alarmed.

I stared at the
yellow
cabinets and thought,
‘well, at least it’s a color I already hate,
so I can really hate it now.’

The room was vibrating around me
and I couldn’t look at you.
And the doctor asked, ‘are you
ready?’
and I said, ‘yes, let’s do it
now.’

There was no resistance.

When the drug moved in–
you moved out of this world
with one big rush–
you were your mother’s dog
indeed.

Your legs
stiffened, your head went
slack,
and there was
one
gasp,

just one–

it was an easy death.

And in the days that followed,
I thought I would die,
I wanted to follow
you, my best friend,
the extension of all I am–
but I knew,
that in your previous doggie mind,
you would hate to see me sad,
so I pressed on,
and replayed memories–

the feel of your fur against
my hand, the click
click, click of your paws,
the wild thump of your tail,
the sarcastic, last word comments
I could always translate.

And late at night,
I would plead with the
universe
for just five minutes more,
with no response.

And slowly, I started to let go,
and now, I still cry
sometimes,
it sneaks up now and then,
but I count myself as blessed
for knowing such pure love,
my best friend.