Skippy by DA Gordon / Dean

Yesterday, February 9th, I watched my best friend die.

He looked up at me, confused and anxious, and tried to comfort him as best I could. I held him, I stroked his ear, kissed his nose and whispered to him that I loved him, that he was the best dog that a person could ever dream of having, and that I would miss him forever.

And then he died.

For fourteen years, I had the privilege of being best friends with an amazing dog. Skippy was intelligent, friendly, playful and a great watchdog. A Border Collie / Labrador mix, he took the best from both breeds and became something truly unique. He was there day in and day out when I needed him, seeing me through some unbelievably painful and tumultuous times. In many ways, he was an anchor – when I needed a boost or a moment to make me smile, he was there.

I can still recall that first day when I walked into the Vancouver SPCA kennel and saw him in the cage. He looked so upset to be in there, so timid, so vulnerable. Yet he never barked, even while every other dog around him was trying to grab my attention (which is ironic, since he would become known for his barking). He was a rescued dog – his previous owner had tried to drown him, and the SPCA volunteer told me that “Patches”, as they called him because of the pink spot on his nose, was a quiet dog and needed the right owner to bring him out of his shell. He was still a puppy – only about a year and a half old, but a good size at 65 pounds (a weight which he maintained his entire life despite all the Old Roy and treats that he wolfed down).

I took him for a walk that day and there was an instant connection – as I sat with him outside on the grass, he looked up at me and smiled, a broad goofy grin, and then gave me a playful bark.

That’s all it took.

My fiancée at the time was hesitant to the idea, and my parents thought I was crazy, but I grew up with dogs and think there is a great bod between a master and his pet. A bond that is almost spiritual in nature. Within an hour of arriving in that ground floor apartment, it was his home and my fiancée was madly in love with him, even go so far as making home made dog food once a week for him (chicken, smoked salmon, rice and vegetables over his dry dog food – now that’s some kind of love).

As a young buck he was insatiable when it came to playing ball. We would watch TV and he would bring a ball over for me to toss around the room for hours. Living on the ground floor, we used to slip out to the nearby park and toss the Kong Ball on a Rope for an hour. He would run like the wind towards it, faster than any dog I have ever seen, and return panting, only to drop it at my feet and tell me, with a playful but demanding bark, to throw it again.

He was a fierce defender of the house and his family, to the point that he would snap and bark at anyone who approached, be they friend, strangers or foe. I told people it was because he was abused by his previous owner, but I think it was because he truly thought it was his job, to protect me and my family. Once he accepted a person’s smell he stopped barking at them, but my friends were made aware that if they wanted to remain friends with The Boy, they had better get used to throwing the ball around the house when they came over for drinks.

Of course, his protection only applied when I was there. When we would drive somewhere and leave him in the car, he would bark as we left, letting everyone know that he was on the job, but as soon as we were out of sight he would curl up and take a nap. It was almost as if he was unionized.

When we got him a sister, Matha, a very cute little Beagle, he took her into the family without hesitation, and they got along famously. He acted as Martha’s bodyguard, and when a massive Mastiff threatened her, he stepped in front, even though the dog out-weighed Skippy by at least one hundred pounds.

When that relationship ended, as they often do in real life, Skippy took the loss of his “mother” and Martha in stride, never judging me, just happy that we were together. It would be the same with every other relationship – he would accept the new person in my life, and the new dog (I tended to date, and ended up in a long term relationship with, dog owners), without reservation. Because at the end of the day, it was still just me and Skippy, playing ball together.

I am grateful that my career choice allowed me the opportunity to have time during the day to take breaks and play with the boy, and it was hilarious to sit at the computer writing, only to feel a pair of eyes on me, and then turn around to see Skippy looking at me, with his ball between his legs, a smile on his face and a bark to tell me that its been 30 minutes and that its time to play.

He was my own form of stress relief, in many ways. For the bulk of my adult life, he was always there to lean on. When I was upset, or lonely, or in need of a pick me up, I could just whistle or call his name, and there he was ready to play or cuddle. As he grew older, the latter was more of the norm, as he loved to stretch out on the bed waiting for me to snuggle up beside him. When I told him that cuddle time was over and that I had to go, he would stretch out his legs over my arm and look at me with those eyes, just wanting a minute or two more.

He was an amazing creature of ritual. As the morning alarm went off, he would give me a tentative lick, and if I stretched awake, he would jump up on the bed for his fifteen minutes of cuddle time. He went for two walks a day (except in winter when we lived on the east coast when the second walk was eliminated in favor of just letting him out in the backyard), with the afternoon excursion being Kong time. He never made a mess in the house, even when he was left alone for sixteen hours because of an accident.

He was remarkably healthy all his life, something that I am grateful for. As a young buck, he had a recessed testicle that had to be removed, but aside from that, the worst that happened to him was an occasion bout of vomiting from wolfing down his food to fast. One of the reasons that I am grateful is that it would have killed me to know that he was in a vet’s kennel cage, like when I first saw him. The look in his eyes then – I refused to put him through that again.

Which meant that vacations were centered around camping, which was great since Skippy loved the water and tossing the Kong into the lake was the highlight of any trip to the great outdoors. The fact that he loved the water but hated to be washed – to the point that the word “shower” made him skulk away and plead with me with his eyes – amused me no end.

When a vet suggested, time and time again, that I get him neutered, I looked at him like he was insane – why would I want to alter the temperament of such a great dog? The notion was absurd. Skippy’s personality was perfect to me. True, he did not get along with strangers, but why would I want him to? He got along with strangers and other dogs when we were in leash free parks, but when he was on the leash or when he was at home, he was on guard duty, protecting his family, alert but happy to be doing his job.

And now he’s gone.

It was just so sudden, so without warning, that it defies my understanding. Yes, he was old, but nobody who saw him thought he was over six. He pranced when we went on walks. He barked playfully with the poodle down the way. He still loved nothing more than to play with my parent’s five year old Cane Corso, Abby. Looking back, I could see a bit of a warning sign in the walks the past week when he would lose his balance as his paw gave out, but I chalked that up to ice. In retrospect, it might have been a mini-stroke or canine vestibular syndrome, but hindsight is a vicious mistress. With no pain or discomfort, there was no reason to suspect anything. The last night, he ate his food for dinner, we played for a bit and then he went to lie down, and an hour later when I went to check on him, he couldn’t get back up.

I can torture myself until I draw my last breath, but there is nothing that I could have done for him that night. There was no feeling in his from legs, and he couldn’t support himself. I could have rushed him to the vets, but what could they have done? Nothing. Make him comfortable during the night before a vet saw him the next day and ran some tests. I think deep down, I knew that this was him time, and that he would want to spend the night with me and not in a vet’s kennel cage. I picked him up, put him to his bed, and then when the lights were out I heard him trying to force his body over to where he could lie down beside my bed.

At that moment, I don’t think I have ever felt such pain in my heart.

I picked him up, laid him down on the carpet beside my bed, and as he looked up at me I cried for the first time in twenty-five years. He wasn’t in any pain or discomfort, but I could tell that he was anxious and confused as to what was happening to him and there was nothing I could do about it. I gave him an aspirin and a treat, just in case, and watched as he fell asleep.

I have been told that I am lucky, in a sense that Skippy didn’t suffer at all. That he exhibited no pain or discomfort when he was taken to the vet and when he was being examined. He just had no pain perception in his front legs – they were cold to the touch and knuckled over when we tried to get him to stand. While the vet discussed hospitalization and further diagnosis with me, the fact that there was no feeling or motor control in his legs made me choose euthanasia, as his quality of life would have gone from 100% to 0%, since he could not even stand to relieve himself, let alone have any mobility. That Skippy didn’t suffer at all might be considered luck, but I would have done anything, paid any cost, don’t whatever it took if it would have allowed up to see another summer together and to play ball again. If only there was a hint of motor response in his legs, but there was none. At that point, with no ability to stand on his own, it was not just a quality of life issue, but one of the inability of necessities – there was no way for Skippy to relieve himself, to eat, to do anything.

I have been lucky with loss over the years – my first dog, Buffy, died when I was young, so I didn’t appreciate the sense of loss. Same with my grandmother – died when I was 16. My Aunt and Uncle, I was never really close to them, so when they passed, it was more a sense of grief for my father (though my uncle’s death did hit me hard but both were sick and in pain for so long, so there was a sense of “its their time” involved). I did have a dog die on me after getting hit by a car, but I only had him for a few years. So this is the first true loss I have had and, to be honest, it has hit me hard.

I look at his picture and an overwhelming sense of grief wells up inside me, a tidal wave that almost threatens to engulf me. I have lost more than just a dog or a faithful companion or a best friend, I have lost a part of me, a part of my heart.

I would have given anything – and I still would give anything – to walk with Skippy one more time along the seawall of Stanley Park in Vancouver.

He was taken so suddenly, with no warning, that there is a form of “phantom pain” that creeps up over me when I look over my shoulder and I can picture him there on the couch or the bed, looking up at me, his eyes filled with nothing but love and loyalty. To look upon his prized toy, a plush football and know that he will never hold it again. His Kong ball, his squeaky mouse – a flood of images fill my mind, images that start with the joy of seeing him again but end with the bitterness and sadness that he is forever consigned to my memory, and that I can never share a moment of affection with him again.

I truly hope and pray that in his last moment I comforted him, that he knew how much he was loved and how much his loss means to me. I hope that he died knowing that his life with me was the best a dog could hope for, that I rewards his loyalty and trust in me by providing him an environment where he truly felt he was loved and cared for.

I will have other dogs in my life, but I can not imagine that any would approach the level of my heart that Skippy managed to occupy with ease. So much self-inflicted heartache and pain, so much trial and error, and through it all Skippy was there. Never judging me, never questioning my missteps, but always there with a smile on his face and a desire to cuddle and give affection.

I am reminded of the Robin Williams movie, “What Dreams May Come”, and the scene where his version of heaven includes his long lost dog being there, tail wagging and ready to play. I am not an overtly religious man, but I would like to think that, god willing, I can see him again and he will be waiting for me, a playful smile on his face, his eyes beaming with joy, a Kong ball at his feet and a hearty and affectionate back to let me know how much he missed me.

I know that I will miss him, and mourn him, the rest of my days.

 

Goodbye old friend,