Just after 9/11 my dog Scottie was born. In those days I lived in Arizona with Jim, my husband. He was a rambunctious dog, and when he was around six months old I set about to take him to obedience training classes. He had a grand time and the trainer puzzled over and over when I said that he had behavioral problems. He loved to go out every day in a vacant lot with me and train. And he did a fine job as a scholar, impressing everyone with how wonderfully he heeled, sat, and obeyed my every command. He truly was an excellent animal. There was a little girl there with her mother who saw how cute and excitable he was, and kept taunting him with a squeaky toy. Maybe I should have welcomed the opportunity to train him with distractions. But, I implored her to quit bugging the dog and go play on the other side of the yard. That didn't go well. The next time we went to class, the little girl was gone, and I heard she wouldn't be back. My dog had bitten her it seems. I waited to hear from their lawyer, but thankfully never did. Everyone looked at me like I had bitten her.
We put up a fence around the backyard, and a wrought iron gate for the courtyard in front. But before long I happened to see him bobbing around the countryside, leaping and frolicking outside the fence. I tried to chase him and brought a leash with me. He would sit and wait for me to get close, then dash away. OK. I put my arms in the air and waved them around in big circles, and rushed him, shouting, "Argggh!!" His excellency froze and I captured him and put him in the house.
We moved to Oklahoma, near my mother, and he was soon the little darling of the neighborhood. He was usually not affectionate with me, but with visitors he completely lost snobbiness, and won everyone's heart. He liked to go visiting all by himself. The neighbors had a barbecue. Scottie made an appearance and had a grand time.
One day I got a call that my dog was in someone's house about a half mile away. Come get him. I was surprised, not even realizing he had escaped. I went to get him, and she let Jim and me into the house to collect him. No, no, no. He was all excited with the neighbor's house and was tearing around from room to room, evading recapture. She complained that he had walked in the back door and eaten the cat food. She too looked at me like I did it.
He would usually want to go out in the middle of the night if I happened to get up, and then refuse to come back in. Yet, he would have been upset to be left out the rest of the night. He raced around and barked his head off, I guess at skunks. He was skunked once, and had to spend the rest of the night in the garage and then go to the vet for a de skunking.
He was so rambunctious that he often bit me when I played with him, and my poor arms were covered with bruises. I didn't give it much thought. It was winter and I wore long sleeves, so the injuries didn't show. Then one day we went to a clinic and I was given routine blood tests. When I rolled up my sleeves and they saw my arms, they were convinced I was the victim of domestic abuse, and set about to arrest Jim, even though I insisted there was no domestic abuse. This blew over.
As the days turned into years, Scottie settled down. Especially after his procedure. Then one day I noticed that he didn't want to get out of the car after we came home from somewhere. Apparently he had developed a hernia that hurt when he jumped out. The hernia was repaired, but he never particularly wanted to go on car trips anymore.
I left him with my mother during a long trip. She said he enjoyed bossing the cats, but monitored the door to see if I had come back.
To his joy, I returned. He had begun to forget his indoor manners, and finally had to be locked up in the kitchen to prevent havoc. My mother suggested euthanasia. Why? So he stays in the kitchen and does nothing but eat and sleep like a big rug.
He began to live for breakfast and treats. Every night was hot dog night. I had done the math and figured out that a package of hot dogs could be had for a dollar, but dog treats cost a fortune. I dared not neglect the hot dog at night.
He wouldn't eat his hot dog on Monday. ??? I put it in his dish in case he changed his mind. Tuesday he wouldn't eat period. I realized in the afternoon that he was ill, and Wednesday he was taken to the vet. I had to carry him in. The vet did some tests and thought it was his kidneys due to an infection. He recommended leaving him overnight on IV fluids.
I prepared to pick him up this morning, and went to the vet's. They said Scottie was in the examination room and go on in. Oh, he was happy and relieved to see me. The vet told me he had taken a turn for the worse and if he lived, it wouldn't be for very long. I couldn't respond. No words would come out of my mouth. He told me the excellent animal's time had come, and I finally agreed to put him down. He was seventeen. Almost.
Goodbye excellent animal.
