NATIONAL DOG DAY (IS TOMORROW, 26 AUGUST)

Give a Dog a Bone

Lulu, turning 14, is into her fifth life.

As a pup, she got sick, became dehydrated—and an emergency vet pumped her up with so much water she had a camel-like hump on her back.

“Should I leave her here for observation?” I asked the vet.

“No need,” he replied, “she’ll either make it through the night or she won’t.”

A year or so later Lulu got stung by a bee or a wasp. Sensing something was wrong when I could not find her, I searched high and low until I found her panting beneath a shrub in the corner of the yard where, fiercely independent, she had crawled off to die.

I rushed her to the vet for a megadose of Benadryl (turns out she is allergic to bee stings) and, thereafter, good as gold.

A few years later, another sting, same drill, saved again.

And then the big one: The Montecito mudslide of January 2018.

It struck around 4:15 in the morning and, before I could fully snap out of slumber, I was waist deep in mud.

Reilly, Lulu’s bigger brother, heard it coming and scampered upstairs to relative safety.

But Lulu must have assessed the situation and, somewhat smaller, did not like the odds. She didn’t follow Reilly.

My column in the Santa Barbara News-Press, July 2021, detailed what happened next:

One dog, having instinctively made a beeline up the stairs mottled in mud, was accounted for; one dog was not. Armed with a flashlight, which quickly muddied and died, I waded through cold, slimy debris-filled mud into the den and living room looking for Lulu.  I thought I could hear her whimpering.  When the whimpers went silent I returned to the mud-filled foyer to try to open the front door, a presumed escape.

Of course, the heavy door would not budge as the rising, thickening mud pressured it to remain shut. And good thing, because in my muddled thinking (and having no idea what was out there), trying to leave the house would have been the dumbest move of all—and quite likely fatal.  Because had I managed to open the door, the resulting high-pressure flow of mud would have taken me to join a 15-foot river of debris and carry me a quarter mile to Interstate 101, by then transformed into a lake—or further beyond, to the ocean. (A friend of mine, I later learned, suffered this horrifying fate—along with many others—for doing just that, identified only by her fingerprints.)

Instead, I returned downstairs in darkness in an effort to find Lulu.

After a short rest upstairs, I returned a third time, climbing over furniture, holding onto hope I would find her, in the process not realizing that my legs were being shredded by sharp debris; parts of trees or broken glass or both.  At one point I lost my footing, slipped and became almost entirely submerged, just barely able to keep my head from going under.  Had that happened, I would not be telling this tale.

My grandson, all of five years old, was smarter than I; every time I descended for another look he tearfully cried out, “Don’t go down there!”  

But I just had to try to find my dear little dog.

Ultimately, I had no choice but to call off my search and return upstairs, full of sorrow, believing that Lulu had been buried alive in her doggie bed beneath three feet of mud, maybe never knew what hit her.  

Coated in the gooey stuff from head to toe, I got into the dark shower and turned a faucet. No water. No power. Nothing.

A rescue crew on foot arrived a couple hours later just before dawn and called up to us.  Ascertaining we were not in need of immediate medical assistance they trudged off to tend to life threatening emergencies on our lane, promising to return.   Cries for help could be heard, followed by the sound of jackhammers and chainsaws as rescuers (including a scuba diver) went to work freeing those trapped beneath trees and walls and caved-in roofs.

As dawn broke, the rescuers returned, ready to evacuate all of us. They entered from two parts of the house, axing their way in.   

One of them hollered, "You have a little dog?"

"Yes," I hollered back.  “He’s here upstairs."

"No, down here."

I could hardly believe my ears.  “A little tan dog?”

“Got it in my arms.”

I had been grieving the loss of Lulu, certain she was gone forever.  After assessing the odds of making through the mud, she somehow scampered onto one of the chairs or sofas wedged up against the walls.  

And, somehow, finding her made everything all right.

And then there was Reilly, now up in doggie heaven.

I wrote about Reilly in my Santa Barbara News-Press column, April 2022.

It is never easy to put your dog down. Whatever the illness, whatever age, your canine companion is the soul who loves and trusts you more than any other in the world, unconditionally.

Don’t believe me?

Lock your spouse (or some other human being) and your dog in a closet overnight. When you let them out next morning, guess who’s happy to see you?

Reilly (Ace of Spies) was supposed to be a chihuahua—or at least that’s what the pet store (long gone) in Malibu Mart billed him to be. 

I told my daughter, then 12, as we drove from Montecito to Malibu almost 16 years ago, we would return home with a canine only if it truly seemed the right fit, don’t be disappointed if that doesn’t happen.

However, it was clear the moment we walked through the door that Reilly was not only our dog, but had actually been awaiting our arrival, his head swinging back and forth as we entered, his facial features brightening as if to say, “What took you?”

He was born (according to his papers) a couple months earlier in Oklahoma, presumably trucked to California, which might explain his lifelong nervousness about road trips.

Reilly was tiny, like a chihuahua, though his markings suggested he might be part raccoon, part weasel, maybe part bat.

As he grew out of puppyhood, he also grew larger. In fact, it took me over ten years to figure out his true breed, mostly because I’d never known of its existence: Miniature Siberian Husky.

He possessed astonishing eyes, awed by all who crossed paths with him.  And, while dogs won’t usually look you in the eye, Reilly could hold a steady eye gaze. In fact, I learned from him the art of the eyeball lock, along with living fully in the moment, as dogs naturally do.

“ACE OF SPIES”

Wily Reilly was named after the so called “Ace of Spies,” Sidney Rosenblum, whose motto was “Trust No One” and who was executed by the Bolsheviks after getting tricked into trusting a bogus anti-Soviet organization called, of all things, “The Trust.”

(I was in the midst of wrapping up a five-year stint as spymaster to Prince Albert II of Monaco, so the world of espionage was very much part of my psyche.)

Although a very gentle soul, who greeted any newcomer with a tail wag and an actual smile, Reilly could be vicious if he felt threatened and, in his doggy mind, those who threatened him were veterinarians. He bit at least one, others refused to take him as a patient—and about ten years ago I stopped taking him for checkups altogether on the basis that he would henceforth live his life out his way, without vets and if he developed some illness or other, well, we’d allow him his Christian Scientist beliefs. No more vaccines, teeth cleanings, nothing.

In fact, despite the absence of regular medical care, Reilly surpassed the expected 14-15 year-range associated with his breed.

But, sure enough, as he eclipsed that higher mark, Reilly began to fail. For a start, he would no longer (or could no longer) jump up on a chair or couch. Probably arthritic legs. And then, about six months ago, his back legs began to shake, a palsy of some kind. Reilly seemed bewildered, not understanding old age, but also bordering on canine cognitive decline, a genuine syndrome akin to dementia.  Pretty soon his legs would simply collapse beneath him and he’d struggle to remain his composure, seemingly embarrassed if we were watching, trying his best to maintain. Meantime, he could no longer hear much of anything beyond a shout.

Clearly, Reilly was in discomfort and dying. But now, bereft of his presence, the above only seems like a host of excuses for me to do what I would have preferred not to do.

I honestly did not think Reilly would make it through last Christmas, though he did.

My big hope was that I would not have to put him down; that one morning I would enter the room where he slept and find that he had peacefully transcended into permanent slumber.

But the days and weeks went on and, soon, Reilly could no longer go outside for a walk.  He wanted to.  He tried. But—so un-Reilly—just a few steps out the door, he would turn around and shuffle back inside.

I consulted a local vet who told me about a mobile unit that comes to your home to euthanize. It seemed the right way to go because had I taken him to the vet’s, he would likely go nuts. Literally. His last time at the vet’s, years earlier, his eyeballs practically popped from their sockets as he burst blood vessels in his eyes.

THE END NEARS

The vet recommended a medication called Gabapentin as a sedative, to be provided before the mobile unit’s arrival.

For his last supper, a family member went to Vons and bought a filet mignon steak, which he cooked rare and fed to Reilly, who enjoyed every bite—then two hours later upchucked the whole meal, completely undigested.

We wanted to take Reilly to Butterfly Beach, which he loved and was once the fastest dog on that beach, outrunning everything on legs (to hell with their leash ordinance).

But just being picked up for placement in the car had become too painful for Reilly and it seemed to me if we put him through such an ordeal it would be to make us feel better, not Reilly.

So instead, we lavished him with love and affection and treats and the hours passed slowly until the mobile unit pulled up outside.

With Covid still a concern (to some), we set Reilly’s bed outside on a patio in the open air.

Reilly, wily to the end, sensed something was up (the Gabapentin had hardly any effect on him), a fact confirmed by the arrival of a pair of women suited in protective clothing, armed with a bag of un-speakables.

First step is an opioid injection to tranquilize.

For this a muzzle was needed because Reilly became agitated.

I’m convinced he knew what was going on; what was going to happen. His survival instinct was so strong there was no way he would give up the ghost without a tussle, God bless him.

After my first attempt at trying to slip the muzzle around his snout, he let out an almost human howl, which to my ears sounded like, “Aww, please don’t do this.”

It broke my heart.  It is broken still. Thinking about it now, putting this experience into perspective, into the written word, my eyes fill with tears.

The first injection did its work. Reilly was now resigned to his fate and, in any case, paralyzed to do anything more about it, his tongue hanging limply from his mouth.

Five minutes later, another shot of opioid. He seemed already gone when that took hold, his eyes placid, perhaps unable to move. 

And then the lethal serum, injected into a shaved part of his lower leg.

A poignant moment ensued as Lulu, our genuine chihuahua, drew up nose-to-nose to sniff her brother, a final farewell.

As the poison coursed through his system, Reilly took his last few breaths.

And then he was gone. 

And with him, a piece of my heart that can never be replaced.

And let’s not forget my daughter’s little doggie, Bella (sadly, also now in heaven).

A short while after Claire gave birth to her son Rylan, Bella wrote a card to her:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BEST FRIEND

I love my best friend unconditionally.

I always have.

I always will.

From the time I first understood that my best friend wanted me, I was smitten.

My best friend fed me, walked me, consoled me, patched me up if I got hurt, and cuddled me at night.

My best friend pampered me, and took me everywhere, every day.

And I was always there for my best friend, licking her wounded feelings whenever she needed me.

I used all the power I could muster to help make my best friend feel healthy and loved, to ease whatever pain my best friend felt from whatever life’s lessons inflicted.

I never, ever wanted anything in return from my best friend except to be loved and to be my best friend’s constant companion forever.

One day my best friend got married.

I quickly learned to respect, and even love, my best friend’s husband.

Instead of two, we were three, and my best friend still pampered me and took me everywhere.  And still cuddled me at night.

One day, I could sense that my best friend had a living being inside her.

I became more protective than ever.  It was our being inside of my best friend.

I watched my best friend stretch larger as the living being inside her grew.

My best friend stretched larger and larger and larger—until one day she disappeared from my life for several days.  I instinctively knew I would soon meet our baby.

I was so excited the day my best friend came home, and so excited to see our new baby.

Our baby needed constant care from my best friend, and I watched with interest as she fed our baby, changed our baby, bathed our baby, dressed our baby and soon paraded our baby for all to see—just like she once did with me.

I did not care that my best friend no longer had time to pamper me and take me everywhere.

Or that she put the spotlight on our baby instead of me, as she once did.

But soon I felt that my presence distracted her from her new best friend, our baby.

But I understood her motherly feelings, and I never stopped loving her, because my love is unconditional.

Soon after, my best friend began dropping me off with family members.

It started as a few hours but, after a while, turned into a whole day away.

I know my best friend has a baby to care for, and I know that her baby is more important than me.

But I love her, unconditionally.

And I miss her.