I have never been good with good-byes. When I was a kid, I would leave from a weekend at my grandparents with gasping sobs, working myself into such a state that I would often end gagging over a bucket in the backseat of our car. But by the time the county road 86 intersected state highway 60, I had succumbed to the exhaustion of crying and sat gazing through the windows as we traveled home. When I left for six weeks in Japan when I was 17, I cried from Minneapolis to Seattle and from Seattle to Tokyo. My traveling companion slept, or pretended to sleep the whole way. Good defense, really.
We said goodbye to our dog Scout yesterday and I have been crying since Saturday. We got Scout in 1998 — adopting her from one of my dad's students who lived on Como Avenue. She was part of a litter of about five of six pups. We met her when she was only a month old and brought her home when she was weened from her mama. When we went to pick a pup, there were two left. I remember that she was running in a make-shift pen and came up to us right away. I held her on my lap in the car as we went home, her crying all the way. Her name was originally Maxine, but Brian and I landed on Scout on the way to get her. She was named for Jean Louise "Scout" Finch, the dungaree-clad protagonist from To Kill a Mockingbird. Brian and I took her everywhere in those days. We both grew up with dogs who stayed in the kitchen, but Scout was happiest when she could be near us. So, we let her.
Her life was happiest when she was playing ball, which I'm sure she's doing now. Newell Park was her favorite place in all the world. In fact, when Eddie was little and I would take them both to the park, we had to spell it so that Scout wouldn't be barking at the door before we were ready. She wasn't like most dogs who would sit by your side and wait for you to throw the ball: she played her position and waited, mouth open and smiling for the ball to be hit and she would play it masterfully. She was our shortstop.
She was a smart pup — Springers usually are — and quickly learned whatever trick Brian would teach her. My favorite of hers was, ironically, "hurt paw" — in which she'd raise her leg as if it were injured wouldn't hold weight. Hurt paws and joints were what ended her career and eventually brought about a sedentary, sadder Scout than the one she was. She injured her leg in a fall down by the river and although we rested her to give it time to heal, we couldn't convince her to take it easy and slow down. She modified her play so that she put more weight on the other leg; then, when both back legs go sore, used her front legs more. Of course, they got tired, too— so much so that in the end, she wouldn't follow us upstairs because the stairs hurt so much. I know, however, that she had no regrets: she would rather have played hard and ended early rather than never playing at all.
She was our dog before the boys came. And she loved them, too. Their arrival meant that someone was home most of the time; it meant late morning walks and lunchtime handouts from highchairs. When Eddie would nap as a baby, I could tell when he had finally fallen asleep because only then would Scout leave his room and come downstairs to me. When he would wake up, she found find me and give me a look as if to say, "Isn't there something you are supposed to be doing?"
Her last moments were surrounded by the people who loved her most. We stroked her head and rubbed her ears. She wasn't anxious or nervous. She just gave a little head shake then put her head down and breathed her last. I know why they call it "putting to sleep" becuase that's what she seemed to do. It was awful to make the decision, but it certainly was the most humane way to do it. I know that Scout was ready to be free of her pain and her cysts and her failing ears and eyes — of the lumps that were ever increasing and the functions that were more and more difficult. The only thing that never failed her was heart — beating strong and without difficulty until it finally stopped. And although her death makes me sad and the role I decided to play in it makes me sick, I know that Scout was grateful for the it. She didn't like to be sick anymore than we liked to see her sick. And now she's not anymore. Her last movement — a reflex in death, I know — was a slight wag of her tail, something she hasn't really done in a while. I want to think that it was her way of thanking us for helping her out of her body and letting us know that she is happy again.
I believe that life never ends — and I have to believe that that is true for animals, too. It gives me a lot of peace to think of Scout in heaven — playing with her friend Cutter. I know that Tom was happy to see the pup he met before he was even sick and has been running with her since she arrived last night. of People always say "rest in peace," but I don't wish that for our Scouter. I hope she run and plays and swims and snags line drives without stop, pausing only to dunk her head in a bucket and seem to eat it rather than drink it. I'm sure no one will mind the mess...
There are worse things in life than to lose a dog. This is know for sure. And I feel a little silly getting so sad over Scout's death when one of my friends is watching her 40-year old sister and mother of 3 quickly lose her life to ovarian cancer. But a goodbye is a goodbye nonetheless — and I stink at them. I know that I will feel better each day and that the memories of Scout will soon produce more smiles than tears. But for today, I'm sad. And that's just how it is. She was a good pup — and truly, there's nothing else like it.
