All Dogs go to Heaven

No child wants to hear it. No adult wants to tell it. No one wants to experience it.

"He's going on vacation for a while..." Or "we're taking him away to a better home..." Maybe it's "he's going to play with Uncle Will's dogs..." Or "she'll be back in a few weeks...." When you're older... "we're putting her to sleep."

For me... "we put Bonnie down."

She's sick. Too much pain. Can't walk. Can't talk. Can't play. Can't live.
That's how I heard it last week.

My older brother Michael called to tell me. I was alone heading home from work, on the Metro-North train, passing by the Wakefield stop. Older lady with iPod white earphones in, sitting two seats to my right, staring out the window.

If you're like me, you remember these times. The time they put down Chief. The time Lizzie died. The time your black lab couldn't go any further. They're deep in your memory. Vivid. Telling.
When I was around 6 years old, I first heard. And now remember.
My older brother Michael and I were lounging around on the couch in our house on Iroquois Street. I was probably sipping some lemonade. My brother, Coke. Always Coke. He was wearing that royal blue Sigma Chi fraternity shirt. Ole Miss. One of those soft ones you never want to lose or retire. Was my older cousin's. Now Michael's. Boy, did I want it to be mine.
Dad comes in the room and tells us to get up and come outside to the garage. We follow him. Slowly. Like kids who just two hours ago threw mud pies at passing cars.
This time we weren't in trouble. Someone else was.
He has Chief, our 60 pound English bulldog, reclining in the back seat of his '87 Mercedes Benz - one of those old Diesel ones.
Once we're out there near the car and see our 13 year-old bulldog breathing heavily in the car, dad tells us that "Chief's going away for awhile."
"When's he coming back?"
"I'm not too sure," he mumbles as he assuredly lights up his menthol light.
"Well, ok, goodbye Chief. See you next week."
Never did see him the next week. Or the next. Or the one after that.

That's when I knew. And that's when I saw it, but didn't even know I could see it.

Last Thursday was the first time in my life I actually saw it. Now I know it. Know it more than I'd like to.
I arrived home late Thursday night/early Friday morning to let Bonnie and Brandy my golden retriever out for a kennel break. Bonnie stayed back. Hmmm... that tired? Maybe. So I went up to talk to her and stroke her black coat to coax her outside in the 95 degree night heat. Because that's what we did sometimes - coax them outside in the heat and rain. And there it was. I could see it. I stared at it. It stared right back. Right then I knew. Bonnie knew. And she knew I knew. There was nothing that would stop it.

It's a funny thing that something like that can make you weep so heavily. Human death is no comparison in magnitude or effect. Similar in disconnect and ultimacy. Yes. But different in effect. We weep for our sleeping pets. We weep for the loss of our "best friend." A best friend who's never wronged you, spoken spitefully about you, never left you and most of all, never stopped loving you. We're human to weep for this. We're normal to crave this love. So much so that we even "replace" our best friend with another. You see, plenty of people "replace" their pet. But not this time. No one replaces Bonnie.

She had the thirteen year history of a great dame. Presumably named after her owner Michael's high school crush. Skilled in stealth tactics. Trained in ball hunting. Armed with a nose as big as C.D. Bales. She bumrushed (and sometimes outsmarted) Tempe from Day 1. No one outsmarts Tempe. She ate the kitchen. Not just the food or the chair legs or the rubbermaids, but the whole damn kitchen. She had the long jump skills of a doping Carl Lewis. Tennis balls were her perma-toys.
Some of you loved her because she was smart. Athletic. Calm. Yet energetic. She had emotion. She was affectionate. She loved.
Some of you may have loathed her. She ate your Krystal burgers. She buried her nose in your lap until you petted her 30 straight minutes. She crapped in the driveway. She dropped the withered tennis ball at your feet 64 times in a row. You had to feed her the pills.

Like or dislike, Bonnie was unique. Bonnie loved. She thought. She felt. She faced it fearlessly.
But I ask, is "it" really death? Do dogs die? No one likes to think so. I don't. I think it's peace. Happiness. Bacon bits. Cleanliness. A never-ending bowl of dog biscuits. Puppy breath. Eternity with Chief and Lizzie and probably your dog. Water. Dirt. Tennis Balls. Dogs. It's more days to come with her sister, Brandy. Heaven. Because that's where they go, right? Heaven.

KT