On Saturday, August 5, at 1:14 pm, Otis Fuentes Carroll took his last breath.  I was with him, and in fact, caused his death.

Our story begins about a year ago. Otis had nipped at Sophia, causing a cut on her face. It was over food (the same thing he threatened everyone else over); she'd strayed too close to his dish apparently. She had just begun walking and Liz and I were worried about being able to keep the two separate. It seemed like ol' Otis' number was up.

But then a funny thing happened. Sophia moved from mama's breasts to a high chair, and the Fur discovered that by placing himself at just the right position he could reap a windfall of spilled bits of food. Better yet, Sophia herself soon figured out this game and had to be restrained from tossing her entire dinner down to him. Oh, and she would make a break for my office whenever I left the gate open and head right for the dog biscuits. Though we still made sure to isolate him during feedings,  we seemed to have attained a pretty peacable kingdom. Sophia could lounge around on Otis, pull the occasional tail, and even pinch the occasional toe without ill consequences.  He'd definitely taken more of a liking to her when she figured out who he was and that she could animate him with mere food scraps.

So, we went along for the ride, Ot and SGC getting along famously. Cut to last week: we were in DC visitting my Dad. Cleaning the dishes after dinner, Otis, Kerry (my pop's pup), people, food scraps -- activity galore going on . I happened to look over and notice Sophia putting her face right next to Otis', cheek to cheek, kind  of a kiss.  Just as I was making a move to stop it he snapped at her. I was there in less than a second, and realized he'd punctured the skin, but missed her eye by a hair's breadth.  As the blood began to flow Liz and my Dad took one look at her by now blood covered face and freaked. Into the car, down to the hospital, which is luckily two minutes away.  Upshot of the story is: she's fine, two little booboos healing well and none the worse for the wear.

Otis, unfortunately, didn't fare so well. Two strikes and you're out in this game. Three seconds after he nipped her he was repentant;  Sophia was unfazed (and amused by all the fuss at the ER), but it was clear we couldn't keep him. Liz and I stayed up all night thanking our lucky stars Sophia (and her eye) were OK, and crying about the fate of the beloved soon to be ex pooch.

I pondered giving him away, but his health, his behavioral issues (shall we say) and his attachment to me made me rule it out. Thus we were left with an ugly decision, but one I didn't feel we could avert. His health seemed perhaps to be failing, but he'd fooled us on that before. He'd lost some weight lately, had a big weird lump the size of a golfball under one arm, had suffered from muscle atrophy  over his skull for seven years, had increasing nerve damage and dysfunction of his back half, oh, and he'd been on serious phenobarb to control seizures for some three and a half years now. And yet, and yet. He still had vim, vigor, and bonhomie.  There was the person on a recent shoot who sheepishly asked, "Excuse me, but is your dog alive?" Still, there was no doubt he loved life. No doubt we loved him. And yet. I was still having trouble coming to a decision when I talked to Patty. She was there when I got The Fur and had known him forever. She'd been there for the seizure episode, and just about everything else.  The first time Otis snapped at Sophia, Patty had been one of his biggest advocates. This time she listened to what had happened in DC and said,

"He's a crazy old cancer ridden dog who's lost his mind and can't be trusted around children" It was then I knew, really knew, and it killed me. I was really going to have to put my pal, my buddy, my best friend, to "sleep".

Once the decision was made, it was only a question of how and when.  I considered doing it myself (I did have a large supply of phenobarbitol at hand), but Liz conviced me that it would be seriously ugly if it went wrong. I saw the light of her reasoning but wanted to do it somewhere comfortable, not in a vet's office. Chatting with some neighbors upstate they recomended a vet up in Claryville who had done the same "service" for them several times before.  I couldn't stand to even talk about it so I had Liz call and make an appointment.

I took a few days and took Otis on a sort of farewell tour. The two of us went camping and fishing in New Hampshire. We had a grand old time, except Furry must have wondered why I kept dishing up treats ("Gimme a coke and a cheeseburger. No, make that TWO cheeseburgers...") and looking at him and bursting into tears.  He got a little annoyed about me draping myself over him and sniffing his fur too, but hey, what's a little growling between friends? It was wonderful being able to prepare for his departure from this mortal coil but I found I had to stop myself from naming every "last night in the tent", "last time fishing", etc etc ad nauseum.

We returned to Claryville, picking Liz, Sophia and Patty up on the way. I picked out a nice spot under the "ufo landing pad" (a beautiful conic grove of trees which is the central feature of the view from the porch) and began to dig. No wonder all the damn farmers in the Catskills went bust: there were more rocks and roots and stuff to dig through than you could shake a stick at! I'd never dug a grave before; it's kind of weird, especially when the intended occupant is sitting there in the sun watching you do it.  I ran into Joe Weise who jovially said "Hey, how you doing? What're you doing to work up such a sweat on such a fine day?"  The answer was a real conversation stopper.  Joe gave his condolences and I went back to digging.  I finally had gotten the hole deep enough (didn't want critters digging up his remains) and put down my shovel.

We had a relatively normal time Friday evening:cooking dinner, fishing, taking walks, all the usual activities.  Everyone was pretty freaked, but trying to have a little fun, spend some time with The Fur. I awoke Saturday morning to a gorgeous crisp clear Claryville summer morn. I got up with a cup of joe and strolled around the grounds accompanied for the last time by my bud, wondered if there were any possible way I wouldn't have to do the deed. It was really the only way to go. He could probably have held out another year in generally declining health.   I just didn't see how I could put our child's health and welfare at risk for any dog, no matter how much I loved him.

We all took last walks with Otis, watched him play on the lawn, helped SGC try and throw a stick far enough for him to fetch.  Each hour passed until it was time. We'd agreed I would go alone, so me and Chewie jumped in the car one last time.  He hopped right in, good-to-go as always. We got to the vet and they were running a little behind, so we waited outside to enjoy the sunshine. No less than three people passing by said "Wow, gorgeous dog!" or something to that effect. Hey, thanks for making my job even easier. And such a beautiful day for such an odious task.

So, here it is: into the vet, a really nice guy who was incredibly understanding and professional for the situation. Up onto the table. I explained about how hard it is to find his veins in the front paws, so they shaved a little patch on one of the back ones. They asked if I was ready, I gave the signal and he started to give the injection. Of course, he couldn't  find a vein, and of course, Furry growled, defiant to the end. I laughed through my tears, hugged him tighter and stroked his face telling him what a good dog he is. The doctor tried again and this time got it in. The shot is a big pink one. I watched it go in, and within ten seconds Otis' breathing quieted, then stopped.  So gentle, no pain or struggle, easy really. There and then Not There. I gently set down his head, pulled off his collar, and helped the doctor wrap him in a blanket. We carried him to the car together and laid him in the back.  I thanked the Doctor for his help, paid the receptionist the $35 (which is I think what I had to pay the pound to get him in the first place...), got in the car and cried out loud. The Thing Was Done.

I drove back to Clary, drove out onto the lawn, backed the car over to the grave and placed him atop his bed, arranging his head on his paws like he liked to sleep. Faced him north and towards the house so he can look at us. Just after shoveling on the last shovelfull of dirt I realized the real way to bury him would have been facing out: the biggest honor bestowed on a human was for Otis to sit facing away from you, protecting. I should have let him protect us for all time but I guess it'll be pretty nice to be able to look out from the porch and feel him looking back, too.

It's still fairly inconceivable realizing he's not actually here. I've been with him pretty much 24/7 for nearly ten years and I still feel on the floor for him when I get up to pee at night, or reach to hand him the end of my sandwich, or  do any one of the million other things we did together.  Ironically, one of those who will miss him the most is Sophia. She associates Otis with Dada, and when you say "Dada" she'll answer with "Awtis". We told her he's going to visit his Mama and Dada and she seemed satisfied with that. She does wonder why Mom and Dad start to cry when she mentions him, but I assume  she'll gradually forget him. I certainly never will.

I still find myself unable to discuss any aspect of this verbally without breaking into uncontrollable weeping. (No phone calls please!)I definitely know Otis felt loved, right up to the end. I'd rescued him from certain and imminent death ten years ago.  A friend of ours upstate once said he had "fallen into a tub of butter" when he hooked up with me, and I guess that's just about right. He'd been about the best companion one could ask for, accompanying me through dreadlocks, fishing, camping, courting, marriage, fatherhood, loyal and true up to the end. He'd always had a wild side and I'd always loved that about him. Chasing Jaime's cats on Cape Cod, peeing on Josh's law books, preventing Liz from returning to bed in the middle of the night,  breaking my Mom's ankle, hell, breaking a total stranger's wrist (but that one wasn't really his fault).  But it was his wild side that finally did him in. It just breaks my heart a hundred times a day, but I feel I did the right thing at the right time. 

Otis showed  me new ways to live in the moment, enjoy walking in the worst weather, catch naps whenever possible and all the other things dogs help you notice. He taught Sophia to love animals in general and dogs in particular. Despite his occasional lapses (for which he paid dearly) she loved him intensely. My mom commented recently on how Sophia would strut around like the little mistress shouting "Aw-das" and trying to wrangle him with a stick. I guess it's good she's only two so we won't have to do too much explaining to her about his absence. And Liz remembers a time late in her pregnancy (with Sophia) when she was feeling particularly despondant. She was out by the river (in Clary) sobbing and Otis came jingling along, sniffing and tracking in that zig zaggy way of his that looked impressive but usually yielded nothing. The Fur shambled up to Liz and put his snout right in her lap, "providing comfort no human could have."

Liz found a book called Old Dogs Remembered which I'd ordered from Amazon on a whim several months ago. Two quotations from John Burroughs caught my eye:

My dog is interested in everything I do. Then he represents the spirit of holiday, of fun, in a journey of a mile, he has many adventures. Every journey is an excursion, a sally into an unknown land, teeming with curiosities. A dog lives only ten years, but think how much he crowds into that space, how much energy and vitality he lives up.

One's pleasure with a dog is unmixed. There are no setbacks. They make no demands upon you, as does a child; no care, no interruption, no intrusion. If you are busy, or want to sleep, or read, or be with your friends, they are as if they were not. When you want them, there they are at your elbow and ready for any enterprise. And the measure of your love they always return heaped up. Ah well! I cannot but mourn my daily companion and comrade is gone. The door that opens and shuts but once to dogs as well as to men, has closed behind him, and I shall see him no more, no more.

Well said, Mr. Burroughs, as true now as when you wrote it a hundred years ago.  So anyway, we're sure going to miss the big smelly fella around these parts and figured you might too. I wanted to let you know what transpired, and why. Lastly, another thing I found in that old dogs book is a short piece about where to bury your dog: "The one place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master. "  And that is where I intend to keep Otis.  Carry on.

all material ©copyright chris carroll 2012