He sounded matter-of-fact, even positive, and his phrase "the rest of his life" had a hopeful ring to it. Confused, I said I was being told that it might be time to put Merle down.
"Euthanasia is forever," he answered, sounding quietly passionate rather than judgmental. "Merle is still recovering from his post-seizure phase. I'm a very patient man, and I'm a neurologist who sees lots of sick dogs." He paused and said it again, "Death is forever. Let's give the prednisone a try for fourteen days. Is his quality of life good now? No. But you look at dogs with neurological disorders, and they look horrible, but then they do better. I've had dogs in Merle's condition go on for a year or more. It won't hurt to give steroids a chance."
He strengthened by the day. Paul had said there would be bumps in the road, and there were. Initially, Merle couldn't make it through the dog door in time. Several times a day I was down on my knees, cleaning up the mess. When he regained his balance, he began to do loops around the house, his head and gait straightening as he walked slowly and purposefully along the edge of the lawn like someone at a sanatorium doing laps to restore his health.
He took his meds and supplements in ground raw elk—it was what he wanted more than anything else—and it made the potassium bromide, a vile, salty brew, palatable. Soon, he was well enough to sit on his haunches in the front seat of the truck as we went to the landfill, an idiotically happy smile on his face as he looked out the open window.
I kept the dog door closed at night, and ten days after his first seizure, at just about the same time—two in the morning—my eyes flew open as he panted in my face: "Could you please open the door?"
Groggily, I said, "How did you get up here?"
"Ha!" he exclaimed. "I climbed the stairs."
And to prove it, he walked back down them—slowly and carefully—and waited for me to open the door. Jumping off the deck, he relieved himself.
That morning it snowed an inch, and he went outside again, walking through the aspen and sage while watching the snowflakes fall around him. Lifting his head to meet their descent, he let a soft smile play on his mouth. He seemed touched by the sudden reappearance of winter, and when he came in, he wagged his tail at me, just its tip, for the rest seemed paralyzed: "Ah, snow."
I thought about it long and hard that day, and that evening left his dog door open. The night had always been his province, part of his identity and doghood, and having access to it would bolster him, I felt, as much as eating elk.
From upstairs I heard him go out. When he didn't return in ten minutes, I dressed, took a headlamp, and began to search for him, clapping and whistling. After a pass around the edge of our land, I found him near the clump of aspens that he had claimed as his own—I had been searching too far out. He was sound asleep, lying curled with his nose under his tail, and breathing softly. The snow, still falling, had covered him with a white blanket.
Gently, I touched his shoulder, but he was hard to wake. Finally, he stood, unsure, it seemed, of where he was.
"I don't think it's a good idea to sleep outside right now," I told him, "nice as it feels. The drugs you're taking make you sleep too deeply, and you don't know if some coyotes or a mountain lion might come walking by."
Back in the house, he shivered as I toweled him off in front of the fire. I gave him some of his favorite penny-size liver treats, and after chewing them he lay before the woodstove. I sealed the dog door.
When I went downstairs in the morning, I found a pile of poop directly in front of it. He was lying on his bed, and when I turned to him, he didn't look despondent, as he had on the many occasions during the past days when he had soiled his bed or the floor.
"Ha!" he panted. "I tried."
When it stopped snowing, I reopened his door, and he came and went on his own, staying close to the house. One evening, a lively bluegrass tune began to play on the radio just as he came through the door. I coasted away from the kitchen counter and two-stepped across the great room toward him. With a wide grin on his face, he gimped toward me and began to pick his paws up and down rapidly.
"You dance, Sir!" I cried.
"Ha-ha-ha," he exulted back. "Yes, I still dance."
Three days later, as I was coming downstairs at six-thirty in the morning, I heard him go out his door. I walked into the mudroom to see what he was doing and found him squatting on the grass and peeing. Like many male dogs, he had been unable to lift his leg in his old age because of his arthritis.
Done, he walked with some purpose toward the spruce trees, but on his way a smell pulled his nose down. He snuffled the grass and prodded it with his paw—the right one, as always. The sun had just risen, its beams lancing through the conifers and striking Merle's head and right shoulder with golden light, the rest of him in greenish shadow. I stood, transfixed. He was two weeks from his fourteenth birthday, eighty-nine years old in our terms, and his coat was as finely burnished as when I had met him, his muscles still ropy under his fur. Had I been able to, I would have halted the sun in its rising, its beams gilding both of us where we stood: he setting off, I watching him.
He continued to read the text of the grass—nostrils dilating, eyes half closed in reflection; then, lifting his head, he ambled through the trees and down the trail he had cut into the earth through nearly a decade of use. Hobbling slightly, he made his way across the road to Gladys's house, where his old friend Josie, the chocolate Lab, was visiting.
About an hour later, as I wrote, he returned—slap, slap. He drank at his bowl, came to my desk, and put his chin on my thigh. I scratched it, and he rubbed it hard against my fingers—he was unable to lift his rear leg and do it himself.
"A good morning out there?" I asked.
His eyes shone and held mine: "You don't know what you're missing."
"Someone's got to work," I replied.
"Ha!" he snorted. "I am working," and he turned and left.
A few seconds later, I heard the dog doors slap. Following him out, I saw him hop off the porch, but instead of heading northwest to Josie's place, he went the other way, around the Subaru, and down the drive. At its end, he paused, as if deciding which way to go—left and back to Josie's, or right and off on his traditional mayoral rounds.
After a few moments' consideration, he turned right, walking slowly and carefully like an elderly person. But he soon picked up speed and began to step out with a purposeful stride, his eyes gazing eagerly toward the creek and the village beyond. He was back on the job.
I had always known that both Merle and I experienced similar emotions, but as I watched him disappear down the road, the tip of his tail wagging contentedly, the answer to one of my longstanding questions about him was finally answered. I had always wondered if he dreamt, not merely twitching his paws and running after subconscious cattle and bison, but also dreamt in the other meaning of the word: to aspire. There had been a couple of times that his actions had made me think he did. Scott Landale, for instance, had told me a story about hunting with Merle. As they had sat on a high bluff, a bull elk had walked beneath them. It was the end of the season and only cow elk were legal to shoot, and Scott raised his rifle and simply looked at the elk through the scope.
When he didn't shoot, Merle looked at him piercingly, his eyes lit with demand. When Scott still didn't shoot, Merle quickly looked at the elk and back to Scott, back and forth, back and forth, in an ever more demanding way. When Scott still didn't pull the trigger, Merle began to stomp his paws in frustration. "Shoot, shoot," he was saying. "What's wrong with you?"
Scott, of course, wouldn't shoot, and as they walked back to the truck, Merle gave him the cold shoulder. In a huff, he walked far ahead of Scott, not paying attention to his calls, and in the truck he looked out the window, his back turned to Scott in anger and disgust.
On another occasion, Merle and I skied to the peak at the south end of Teton Pass. Because Merle's rear end had become unstable by this time, I wasn't willing to ski downhill with him and began to head back the way we had com
e, on the shallow grade of the skin track. Seeing me depart, Merle lingered.
"Come on," I called. "We're not skiing into Black Canyon. No more downhill powder for you. It's too steep and bad for your back. You know that."
He eyed me soberly, turned, and jumped off the peak, skiing down into the steep bowl.
He was, as always, a dog who knew what he wanted.
Were these aspirations? The word has such a lofty sound. But I have numerous friends—fine members of our community—whose major aspirations have been to hunt elk each fall and ski powder as many days as possible in the winter. Some of them have gone to their daily work with far less enthusiasm than did Merle, setting off so faithfully on his rounds that he eventually cut well-worn paths from our house to the road.
The philosopher Raymond Gaita says that "we do not write biographies of animals" because they do not have "distinctive identities" and cannot make or fail "to make something of their lives." Consequently, they are unable to find in their lives a "reason for joy and gratitude."
Watching Merle set off on his rounds that morning with gratitude illuminating his face, and a lifetime of sound if not extraordinary accomplishments behind him, I knew for certain that being accorded a biography isn't dependent on one's species or one's fame. When he returned an hour later, I walked into the great room and greeted him as he came through the dog door.
"How was it?" I asked.
His eyes were alight as they hadn't been for three weeks. "Ha-ha-ha," he panted happily. "The best!"
The aspen leafed; the rivers rose. He continued to go on his rounds; I wrote.
He accompanied me to town, and when not on his rounds he lay behind my chair as my fingers moved over the keyboard. I would look around and catch his eyes, fixed on my back.
How are you?
Better now.
I am glad.
So am I.
Eyes locked: together.
When I told Paul Cuddon of Merle's improvement, he suggested putting him on a lower dose of prednisone and having his potassium levels monitored. I called Theo Schuff to give him a report, and to make an appointment for the blood draw and to pick up the new prescription. Sounding pleasantly surprised, he said, "I didn't think we'd see him live through the prednisone he had. Why don't you bring him in right now."
I drove into Jackson, but our appointment was delayed by an emergency euthanasia. As I took a seat, a husky man came into the clinic, carrying a fifteen-year-old black Lab, an enormous fellow with a handsome blocky head, giant paws, and weighing close to one hundred pounds. The dog was groaning and slavering, and the receptionist told me that he had been having seizures.
The man placed his dog on the same stainless steel table where Merle had gotten his IV three weeks before. There were double doors to the room and no one thought to close them, so I watched Theo and the two vet techs shave the dog's hock, the electric razor making its dreaded buzzing, which I had come to associate with Brower's euthanasia and Merle's spinal tap. It took a while for Theo to find a vein, the man standing by his dog's head. Finally, Theo injected the solution, and the Lab's groaning slowed; then his legs fell limply off the table.
The husky man came out of the room and stood with his face to the wall, his shoulders heaving. As he wiped at his eyes, Theo came into the waiting room, and the man turned to him quickly. I could see his jaw clenching, just as mine had clenched in the grocery store.
"Thank you, doc," he said, and shook Theo's hand.
They talked about picking up the dog's ashes, and, as the man left, the two vet techs slid the dog into a plastic body bag and carried him out to await cremation.
I fetched Merle from the car, and he came into the clinic pretty smartly, panting a greeting to the receptionist before I led him into a smaller examination room. There, Theo took a blood sample and recommended feeding him yogurt for his gut, which the potassium bromide was keeping unsettled.
On our way home, I thought about the euthanasia I had witnessed, wondering how the man had decided to put down his dog. I didn't know his circumstances, so I couldn't say. But I knew what my circumstances had been, and how I had come to the conclusion that, if at all possible, Merle deserved to die when he wanted to.
Later, I discovered that my intuitive decision-making tree was identical to the one suggested by the veterinarian Barnard S. Hershhorn in his book Active Years for Your Aging Dog. Hershhorn suggests that a dog owner consider six criteria before euthanizing a dog, adding that "Chronological age, in itself, is never one of them!" (The italics are his.) Here are his questions and my answers for Merle's and my situation:
Is the condition prolonged, recurring, or getting worse? (Yes.)
Is the condition no longer responding to therapy? (Don't know.)
Is your dog in pain or otherwise physically suffering? (After hearing from the neurologist, Paul Cuddon, my answer was no.)
Is it no longer possible to alleviate that pain or suffering? (No.)
If your dog should recover, is he likely to be chronically ill, an invalid, or unable to care for himself as a healthy dog? (Don't know yet.)
If your dog recovers, is he likely no longer to be able to enjoy life, or will he have severe personality changes? (Don't know yet.)
Hershhorn goes on to say that if one's answers to all six questions are "yes," the dog should be euthanized. If the answers to question three and four are "no," then perhaps the dog should be allowed to die naturally. However, one must answer three more questions:
Can you provide the necessary care? (I could.)
Will such care so interfere with your own life as to create serious problems with you or your family? (It wouldn't.)
Will the cost involved become unbearably expensive? (No.)
My choice had been the right one for Merle and me. He had resumed his life—a little crippled to be sure, but glowingly happy.
In the days ahead, as I walked around the house, he would fix his eyes upon me as if following a star. In turn, I would watch him and say, "It has been so wonderful being with you. The absolute best."
"Ha!" he'd answer. "The very best!"
It was as if our thirteen years together had been allowed to stay on the vine a little longer, accumulating the maximum sugar content possible. Now, they had turned into an intensely sweet dessert wine, which he and I were savoring sip by sip.
***
Two weeks went by during which he rallied. He resumed his rounds; we drove to parties; our life began again. Then he went downhill. He began to stumble, his back legs splaying out, and his incontinence returned. I stapled plastic sheets to the floor and laid old beach towels over them, stapling their corners so they wouldn't slip under him. When they were soiled, I'd pick them up, wash them, and tack new ones down. I did half a dozen washes a day, sponging off Merle almost as many times. Occasionally, just as I finished cleaning him, he'd walk toward his dog door and fall directly into the pile of poop he had left as he had tried to get outside.
If he was really messy, and the weather was cold, I'd lead him to the guest bathroom downstairs. Stripping, I'd get into the shower with him and give him a complete shampoo.
"Oh, he's a clean machine," I'd say as I'd lift him out and towel him off.
"Ha-ha-ha," he'd pant. "That feels so much better."
And he'd weave his way toward the woodstove, lie down on the towels in front of it, and rub his cheeks and head against them, finishing the drying.
If it was warm outside, I'd bring hot buckets of water onto the porch, wash him down, then hose him off, toweling him dry and letting the sun fluff his fur.
One morning, when I came back to see what he was up to, I found him at the end of the porch, gazing down the drive to the start of his mayoral rounds. Then he gazed to the trail going to Gladys's house. He hopped off the deck and went toward the trail, and a minute later I found him lying where the trail met the road. He was sitting like a sphinx, his eyes panning up and down the road as if he were making his rounds in his mind.
He sensed me behind him, turned, and grinned, tapping his tail: "I'm here. I got this far."
I went inside and as I washed the breakfast dishes he came through the dog door, crossed the great room, and insinuated himself between my legs. Shutting off the tap, I leaned over and pressed my nose to the top of his head, so we were looking directly into each other's eyes.
"Oh, you smell good," I said.
And he did: nutty and crisp, overlaid by mountain air, and with that sweet hint of lanolin.
He took a deep breath and chattered his teeth: "You do too."
We remained looking at each other, eye to eye, for a long time. He didn't flinch; he didn't look away. Keeping his pupils directly on mine, he made three little yips.
At last, it was he who broke the spell, walking through my legs and toward his bowls, where he had a drink. I followed him and knelt. He turned and walked his head directly into my chest, keeping it there as I clenched my fingers in the fur of his shoulders. Then he backed away and gave me a look of utter love and something more, the look I had seen so many times since the day I had opened the door of the truck on the San Juan River and had said, "You're a Wyoming dog now—if you want." And his eyes had replied, "Thank you for believing in me." As they did now.
"Thank you," I told him, "for choosing me."
He began to have difficulty getting in and out of his doors. He'd make it through the first one and get stuck in the second. I'd stand in the great room, rooting for him, willing him through the outer door in which he was hung up, and then I'd finally help him. Often, he'd go to the end of the porch, look toward the road, and simply turn around, returning to the house and his bed.
Sometimes, he'd make it through both doors and off the porch, and I'd find him at the end of his path, sitting with head erect, his paws touching the road as if he might be assimilating the rounds he had once made. Turning his head left and right, he'd study the occasional car going by. Some of the cars stopped, the drivers saying, "Mr. Mayor, it's good to see you out and about again." The tip of his tail would wag: "Good to see you, too."