Willy's Sleep

My dog Willy died yesterday, on President's Day. I can't help but make a connection with the holiday and his personality. Willy was poised and regal, the son of a show dog. When he walked, he'd strut forward with his blonde lion-mane chest puffed out, leading the way. People were drawn to him, and he them. His favorite moments were spent sitting calmly, royally, in the center of a group of humans, offering a paw and holding his head high. To Willy, the only thing better than a doting human was that same human's perpetual supply of food.

He even begged like a king, focused on the plate with that signature Golden face that says it all: I'm just too cute to ignore. I'm a good boy. Please give me a bite.

By the time he turned twelve, he had eaten enough 'chicken soup for the soul' to inspire a new Jack Canfield book. 'Food is his happiness,' I used to say, assuaging a wave of guilt - My dog eats better than some children.

Willy adored children, the small yet radiant humans that seemed to drop more goldfish than the big people. But when it came to other dogs, he was indifferent. He'd snub the most frantic of chiuahuas, trotting forward without a second glance. Often, I felt the urge to turn back and confess to the embarrassed owner, 'I'm sorry, my dog thinks he's a human.'

Willy didn't mingle with barkers, jumpers, or most dogs in general. He'd tolerate other goldens as long as they'd hold the wrestling. He was a lover, not a fighter.

His single visit to a kennel (prior to a family vacation) was as hairy as to be expected. It was just a visit, I assured him in the car. You never know. The place is called Camelot, it's supposed to be one of the best, and it has a massive play area. How bad could it be?

The raunchy cell was horrendous. Willy pulled me away from the caged mutts with the strength of a pittbull. Their barking was ridiculous. I had to agree. He even refused a milkbone from the nice lady at the front desk.

I apologized during the ride home. How was I to know there'd be so many barking dogs?

Willy, in lieu of Camelot, boarded at the stately brick faced home of my dear Aunt Mary. There, he'd smile down at her from the foyer upstairs, as though to say, not bad...not bad at all...how many square feet you got here?

Willy continued to live his active and senior years with grace and vitality; attending cook-outs, festivals, and, more recently, my son's baseball and football games.

I'll never forget the way my football friends took care of him while I took pictures of the team or dashed to the concession stand. Gina, Nicole, and Kim were his favorite moms. While he pasted his head to their laps, I smiled to myself, knowing that he was in good hands. And so weren't they. During the fall season, I brushed enough fur off of him to pad a village of bird nests. He was the most handsome spectator on the field, the elder Air Bud, wanting nothing more than to spread kindness.

A few months into the football season, Willy tore a ligament. Limping onto the field, he had the football crew concerned. We discussed surgery, all of us -on the field, over drinks, and at the window of my Jeep. Everyone gave me their honest (and much valued) opinions. But Willy had his own plan.

You mean I have to sit in a crate for eight weeks to recover? Are you kidding me?

Needless to say, we passed on the surgery. Willy couldn't have been more demonstrative of a wise decision. During the next month, he made a remarkable turn-around; climbing stairs up, down, and around our house as though competing for Caesar's Obstacle Course. My family was amazed. Willy heals himself! He doesn't need the surgery! we'd chant in our infantile dog voices.

Willy crossed over to 2010 with a positive attitude that inspired all of us. We praised him after each climb up to the kitchen. We were so proud of his quest to conquer every outdoor set of stairs, and humored him when he forgot which door he was supposed to come back in. He became such an independent old man, one time I forgot about him on the deck. He lay out there like a cinnamon bun, trying to stay warm. (Gosh, if I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was an animal, left out in the cold for so long).

His age never altered his routines. Outside, do poopies, back in, and good-boy bone. Twelve years of the same reinforcement, along with the same questions upon his return. Did you stay in the yard? Did you come right back? What a good dog! To the hallway he followed me each time, his body wiggling as he scuttled to the bone closet. He couldn't sit right away because it hurt his joints too much but his eyes never left my hand, in and out of the bag, a quick toss, and it was gone. For twelve years, he devoured that morning milkbone with passion. With Willy, it was the simple things that mattered.

I broadcasted the good news during my son's Superbowl football banquet. Willy is walking unbelievably and will be joining us for practice this year! My friends cheered as though witnessing the winning touchdown. They couldn't wait to see him and I couldn't wait to bring him out again.

But Willy had other plans.

February came and Willy stopped eating his dry dog food. Assuming the joint-enriched stuff was just too much for his stomach, we tried a new brand. When that didn't work, we settled on feeding him what we ate. Of course he didn't complain. The weeks passed with a few select incidents of vomiting, along with some heavy breathing. The vitality of his climbs, just weeks earlier, had become a marathon overnight, it seemed. But Willy pressed on, smiling still.

Until his final day.

February 15th came and Willy lay panting downstairs in his wolf's den. His stomach had expanded and seemed to be vibrating. My son offered him water and he struggled to take sips. The usual glimmer of his eyes had faded, even when I showed off a McDonald's bag (couldn't blame him, I suppose). My husband carried him into the Jeep and we were off to Banfield. He smiled at me from the back seat, as though to say, thank you for helping me.

I parked at The Pet Place and killed the ignition. Willy struggled to get up, to figure out how to move off of the seat. I lifted him out and slammed the door shut.

We walked, me and my beautful Willy, my regal dog, and it seemed as though he was carrying a ton of bricks. He squatted for a bowel movement that he'd been holding all morning and a bystander, another dog owner, looked at me sheepishly. 'At least he didn't do it in the store,' he said.

I yelled back to him, 'It's not his fault..' but my voice was weak and my heart was sinking fast. Willy made it through the entrance and lay down immediately, nearly in collapse, as soon as we entered. His clinic was located at the back of the store.

I called for help and within minutes two technicians came rushing to Willy with a tarp. They shifted him onto it and carried him in a hammock-like sack to the back of the store. I raced behind. His eyes bore into mine. What's happening?

I know Willy, I know. This isn't you. You don't belong here, and this isn't right. But we'll figure it out. We'll figure it out together.

I waited, spoke calmly with the nurse about his dog food, about the change in his diet. I knew but I didn't want to know. Please, God, let it be the stupid food.

Nothing could have prepared me for what the doctor shared.

Willy's spleen had ruptured and his stomach was full of blood.

A burst of tears, a few moments with Willy alone, a phone-call, and my husband was there with me. Outside it was cold and bleak; inside, worse. We sat there, the three of us, broken and bleeding, in a small room that was all wrong. I pet Willy, looked into his eyes, kissed his head, and reminded him of his favorite place, the orchard.

He yelped at the first try at the needle. More sedative. We waited. He calmed and went limp. His time had come.

...time for Prince Willy to go to sleep.