• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar

HollyRobinson

Writer & Red Dirt Rambler

  • Home
  • Bio
  • Blog
  • My Books
    • Haven Lake
    • Chance Harbor
    • The Gerbil Farmer’s Daughter
    • Sleeping Tigers
    • The Wishing Hill
    • Beach Plum Island
    • Folly Cove
  • Ghostwriting

Saying Goodbye to a Good Dog

Posted on 12.28.11 | Holly Robinson | Leave a Comment

McDuff, my Cairn terrier, looks more like a pot-bellied pig every day. His swollen abdomen is low-slung and his short legs bow out at the elbows—symptoms of Cushing’s Disease. Recently we had to put up a baby gate to keep him from going upstairs; the last time McDuff tried to follow us up to bed, he slipped and went bumping down to the bottom of the staircase, his front legs useless as toothpicks against the pull of his massive weight.

He’s an old man, our McDuff. Fifteen. Whenever he goes outside to relieve himself, he stands in one spot for a good five minutes, squinting a little, then turns right around and heads back inside. At this point, his medication costs half as much as our groceries. I don’t know what we’ll do when it snows. Shovel a path for him, I guess.

Or not. We have been debating, lately, about how and when to play God with our beloved pet. McDuff isn’t in extreme pain, and he still wags his tail when I call his name. That’s something, right?

But is it enough for a good dog’s life? Or is it time to say goodbye?

I grew up on a farm where we had nearly as many dogs as we had horses. They were rescue dogs, mostly. These included one shepherd mix that loved to chase cars and always smelled of skunk; a feisty Yorkie mix; and an Afghan hound that bit anything gray, including our coats. I moved away from home before any of these dogs died or had to be put down; coming home and finding one less dog under the table was a source of brief sadness but not much more.

This is different. I can’t stand the thought of losing McDuff.

As an adult, I’ve had to put just one dog to sleep. Ben was an American Eskimo mix that we adopted from a shelter. A frothy, white, joyful dog, Ben used to race around us in circles whenever we uttered his mantra: “Go Ben go!”

When my husband and I were married in our back yard (a second marriage that combined our four young children), Ben wore a burgundy bow to match my dress. As we repeated our vows in front of a small gathering of friends and family, Ben wandered up and sat down between our children, so that he would be included in the minister’s blessing.

At age thirteen, Ben’s heart and liver gave out. Making the decision to put him down was easier because he was in such pain that he cried out in his sleep. Still, the kids and I all wept: it was the first time that I fully realized a dog isn’t just a dog, but a carrier of family history.

Saying goodbye to a dog you’ve had for years means shutting the door on an era. In our case, Ben’s death earmarked the years between our wedding and the year our oldest son set off for college. Shortly after Ben’s death, we moved out of our big family home and into a smaller one; my memories of Ben therefore carry complex emotions: joy and love and grief and loss, rolled into one white ball of fur.

McDuff started his life with us just as Ben was ending his. I got him in the worst way possible—on impulse, in a mall pet store—but for a good reason: I was with my stepdaughter, the youngest in our blended family and the one who always felt left out by our other three children. She was newly aggrieved by the arrival of our fifth and youngest child, who immediately displaced her as the baby in the family. Choosing this dog made her feel, for once, that she was in charge.

As a puppy, McDuff was scarcely bigger than the palm of my hand. Like most terriers, he was stubborn, territorial, and ferociously protective. We put a dog door in our basement so that he could come and go at will. His greatest joy was patrolling our yard and barking at any deer, squirrels, or wild turkeys that dared to infiltrate his space.

McDuff became a member of our family a few weeks after our youngest child was born. He has been through a lot since then: older kids graduating from high school and college, family trips to Canada and Wisconsin, youngest child moving through elementary school and into high school, job layoffs and career successes, the celebration of our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Saying goodbye to him means saying goodbye to boisterous family dinners, birthday parties with balloons and water slides, Christmases with so many presents under the tree that you couldn’t walk around it, the death of my grandmother and my father, buying a second house in Canada, and the realization that nothing lasts forever.

Not even a very good dog, who still lifts his head whenever I call his name.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Pinterest
  • More
  • Email
  • Pocket
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Reddit

Categories: Essays and Random Thoughts, Parenting Tags: animal shelters, author, blended families, cairn terrier, cushing's disease, dogs, essayist, euthanasia, family, family life, grief, holly robinson, journalist, loss, medication, parneting, pets, red dirt rambler, second marriages, sleeping tigers, the gerbil farmer's daughter, weddings, writer, writing

Holly Robinson's avatar

About the Author

Holly Robinson is a novelist, journalist and celebrity ghost writer. She and her husband have five children and a stubborn Pekingese. They currently divide their time between Massachusetts and Prince Edward Island, and are crazy enough to be fixing up old houses one shingle at a time in both places.

Reader Interactions

Leave a Reply Cancel

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

sidebar

Blog Sidebar

Follow Me

  • Facebook
  • LinkedIn
  • Twitter

Follow me on BookBub

<span>Follow me on BookBub</span>

Click here to read my recent articles and essays

  • Home
  • Blog
  • Bio
  • Ghostwriting
  • My Books
    • Folly Cove
    • Chance Harbor
    • Haven Lake
    • Beach Plum Island
    • The Wishing Hill
    • Sleeping Tigers
    • The Gerbil Farmer’s Daughter
  • Articles & Essays
    • Essays
    • Articles and Essays
      • Interviews
  • Events
  • Non-Fiction
    • Essays
    • Articles and Essays
      • Interviews
Holly Robinson

What’s New on the Blog

running on Bothwell with dogs

Can We Ever Be Completely Happy?

I was driving through Boston recently when I stopped at a light. Next to me was a rust bucket of a car. The driver had long hair, a sleeve tattoo, and a sharp profile that said, “Don’t mess with me.” Clearly a guy with a hard life and an even harder past. Yet, in the Read More

20230507 094648

Why Stay Married When You’re Living Apart?

I’m unloading the dishwasher when my husband comes up behind me. “You’re making chaos out of my stemless glassware,” he says. “What are you talking about?” He rearranges the glasses I’ve just put on the shelf. There are only six of them, so it doesn’t take long. When he’s finished, there are two of each Read More

mammoWipe

MammoWipes and Other Medical Indignities

Why do pets get red carpet medical care, while humans are treated like livestock?

HollyBlaise

The Imperfect Mother

As we creep toward Mother’s Day, that Hallmark Holiday of flowers and chocolates and too many regrets, here is the most important thing for all of you moms out there to remember: Mothering is an imperfect art. No matter how hard you try, you will never get it right 100 percent of the time. Just Read More

20230505 141526

Winning at Hawaii Bingo

Let me just say this right up front: I never had any particular desire to go to Hawaii. For one thing, I’m more of a hiker than a beach lounger. I don’t like rum or boating or sunning or surfing, and men in Hawaiian shirts make my teeth hurt. Then my dear friend Toby Neal—a Read More

20230328 123906

Creativity, Cancer, and the Circle of Quiet

I walked to the bench today after my MRI. My doctor ordered the test to see if I have pancreatic cancer, not because I have any symptoms or suspicion, but because my mother died of it last year. “Better to know,” is what my doctor said. “We can at least get a baseline.” Of course, Read More

TwitterFacebookLinkedin

Copyright © 2020 Holly Robinson

Website by Bakerview Consulting