Eulogy for Georgia
Thanksgiving Day
27 November 2003
27 November 2003
A house without a dog is a damnably empty place. It's missing something vital and comforting and loved. It's incomplete and still.
A week ago just now, we sent the last of our old Bouviers, Georgia, over the Bridge. At 14, she was extremely old for a Bouvier; very few live so long. She was a dog we never intended to have. We were once responsible for Bouvier rescue in the SF Bay area and fostered her from a family whose economic circumstances had rapidly and drastically changed. It was just about this time of year, and she was 6 years old.
She wasn't a Bouv you'd see at a dog show, with her natural ears and tail, mere nubbins for front teeth, and saggy from who knows how many backyard breedings. When we had her spayed, the doc found mammary cancer and removed what she could, but the margins were undefined and we expected the cancer to return. We didn't think we could place her with a family, and worried what would happen if we did and the cancer came back (it never did), so we adopted her ourselves, adding to our household of two other Bouvs.
In some ways she wasn't much of a dog, not a dog about whom you'd brag, I guess. She was heavy of body and a little light of intelligence, and molded badly by her previous life. Worried by change and fearful of large objects being carried and often suspicious that some trick was about to be played on her, we could only curse the circumstances that had made her this way. Still, she was sweet and simple and gentle, and impressively protective.
She was number three dog, behind Cuba and Raleigh, then number two when we lost Raleigh to cancer, and finally number one, and probably most content, when we lost Cuba two years and two weeks ago to old age and a stroke. I think Georgia was happy here, visiting the cows and moving the chickens back to the barn and always convinced that one day, one lovely day, she'd finally catch a chipmunk.
Last January, her hind legs could no longer get her up these damned New-England-steep stairs, so we dragged a couple of mattresses down to the living room. We slept there on the floor for almost eleven months, so she wouldn't be alone at night and so we could help her up when she wanted to move. Later that winter we had to start using a rear-end brace to take her out in the snow and ice. That brace gave her months more of life. This summer, Gail built a ramp so Georgia could get into and out of the house more easily.
But finally it was enough. Arthritis was setting in on a front leg and she could no longer get up at all without assistance. She was starting to trip and fall. Still, she was happy and alert and always on the lookout for toast. We worried about acting too soon but feared even more to wait too long. We made an appointment for the vet to come over last Thursday.
I know I'm too sentimental, maybe even maudlin. Everything now was for the last time with, to be followed all too soon by a series of first times without.
On the Tuesday before that day I came home while it was still light; Gail had just taken Georgia out for a walk. Georgia was surprised to see the Jeep and me, that kind of surprise that dogs so love to get, their humans home. She ran over as best she could, Gail supporting her all the way, galumphed more like, to say hi, you're home, I'm glad you're here. Dogs break your heart.
I worked, sort of, for a few hours on Thursday, then came home to find Gail already here, to wait for the vet. The last, the very last assisted walk, to sniff at the old familiar spots. Dr. Jim arrives and we start the process. The sedative starts taking effect, and while Gail says soothing words, there's a slow thump of tail on floor, that ancient sign of trust and love, thump-thump. Oh, they break your heart. Then deep sleep, the final dose, she's gone.
On this day of Thanksgiving, I give thanks for all the wonderful dogs: for Blaze, my first; for Wolf and Yvette; for Charcoal, Vulcan, Ugly, and nameless strays; for Eli; for dogs we fostered, bouncing Bear and old cat-killer Nanna, wild Bisou and Mason and Bernie and the names I've forgotten; and thanks most of all for Raleigh and Cuba and Georgia.
You should give thanks, too, you lucky persons with dogs. Give them a pat, and a hug, and some turkey for me.
bws
A week ago just now, we sent the last of our old Bouviers, Georgia, over the Bridge. At 14, she was extremely old for a Bouvier; very few live so long. She was a dog we never intended to have. We were once responsible for Bouvier rescue in the SF Bay area and fostered her from a family whose economic circumstances had rapidly and drastically changed. It was just about this time of year, and she was 6 years old.
She wasn't a Bouv you'd see at a dog show, with her natural ears and tail, mere nubbins for front teeth, and saggy from who knows how many backyard breedings. When we had her spayed, the doc found mammary cancer and removed what she could, but the margins were undefined and we expected the cancer to return. We didn't think we could place her with a family, and worried what would happen if we did and the cancer came back (it never did), so we adopted her ourselves, adding to our household of two other Bouvs.
In some ways she wasn't much of a dog, not a dog about whom you'd brag, I guess. She was heavy of body and a little light of intelligence, and molded badly by her previous life. Worried by change and fearful of large objects being carried and often suspicious that some trick was about to be played on her, we could only curse the circumstances that had made her this way. Still, she was sweet and simple and gentle, and impressively protective.
She was number three dog, behind Cuba and Raleigh, then number two when we lost Raleigh to cancer, and finally number one, and probably most content, when we lost Cuba two years and two weeks ago to old age and a stroke. I think Georgia was happy here, visiting the cows and moving the chickens back to the barn and always convinced that one day, one lovely day, she'd finally catch a chipmunk.
Last January, her hind legs could no longer get her up these damned New-England-steep stairs, so we dragged a couple of mattresses down to the living room. We slept there on the floor for almost eleven months, so she wouldn't be alone at night and so we could help her up when she wanted to move. Later that winter we had to start using a rear-end brace to take her out in the snow and ice. That brace gave her months more of life. This summer, Gail built a ramp so Georgia could get into and out of the house more easily.
But finally it was enough. Arthritis was setting in on a front leg and she could no longer get up at all without assistance. She was starting to trip and fall. Still, she was happy and alert and always on the lookout for toast. We worried about acting too soon but feared even more to wait too long. We made an appointment for the vet to come over last Thursday.
I know I'm too sentimental, maybe even maudlin. Everything now was for the last time with, to be followed all too soon by a series of first times without.
On the Tuesday before that day I came home while it was still light; Gail had just taken Georgia out for a walk. Georgia was surprised to see the Jeep and me, that kind of surprise that dogs so love to get, their humans home. She ran over as best she could, Gail supporting her all the way, galumphed more like, to say hi, you're home, I'm glad you're here. Dogs break your heart.
I worked, sort of, for a few hours on Thursday, then came home to find Gail already here, to wait for the vet. The last, the very last assisted walk, to sniff at the old familiar spots. Dr. Jim arrives and we start the process. The sedative starts taking effect, and while Gail says soothing words, there's a slow thump of tail on floor, that ancient sign of trust and love, thump-thump. Oh, they break your heart. Then deep sleep, the final dose, she's gone.
On this day of Thanksgiving, I give thanks for all the wonderful dogs: for Blaze, my first; for Wolf and Yvette; for Charcoal, Vulcan, Ugly, and nameless strays; for Eli; for dogs we fostered, bouncing Bear and old cat-killer Nanna, wild Bisou and Mason and Bernie and the names I've forgotten; and thanks most of all for Raleigh and Cuba and Georgia.
You should give thanks, too, you lucky persons with dogs. Give them a pat, and a hug, and some turkey for me.
bws
