Killing My Dog

I have thought about killing my dog for two years.

At least that is what it felt like.

Euthanizing?

It still felt like killing him.

My dog. My baby. My Baxter.

They say you know the value of something in your life depending on how many different names it has. Baxter had 11 (that I can think of right now): Baxter, Boo, The Boo, Boobaloo, Buddy Boy, Boo Boo Guy, Little Boy, Baxie, Baxie Boy, My Puppy, and Buddy Boo. If you add in the bad names I called him when he tore up the garage on 4^th of July, pissed on my pillow when I boarded him for two days (one and only time), or whined 10 minutes in to a road trip because he was so excited he had to get out and take a shit, there would be more. But let’s focus on the positive.

11 names. I cared a lot.

I got him with my sister when I was 21. I was a senior in college at UCSD. Now I’m 36. He was the oldest dog I had ever met, especially considering he was a 90 pounder. Big dogs don’t last that long. 

Boo did.

They were just about to euthanize him when I got him 15 years ago. He was covered in ticks when he came in, he was anemic, and they had to put down his brother. As soon as I saw him I knew he was “the one.” Little tiny guy with a shaved butt barking at some dog twice his size. I took him out, he cuddled up right away in my lap. He was a hell of a salesman.

We went everywhere together. He would sit on my lap when I drove. When he got too big to do that 

he would sit in the backseat, but with his elbows on the center console and his butt on the seat. He thought he was a human.

He saw everything. College, graduate school, friends, girlfriends, everything. We lived in San Diego, San Jose, Newark, Saratoga, and back to San Jose. He saw me married to a horrible woman, then an amazing one. Babies, jobs, deaths, no yard houses, big yard houses, sneaking in hotel rooms, camping, hiking, running on the beach, swimming laps in my parent’s pool, and probably 10,000 miles of walks. He was such an amazing dog. Every time we tried to play a board game on the living room floor he would lie down right in the middle of the damn board. Who doesn’t love attention?

Today I had to decide it was time for him to lay his head down and rest. For good.

I knew it was time.

He couldn’t get up on his own anymore. Because I work from home, I was able to go out and pick him up every couple of hours. He would walk around for a little bit, then lay back down, usually in the sun. Every afternoon I would open the garage door while I worked out and he would walk around the front yard. Two dudes, hanging out. He would scare the shit out of the mailman and everyone that walked by, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly, even when he was younger. I would wash him every couple of days because he would piddle on himself. I felt like I was running a convalescent home for dogs. All I needed was a catheter.

He was my buddy. I was happy to do it.

I was not happy today. Not happy I had to put my buddy down. It hurt, and deep.

I promised myself that as soon as he didn’t have it in his eyes anymore that I would take him in. My biggest fear was that I would take him at the wrong time. Too early? Too late?

If I couldn’t get up would I want to die? Not if I had some dude come out and pick me up all day. I was content with that. His eyes told me he was cool with it too. So that’s what we did.

He didn’t eat yesterday. He puked. He didn’t eat this morning. He puked some more. The fire was gone. He couldn’t do it anymore. At the vets they said, “He was tired.”

Of all the things I taught him (and he was smart as hell, knew all kinds of tricks), there was one thing I wish I had taught him. I know it will be obvious to you, but it wasn’t to me. I wish I had taught him English. That way we could have been dialoguing about where he was the last few weeks. Just two old friends, discussing life and death. Maybe he wanted to go before? He could have said, “Hey Dad, it’s time.” But no, I had to guess what he was thinking. We were pretty close. I think I guessed right. 

He didn’t have to say anything.

My buddy.

I couldn’t have asked for a better dog.

You were amazing.

I am going to go read Tim Ferriss’s posts about his new dog and reminisce about when Boo was younger.  

I will miss you so much.

Good-bye My Boo.