Sweet Dreams

This afternoon we’re putting our family dog to sleep.

I really wish we didn’t have to do this. But she’s really deteriorated, and she’s old, so old. We’ve had her for more than thirteen years.

Back in 1988, my brother was nine years old, and for a long time he’d wanted us to get a dog. But I, the 14-year-old older brother, was resolutely against it. I was scared of dogs. Terrified. I think a big scary-looking dog had knocked me over at someone’s outdoor birthday party when I was a kid or something. I don’t know if that’s why, but for whatever reason, dogs scared the crap out of me. But my parents had still been talking on and off about getting one.

On Saturday, March 12, 1988, my mom was at the local hair salon with my brother. PAWS, the local animal shelter, sometimes brought a pet to local businesses to let people know that there were animals that needed homes. That day, at the salon, this dog was resting on the floor in front of the reception desk. She was a mutt, a mix between a collie and a golden retriever, one to two years old. She was just lying there, so cute, harmless, with a terrific disposition. My mom and my brother noticed her, stroked her fur, said hello to her.

Afterwards, they came home and talked about it with me and my dad. I said no. But a few hours later, or maybe it was the next day, the two of them went to the shelter to pick up the dog they’d seen at the salon.

They brought her home and brought her inside. I was so mad at them. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked down at the front hallway and saw this blond-colored dog with dark eyes and pointy ears standing there. How could they do this to me? I went into my bedroom and closed the door. Later, I left the house as quickly as I could and went for a long walk in the park.

During that year, my freshman year of high school, I usually came home to an empty house. The day after we got the dog, I came up to the house, opened the front door, closed it quickly behind me, and ran up to my room, not knowing where this creature was. It turned out that my mom had put her on the third floor of the house for the afternoon, behind a closed door. I was relieved.

Later that night, my mom and my brother took the dog for a walk, and I decided, what the hell, I’ll go too. I did, and she seemed pretty harmless. I decided it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I liked her after all.

When we got her, one of her back legs was weak and it would sometimes shake. And she was very shy. We think something must have happened to her before she was ours. Maybe she was in an accident or maybe she was abused. She was also a real wimp. If you left real food on the floor, she wouldn’t eat it; she’d just look at you plaintively, waiting for permission, even though it was right in front of her.

But she had energy, too. This dog loved my mom. Whenever we’d bring the dog back from a walk, we’d make my mom call her name from upstairs, and she’d gallop up the steps to the second floor like a thoroughbred racehorse on crack, squeal on her brakes, turn the corner, and bolt into my parents’ bedroom.

That summer, my dad’s company offered him a position in their Tokyo office. After talking about it, we decided that we’d do it. We’d move to Japan. But what to do with the dog? We couldn’t bear to get rid of her, so we decided to take her with us. In September 1988, on the day we moved, we had her tranquilized and put in a crate. She made the 14-hour flight from JFK to Tokyo with us, only she was asleep in a crate in the cargo area. When we landed at Narita Airport, the crate rolled along the conveyor belt with all the other luggage. She saw us and barked her head off. “How could you do this to me?” she was probably thinking. (If dogs can think.)

Japanese policy required that we leave her quarantined for two weeks at the airport. So we left her there. After two weeks, we picked her up. She sat in her crate in the back of the car and we let her have some licks from an ice cream cone.

For the three years we lived in Japan, she was there with us. We’d walk this big American dog along the winding streets of our Tokyo neighborhood, and she’d sniff everything in range, taking in all these foreign smells. Japanese people with their little pointy-eared Japanese dogs would come up to us and try to ask us in English what kind of dog she was and what her name was. We’d tell them, and they’d try to pronounce it. “Brondie,” they’d say, unable to pronounce the L.

In the fall of 1991, after three years, my family moved back to New Jersey, along with the dog. I started college in Virginia that fall. But all throughout college and law school, whenever I’d come home, she’d be there. If ever I was alone in the house, I wasn’t really alone; she was there. After all this time, her soul has melded with the soul of the house. She’s softened the right angles of its rooms. I can’t even imagine the house without her. I can’t imagine walking in there one day, and being there by myself — truly alone.

About three or four years ago, she had a problem with her throat and needed throat surgery. After that, she wasn’t able to bark anymore. When she tries to bark now, she makes a raspy sound, like ripping cardboard.

And now she’s old. She can barely walk, let alone get herself up the front steps. You have to lift her from underneath and help her. Her back leg now shakes whenever she’s standing. She wears diapers because she can’t hold anything in. She wears little rubber socks on her paws so her feet can grip the floor. She can barely hear. She’s not the same animal she used to be. All she does these days is sleep, and lately she’s developed sores on either side of her haunches because she’s constantly lying down. She’s in poor shape, and she’s probably in pain. Four months ago, the vet said we should seriously consider the possibility of letting her go. We’ve talked about it for months. Week after week I’d talk to my parents on the phone or I’d be at home and they’d say they were going to have to do it soon. My brother and my father had been resolved to it for a while; my mom was the holdout. They were waiting for her permission. Finally, she decided it was time.

So, finally, we’re having it done this afternoon. They have to do it at the end of the day so it doesn’t scare any other pet owners who might be at the vet. I’m leaving work early, and I’m going to go home, and then, with my mom, and maybe with my brother, we’re going to take the dog to the vet and say goodbye.

Last night, at around 11:00, my brother called to ask if I was going to go. I said I was. Then there was no sound on the other end. I realized that my 22-year-old brother was crying. When we got her, he was nine years old. We got her because he wanted a dog; he wanted one more than anyone else in the family. This is hard for all of us.

Because of this one, sweet, gentle dog, I’m not afraid of dogs anymore. And she’s the only family pet we’ve ever had. I’ve known her since I was 14 years old. She travelled with us around the world. I can’t believe we’re doing this. My parents’ house isn’t going to be the same without her. I’m crying as I write this.

Goodbye, sweetie. Thanks for being such a huge part of our lives. I love you.