Am I Boring My Dog? (31 page)

Ah, yes—your dog bites, or gets bitten; you want custody of your pup when you and your spouse split; or you think your neighbor should fix the hole on his side of the fence so your dog can’t escape … A good place to start learning about your rights—or lack thereof—is
Every Dog’s Legal Guide
by Mary Randolph. After you get a general sense of what’s covered by the legal system, and how, log on to
animallaw.com
. There you can search your state’s statutes—or lack thereof—on specific issues.
Animallaw.com
also offers useful links to other sites that focus on animal legalities.

That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use an attorney if you want to go to court. In fact, if you live in California, I suggest you hire my friend Clare.
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It’s ironic that we’re often forced to make end-of-life decisions for dogs, who can’t tell us what they want, but are prevented from carrying out the wishes of humans, who can. But if we’re powerless to design the deaths we might desire for ourselves and for our human loved ones, we can provide them for our pups, shielding them from prolonged pain and suffering. Dogs in turn have the advantage of living in the present, so they don’t anticipate and fear the end in the same way we do (or at least they don’t write turgid novels or make pretentious movies about it).

I only hope someone gives me the type of sendoff my friend Karyn’s Greyhound, Painter, got. When he was 11 years old, Painter developed spinal deterioration to the point that he could barely walk. When he crouched to go to the bathroom, he had trouble lifting himself back up. Unable to carry around a 75-pound Greyhound and distraught to see him losing his dignity, Karyn finally called the vet to come over and give him an injection.

The day of the appointment, Karyn was too upset to think about preparing food, so I brought over a couple of burritos for us, a bacon cheeseburger for Painter. “He can’t eat that,” Karyn started to protest when she saw the burger, “He has pancreatitis.” Then she remembered. “Well,” she amended, “he hasn’t had much appetite, but let’s try it.” Sure enough, Painter perked right up, scarfing the burger in three bites. Afterward, he farted contentedly in Karyn’s arms until the vet arrived half an hour later.

Just as you’re the only one who can decide when the balance has tipped from mild discomfort to suffering for your dog—and from manageable expense to deep debt for yourself
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—the decision about where to say goodbye is extremely personal. For me, familiar surroundings—as opposed to a medical facility—seem the least stressful. If your vet won’t make a final house call, you should be able to find one who will. Some will even accompany you to a beach, woods, or other place your dog loves. That said, many clinics have separate, hospicelike areas where euthanizations are done, so you won’t have to sit sobbing in a room with a bunch of happy puppies waiting for vaccinations. And that way you won’t associate your home or a favorite spot with a sad memory.

As for the final arrangements, most vets will also take care of cremation or transfer to a pet cemetery. Or a human cemetery. A bill passed in Florida, for example, permits pet ashes to be placed inside an owner’s casket so long as they’re in a separate urn. Some human cemeteries have separate pet areas—often a better bet than a dedicated pet cemetery, which is not always protected by law and can be turned into a strip mall if the owner sells the land. Check your local ordinances, including those on backyard burials; they’re often prohibited, but the pet interment police rarely go out on patrol.

Painter, incidentally, rests in a lovely raku urn on Karyn’s desk, where he helps inspire her continued and tireless efforts on behalf of Greyhound rescue.

A catchall term for pet heaven, the multicolor span debuted in 1997 in Paul C. Dahm’s “The Legend of the Rainbow Bridge.” According to the story, every cherished pet that dies goes to live in a verdant meadow below the bridge, restored to youth and health, eating delicious food, and cavorting happily with other pets. The only thing missing from the picture is the beloved human companion: you. When you arrive, there is great celebration and then you cross over together to the other side.

I confess that I cry like a baby whenever I read this story. It’s only after I blow my nose that I start nitpicking the details—as I do with all strict delineations of the hereafter.

Meadows are all well and good, I think, but shouldn’t spilled garbage, a dog favorite through the ages, be involved, too? And pigs’ ears? If so, would pet pigs get a separate area to wait for their ascent to hog heaven, one where dogs won’t covet their hearing organs? And, as I mentioned in this book’s introduction, my mother feared all creatures great and small. Did she shed her animal anxieties when she left her body—or will I be forced to choose between hanging out with her or Frankie? (Don’t ask.)

And what about dogs who don’t have loving owners to help them cross over? They deserve happiness, too—even more so than those who had it on Earth. If I were designing an after-life, those pups would go to the other side as soon as the person who mistreated or abandoned them died. Said offender would be transformed into a slab of bacon and spend eternity being gnawed on by the dog(s) he or she wronged. (What can I say? I grew up with a vengeful deity—and with cravings for forbidden pork products.)

You shouldn’t respond at all, at least not if you want these people in your life in some capacity.
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It will be extremely tempting to offer an equally insensitive rejoinder, and that can only lead to insult escalation. Just file the remark away with all the other hurtful comments you’ll likely receive, and then haul it out to be mocked by members of your pet grief support group or informal network of dog lovers who understand what you’re going through. The person on duty at the ASPCA’s Pet Loss Hotline (1-877-474-3310) should be able to talk you down, too.

If you’re not a joiner or generally dislike sharing, consider a personalized dartboard, punching bag, or other inanimate target toward which you can channel your anger. Cheek turning apparently works for some people, too, although not for those with whom I tend to socialize.

Above all, don’t take comments like these to heart. Grieve as long as you need to and when you’re ready—but only then—get another dog. He’ll never replace the one you’ve lost but will enrich your life in his own inimitable doggy fashion.