Stubb (a Dub)*

So, my dog just died.  By "just," I mean, about ten minutes ago.  He died in my mother's arms, after being ill for a week or two.

"Dylan" was actually my sister's dog.  She bought him about 12 years or so ago.  A poodle.  A small, brown poodle.  She picked him because he resembled another poodle we had at the time, named Spencer.   She had named Spencer after a character on a short-lived T.V. show, played by an actor she thought was "cute."   I can't remember who it was, it was a long time ago.

I do remember, however, who my sister named Dylan after.   It was the character "Dylan" (played by the dashing Luke Perry) from Beverly Hills 90210.   She had an embarrassing habit of naming our pets after "cute guys."  I used to lie, and tell people that I had named him after Bob Dylan, because, you know...Bob Dylan kinda looked like a poodle, or something.  I know, it sounds like bullshit.  No one ever believed it.  Bastards.

So, Dylan was my sister's dog, essentially, but we all took care of him, and came to love the stinky little bastard.   A few years after buying Dylan, my sister moved out to California.  She was moving in with her boyfriend, and left Dylan behind.  He reasoning was, Dylan was accustomed to his surroundings, and moving him away from his "family" (which was my mother, grandmother, "Spencer," and myself) might be traumatic.  Plus, she wasn't sure what it would be like out in Cali, and I'm pretty sure her fella wasn't interested in dealing with the dog.

Not long after my sis moved out, my mother did the same.  She moved in with her long-time boyfriend, up near Vernon.  She would stay back "at home" once or twice a week, to hang out with my grandmother and the dogs, but she wasn't around much.

Then, Spencer died.  He was an old dog, and had finally reached "the clearing at the end of the path."  That left Grandma, Dylan, and me.  At this point I was actually planning on moving out, and getting a place with a friend of mine in Totowa.  My mother took me aside, and asked me to reconsider.  Grandma was getting on in years (as was Dylan, at this point), and needed someone around to keep an eye on her, and help her out.  I couldn't, in good conscience, abandon my "NaNa," and I stayed put.

Flash forward a few years...Grandma has a stroke (right in front of me, which was really fucked up, and I don't want to dwell on it) and dies a few days later.   Now, it's just me and Dylan.  at this point, I plan on moving out (again) and my mother talks me into staying (again).  Basically, she's not around much (still living up North) and needs me to take care of both Dylan and the house.  She's had the house since the early '70's, and wants to hold on to it a while longer.  Basically, I become a glorified handyman/dogsitter.  I didn't have a problem with the arrangement-I get an entire house to myself, and all I have to do is pay my rent, keep the house clean, and take care of the dog.  Cool beans.

Dylan and I always got along well.  I fed him, let him outside to shit, and played catch with him.  In return, he didn't fuck up the house, and didn't bark his face off when I had after-hours parties (which was often).   Basically, Dylan was a Good Dog. 

This brings me (finally) to just earlier.   My mom has been staying here for the past few days, since Dylan has been ill.  He had a full-body infection, kidney problems, eye trouble, and basically a whole bunch of other shit that pretty much sums up "old age."   We knew he didn't have much time left, and my mom didn't want him to die alone.   Yesterday, he actually seemed to be doing better.  He navigated the stairs without assistance, and was wagging his tail when we called his name.   Things were looking up.

Then, about 20 minutes ago, Dylan died.   My mother was carrying him downstairs to let him outside (she said he had "relapsed" today, and was laying around all sick and shit all day), and he simply stopped breathing.  His head lolled back on his neck like it weighed 100 pounds, and his eyes went all glassy.   My mother called out to me, and I pretty much knew what had happened.  A part of me held a vain hope that she was calling my name because the garage was flooded (it's been raining like a motherfucker for a few days, and I live in a FLOOD ZONE-I think we're about 30 miles below sea level, or something.  They should rename our town ATLANTIS, fer fucksakes).  A flood sucks (especially since all of my shit is downstairs), but can be contained/handled/fixed/whatever.   Death cannot.

My mother was crying, holding (damn near shaking) Dylan, saying his name, and trying to get a response out of him.  I got there  just in time to see him breathe his last.   He shuddered, his tongue flopping  out of his mouth, and then he seemed to kind of collapse into himself.  Just like that, my dog (I know he wasn't technically "mine," but since I've been taking care of him for a few years, I'm allowed to feel territorial, fuckers) was gone.

I didn't know what to do.   What do you do in a situation like that?  I'm not good with things of this nature.  I was upset, but my mother was freaking out, cradling Dylan's lifeless body and crying.  Crying a lot.   We sat there in silence (relative silence-what with the crying and stuff) for a while, neither of us knowing what to do or say.   It's really weird to watch one of your parents cry.   It's unnerving.  It makes them seem, I dunno, all too human.   When you're a kid, your folks are Giants.  Superheroes.   Immortal.   Seeing one of them cry is like seeing behind the curtain in Emerald City.  You realize we're all in the same spot.  All in the same mess.  No one has it any more together than anyone else.   It sucks.  "Too much fucking perspective."

Eventually, my mother calmed down, realizing there was nothing we could do for Dylan.  He was gone.   She laid down his body in his little sleepy-bed, near the chair he would never again jump up on,  the food dish he would never again run to, and the  rubber ball I would toss to him nevermore.   If the rain lets up, we will bury him in the backyard tomorrow morning.   Is it proper form to eulogize a dog?  Do I say a few words about Dylan?   What the fuck?

I'm sad.   I'm not much of a "pet person," but I loved that stinky little poodle.   Putting him in the ground tomorrow is going to suck, but, as the "man of the house" it's my duty to make it happen.   For now, I drink.  

I drink to Dylan- stinky, yappy little fucker that he was-I loved him.

I drink to my Mother- a woman of immesurable strength, who loved that dog so much, it was retarded.

I drink to my sister- tomorrow morning I have to tell her the bad news, pretty much fucking up her day.  I apologize in advance, sis.

Mostly, I drink to Mortality.   Death is inevitable.  We could drop at any time, for any number of reasons.   I salute all those who have gone before, be they human, animal, plant, or some sort of hybrid animal-plant thing that we don't even know about.   We are all going to die someday-the trick is to enjoy life while you can.

"Have a good time, all of the time."-Viv Savage

 

Whew, what a fucked up entry, especially considering I haven't typed in this blog for over a week.   That's me, motivated by death.   I actually have a bunch of other shit to write about, but that must wait, for I am sleepy.   I've got a funeral in the morning, you know...

 

*This title refers to a song by Mr. Bungle, about the family dog dying.  Go ahead and download it, you'll hate it.