Again I must apologize for the tardiness of a blog, in this case the present one. The sweet-faced dog you see in the photo above partly explains the delay. In her earliest days, Bo resided in the hallway of a tenement in Lowell, Massachusetts, before she was brought in--along with her mother--by her owner to the Lowell Humane Society. Bo was just a few months old.
Though I don't know the details of Bo's mother's condition, she was in such bad shape that employees at the Humane Society immediately put her to sleep. Bo herself was emaciated and covered with her own filth, but given a bath then put up for adoption. The staff named her "Bo" for her "body odor," because she had smelled so horribly when she came in.
I did not adopt her directly from the shelter, though. In the autumn of 1995 a friend of mine, Jane Karol, the owner of Bear Spot Farm, drove there to adopt two kittens for me, and then saw poor Bo. Though she already had three dogs at her farm, Jane could not leave behind the lonely looking pup. Jane delivered the two little kittens to me and that was when I first saw Bo. She was a plain looking shepherd mix whose front legs were clutched fearfully around Jane's neck.
Bo resided at Bear Spot Farm for the next several months. She would spend the days at the farm and nights at Jane's house with Jane's husband, their daughter, and their other dogs. But one day Bo's tail was stepped on by a horse. A vet was summoned and part of her tail had to be removed because the bones had been crushed. At that time things were unusually hectic for Jane and her husband, so I offered to take Bo home for a couple of days so she could recuperate in an environment more conducive to healing.
I frequently went to Bear Spot--my Andalusian gelding Navarro was in training with Jane. And Bo never failed to greet me effusively. In fact, she often would jump into the car if I left the door open: big hint. So, from time to time--with Jane's permission, of course, I brought her home for sleep-overs. I had grown very attached but we already had two dogs and my husband--quite sensibly--did not want another. On a couple of occasions he actually returned her to Bear Spot when I would find saying good-bye a little too difficult. But a few more trips to our house and Bo had won Jim's heart as well.
Temperamentally Bo was a quiet, reticent dog, and Jane agreed that a calmer atmosphere would suit Bo more. So, at age eight months Bo became a permanent member of our family. It did take her quite a while to enjoy going out on trail rides with the horses. (The tale of the broken tail!) At first, I took her on a leash, but soon let her loose with the other dogs. Next, I walked her on a leash while leading our Shetland pony Kip. We got to the point where Bo would run around loose and stay with us during the pony walk.
And, finally, she went out with the horses, though at the half-way point on the first few trips anxiety would kick in and she would run full tilt for home. I would return to find her on the steps, tongue out, breathing heavily after her mile-long run. However, after a couple of more trips Bo was a committed trail dog and went with us for miles. She was always up for a good gallop and loved checking out the streams and swimming in the local ponds.
Bella and Bo Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2002
When she wasn't out on the trails with me, Bo watched over the farm with dedication. In fact, she is the reason that I have been able to witness as many coyotes and foxes crossing the property as I have. As soon as she sounded the alarm I'd grab my camera. Here is a coyote who came for a leisurely, self-guided tour through Windflower:
Coyote sighting courtesy of Bo's alert Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2003
A different coyote happened into our pasture while Bo was in our fenced-in yard. She let out an aggressive succession of barks and trotted authoritatively towards toward the intruder. The coyote seemed not at all troubled by Bo. In fact, he took a few mock aggressive canter steps towards her. And that did it for Bo, the farm dog. She tucked tail and sped up the stairs to our deck. There she continued to bark her threats from a loftier position of safety.
Bo was not a traveler. Once my husband took her to our family's lakeside cottage in Pennsylvania, but she was not happy. We joked that Bo must have thought we got divorced and "he" got the dog. She took up residence next to Jim's car door, hoping and hinting that it should be opened soon. Jim took her on a rowboat ride, which she found scary. She wanted to feel the stable earth under her paws. One of those nights, an unusually warm November night--a few hours before dawn--Jim went out to watch the Leonid Meteor showers. Bo accompanied. While Jim marveled at the sight, she was was utterly perplexed. When I went along on the next trip to the cottage, we brought Bo along again. She was less anxious with me there, but did not enjoy the woods as she did at home. She seldom ventured further than ten feet from me. And each time we walked near the car, she trotted hopefully to the door. The message was clear: she loved us but would be happier if she could love us at our farm. Other than routine trips to the vet--which she detested--that would the last trip away from home for Bo. She was our Windflower Farm dog.
As years passed and she grew older Bo began to slow down. More often than not she now declined to go out on the trail with the horses. So we would take her on brief walks, which she enjoyed. Eventually, arthritis began to invade her hips. Soon on medication, she seemed to be content to sit or lie on the lawn preserving her status as guardian of us all. Nights were spent as they had been since her puppyhood--sleeping next to our bed. Increased wobbliness led to more medications. She became periodically incontinent, and sometimes we would have to help her get down the steps of the house and onto the lawn.
Jim and I began to discuss when we should end her life. The governing factor had to be that it would occur when Bo was no longer happy. But she was happy! She still trotted around, ate with gusto, and gave us copious licks. Sometimes she would slip, fall, and be unable to get up, but with a pair of helpful human hands she was up and gamely about.
More medication was followed by some improvement, but she was now sleeping over twenty hours a day. The number of falls escalated. Still, she seemed chipper when awake and took her tumbles as part of the daily routine. But we were under no illusions--it wouldn't be long before she couldn't enjoy her days. Our vet kindly agreed to come to our house if need be. But Bo would be nervous if he showed up. No dummy, she knew that the sight of this kindly man meant needles. Also, we knew that the drugs used in euthanasia are highly toxic to the environment. We could cremate her, thus neutralizing the contamination but, again, the use of energy involved in that process is huge. Jim and I began to discuss if we had the courage to shoot her.
I e-mailed Dr. Jay Merriam and asked him his views on euthanasia by firearm. His reply was both informative and supportive. In Jay's own words:
This is a tough one. Many times I load a horse with euthanasia solution to watch it go into a hole that’s already half full of groundwater. So probably, incineration is the least toxic and it’s usually done only when there are several so the energy costs are lower. I agree that a well placed bullet is by far the most humane and least toxic, but not many clients here will allow it nor will the police allow me to carry a sidearm. And the insurance folks don’t want me to either. But it’s instantaneous and humane.
I must admit, that I usually ask an associate to do my dogs and horses because it’s hard to hit a vein when you’re sobbing…
I talked again with this wonderful, compassionate man. (You will remember from earlier blogs that he and his team of vets operated on Dolly, making her much more comfortable.) He emphasized that attitudes towards euthanasia by firearm vary geographically. Jay is from Kansas and told me that there as, in other agricultural states, that method is not given a second thought. That certainly fit with all the westerns I had watched as a child.
He went on to say that in Great Britain all large animal vets are required to carry a pistol, not only to dispatch clients' animals but also wild animals that are fatally injured. The police there (and, apparently here) often have neither the knowledge nor the experience to do the job correctly and therefore humanely. Jay suggested Jim and I go to a web site to learn the correct trajectory if that was to be our plan.
I checked out a variety of sites and stared at the relevant diagrams. I felt my own needs press ahead of our dog's. And then we remembered an additional concern. While I was in the Navy--I was still single--I adopted a six year-old girl from Colombia. After she was found on the streets of Cali badly beaten and malnourished--once at age three, then at five--the child welfare agency removed her from her parents' custody and put her up for adoption. As a teenager Marleny was able to tell us that when she was three or four years old, she had a little dog that she adored. Marleny herself was not fed sufficiently but would scavenge for scraps under the table. Then this brave little girl would go outside and share them with that puppy. Marleny often slept the entire night outdoors with her friend in her arms. But one day Marleny's father shot the dog in front of her solely for the sadistic pleasure of inflicting emotional pain on his little daughter.
A house call by a syringe-holding vet was beginning to have more appeal. But last Sunday morning Bo took that option away from us. I let her out to pee at five a.m.. She trotted about the lawn wagging her tail, and, remarkably, had no trouble either getting down or up the front steps. After she was back on her bed, I went back to mine. When I awoke she was sound asleep so I went about the usual business of the day: I made coffee and went out to feed the horses their breakfast. Back in the house I took my mug and sat at the table. I was a few pages into this month's Dressage Today when I heard Bo crying. When I got to her she was struggling to stand but this time all four legs were completely failing. And her head was oddly tilted. I called Jim: I couldn't get her up by herself. A stroke? Kidney failure? A clot?
We transferred her to the dog bed in our family room and looked at each other. She couldn't stand at all, let alone get up or walk. And this sudden, complete disability clearly distressed her. It was time. But it was a bad time: early Sunday morning. We would have to place the already alarmed Bo into the car, and drive her to an emergency clinic to have her put to sleep. She would hate it and she would be afraid.
Once we made Bo more comfortable--gave her some water and a biscuit--we drove to the local gun club where both Jim and and my son Alec occasionally shoot trap. Many of the members would be there for Sunday breakfast and practice. Jim had an FID license but was not authorized to carry a pistol. Ed, one of the members who had a pistol with him, and was licensed, kindly offered to follow us to our house.
We carried Bo--still on her bed--onto the front lawn. She was perplexed that she couldn't get up to greet us, but she was not worried. I ran into the house, grabbed the peanut butter, and offered Bo several tablespoons. I had always put her pills in it. The peanut butter made her happy and kept her busy. As Ed handed him the gun, Jim told me to get into the house because he thought it would be easier, but I stayed. I was not going to leave Bo. Ed put his arms around me. A shot cracked through the morning air: She was no more.
Jim and I embraced and I thanked him: I had been willing to pull the trigger but it had been over twenty-five years since I had practiced. We both hugged Ed good-bye then set about the business of digging Bo's grave. We chose a spot on our lawn under some pine trees a few feet from the path that led out to the trails she had traveled so happily for so many years. Jim and I were not capable of doing any work that day so we held hands a lot, drank cups of tea, and went to a distracting movie.
We called our son and daughter and told them the sad news. Marleny said the use of gun had at first shocked her but that she understood and gave me permission to write about her father and her little dog. When our son Alec was small--maybe six--our border collie died suddenly. Between his sobs he asked me somewhat angrily, "Why do we have them if they make us this sad when they die?"
I wish I could remember what I said. I hope it was something like: "Though it might not feel it now, this awful pain you are feeling now will lessen and you will remember all the friendship, unconditional love, and wonderful fun he shared with us. And in the end it will have been worth these horrible feelings."
Bo was not what our society would define as a great dog. She didn't do agility or obedience and was deathly afraid of frisbees. She couldn't catch a ball to save her life. She had no employment. She didn't sniff bombs, find drugs, rescue earthquake or avalanche victims, or guide the blind or disabled. She wasn't handsome nor was she pretty. She was a discarded mutt who had found a home with us, and was a member of our family for nearly sixteen years. But she loved and was loved. And what could be greater than that?
-- Ainslie
Ainslie Sheridan copyright 2011
