Requium for a small dog

His name was Tai.

He was an abandoned mutt and ended up in a small cage at the Anti-Cruelty Society facility on LaSalle Street in Chicago. My daughters and I saw him and something clicked. We had a short "meet and greet" session with him in one of the adoption rooms. Our last dog, a papillon, had been hit by a car and died. We felt that the little pooch could fill the hole.

He only had one eye. We never learned how he lost the other one.

He weighed 10 pounds, soaking wet.

His fur was black, with a white diamond on his chest. As he aged, he turned grey in the muzzle, just like me.

The amount of hair he would shed in a week was roughly equivalent to his body weight.

He must have been a circus dog in a previous life. He could stand up on his hind legs to dance and twirl in circles, and he could sit up and beg for an hour non-stop. His vertical leap was equal to four times his height.

His favorite thing in the world was to play ball, but it had to be with his Special Ball. Other identical balls could not replace his Special Ball and would be ignored if thrown.

My car was his happy place. Tai was the best riding partner, and we drove from Evanston IL to Santa Fe NM a couple of times to visit my son.

If Tai liked you, he would show it by seeking physical contact. He didn't like to be forced into cuddles, however.

He was permanently scruffy due to his ferocious sense of bodily autonomy. No one was allowed to cut, brush or otherwise alter his fur. He would shift into his alter ego - the raging cyclops weasel from Hell - when he felt a boundary had been crossed. It was a surprising transition, and sort of terrifying.

He was with me during my horrific divorce. He performed amusing antics daily as I struggled in my new role as a single, working dad with two teenagers under my roof.

He followed me around constantly.

The only times he howled is when I played the harmonica. I think he was singing along, but it sounded like wails of anguish.

He made sure I got out for walks at least three times each day.

He was always glad to see me. The humans in my life were not always pleased when I arrived.

He loved the early part of the pandemic when I spent 95% of my time at home. He wanted to play fetch at least five times a day during that period.

Father Time is a thief, and Tai slowly got robbed. When he passed his 16th birthday, the robberies became frequent.

He couldn't run as fast or as far as he could when he was younger.

He lost his ability to jump on my bed.

He was diagnosed with mitral valve disesase, which leads to congestive heart failure. He was showing signs of congestive heart failure - coughing, wheezing, vomiting.

He was in pain from arthritis.

He would no longer tolerate wearing a leash or a collar.

He could no longer jump into the car, and he wouldn't let me pick him up.

His alter ego, the raging cyclops weasel from Hell, emerged more often, sometimes without warning.

He didn't want to leave his dog bed, even when offered treats.

And finally, he started falling down the stairs.

I have served as companion to seven dogs over the course of my life, and I have been present when three of them were euthanized. It was awful, but I told myself "They are just dogs - buck up and don't be weak."

I could not say that when it came time to end Tai's pain. He was not just a dog. He was my boon companion, my four-legged, one-eyed, 10 lb. therapist.

My fiancée and I knew that it was our responsibility as Tai's guardians to give him a good death. In fact, the word "euthanasia" is from the Greek words for "good death."

We called Olivia, a veterinarian who provides an in-home service. She is highly skilled, and a true angel of mercy.

It is a two-step process. First, a strong sedative is injected into the back muscle of the dog. Once the animal is asleep, the final drug is injected into a vein to stop the heart.

I held Tai in my lap. He was afraid. The first injection was painful and he screamed.

His distress didn't last long. He fell asleep. Olivia expertly handled the next step, and he was gone.

Yeah, our hearts broke.

Tai left us on March 19, 2025. His paraphernalia (food, beds, winter coats, leashes, poop bags) have been donated to our local animal shelter.

I kept his collar, and his Special Ball.

The house seems so quiet. I keep thinking it is time to walk Tai, and then I remember. I keep seeing him in the shadows of our home, and then I remember. I can hear his nails clicking on our hardwood floors in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, and then I remember. I know this is a common experience for people who have lost their dogs.

All this will pass, I guess. Maybe I will even come to enjoy the freedom of living a dog-free life.

For now, I will sit with this loss, and remember to be grateful for the 12 years of canine devotion that I received.

I'll always love the small dog named Tai.

 

Finding Lost Things

 

I am the guardian of a small, one-eyed black dog named Tai. He has been a fine companion through this horrible pandemic, usually cheerful and a very willing walking partner. We walk four times each day, including one long ramble through the neighborhood to our favorite local park. Tai has  been by my side for the past 8 years now, through the break-up of my second marriage, the move out of the marital home, and the myriad of crises that have arisen since the move. Yeah, he's just a dog and has no awareness of human foibles, but he comforted me. During this Covid-19 disaster, Tai helped me to stay somewhat sane.

The other day, Tai and I were on our morning walk. When we got back to the house, my keys weren't in my pocket. Damn! I must have dropped them while pulling the plastic bag from my coat pocket to pick up Tai's poop.  This was not a major calamity since I have spare keys, but it was annoying. I might have to change the locks.  I opened the house with my spare key, put Tai inside and started re-tracing my steps.  I had little hope of finding the keys. It was late autumn, and it was likely that the keys would be obscured by fallen leaves.

I was muttering under my breath. I had screwed up and now I was screwed. There is an alley that Tai and I often walk in the neighborhood - it's Tai's favorite place to drop a deuce.  I crept along behind the houses, eyes on the fence line.  I was on the verge of giving up when I saw something shiny in a pile of oak leaves - my keys!! 

There is no greater joy than finding something important that you were sure was lost.  The day seemed brighter and my elation lasted quite a while.

But of course, I did the same thing again a few days later. This time, I dropped the key to my backyard shed - a bigger problem because I had no spare key in my possession. I re-traced my steps to no avail. And then, yesterday morning, I was on a walk with Tai and a very good friend. I told her of my lost shed key.  She went into search mode, looked at the steps of a neighbor's house and there it was! So once again, I had that jolt of elation. This time, I was saved by my friend.

I have been married twice, divorced twice.  All my other relationships prior to and after my marriages also failed for various reasons that are  too boring and banal to describe in writing.  A few years ago, I gave up. I'm over 65 years old & retired now. I have a dog. I have hobbies. I have children & grandchildren. I have a few good friends. That's enough. I accepted that I had lost the chance to have a life partner.  I have given it the college try. I stopped looking for something I couldn't find.

Last April, I was taking Tai on his long walk through the neighborhood. I heard someone behind me call my name. I turned and saw a woman I knew from the local wine shop. Back in the years before Covid, we both went to the Friday evening wine tastings and we would chat a bit. She joined my dog & me on our walk that day and we had a pleasant conversation. 

And after a few months, I realized I had discovered another thing I had stopped looking for. This is unfolding day by day. I'm trying hard not to screw up or future trip. It's an unexpected chapter. It needs to progress without my efforts to guide or control it.

The past two years have been terrible for the United States, and the world. Covid-19 has killed millions. Trust in experts has faded. It appears that climate change is accelerating. Democracy is under attack. Violent crime is spiking.  But I feel hopeful. For me, something important that was lost has been found.

Just a stroll through the neighborhood after Independence Day

My brother once told me that a dog transforms a creepy stalker into a kindly, harmless pet owner.  This is true.  If you are walking your dog, you can dawdle and observe details, including the actions of your neighbors, and everyone smiles and waves.  If you don't have a dog as cover, someone might call 911.

I like to walk my dog around the 'hood and we often end up at Washington School - that is where we headed this morning, the day after Independence Day.   Washington  is housed in a stately building; the school was established 111 years ago.  All four of my children attended this school, so I have many memories of the place. 

This morning, I went past the school and had a look at Mendoza's Garden.  Mr. Mendoza is the head custodian of the school and has a gigantic green thumb.  He led the kids in establishing an outstanding native plants garden, plus a vegetable patch.  School is out, but Mr. Mendoza and his supporters must be on the job because the garden looks fabulous.  The head custodian is often the student's favorite adult in the school; I think Mr. Mendoza deserves all that affection.

Just past Washington School is the Robert Crown Center - a large recreational facility with an in-door ice rink, several softball/baseball diamonds and a  soccer pitch.  I watched some summer camp counselors leading some smallish children through a series of calisthenics - watching first and second graders exercise is a hoot.  The jumping jacks were especially creative.  There were also two middle aged guys doggedly jogging back and forth across the fields.  One was a very white person with no shirt, the other was a well-upholstered Hispanic man.  I admired their determination, and was glad that they were running, and I was not.

I also noticed that a great-great-grandfather of an elm tree had recently been marked with the Green Dot of Death.  In Evanston, we have a problem with Dutch Elm Disease - it has taken down some of our largest and oldest elm trees. When a diseased tree is identified, the city forestry folks dab it with a two inch circle of green paint. At a later date, the Tree Killers arrive and eliminate the quarantined individual.  This particular elm is massive; it stands between the Washington School playground and the Crown Center fields.  This old elm has cast its shade on dozens of generations of schoolchildren..  Whenever I see the Green Dot of Death, I feel pretty bad.

I hit a side street and saw this little guy:

 

This is the black-capped chickadee, a bright and cheerful bird.  He has that terrific song - two notes, descending in a whole step (A natural to G natural, I think).  This bird is more often heard than seen.

As I approached my house, I saw a fellow dog walker.  I know the dogs because I often walk by their house and they make a hellacious racket if they happen to be in the yard.  One dog is massive - a Newfoundland, a shaggy black bear of a canine with a gentle soul.  The second dog is a yappy little poodle/spaniel mix.  The dog walker was a wickedly fit young man in shorts - no shoes, no shirt.  He had some serious tattoos; didn't get a good look, but I thought I saw a large dragon-type image on his back.

There is an epidemic of rabbits in our area this year.  My small one-eyed dog wanted to go all coyote on their fuzzy little asses, but I wouldn't let him.  I dragged Tai away from the bunnies and went home.

So I really didn't see anything special during my stroll today, but it felt quietly special in spite of that.

A Good Dog

In January, we adopted a new dog.  His name is Tai, and he only has one eye.  The folks at the Anti-Cruelty Society didn't know what happened to him, but I suspect that another, larger dog attacked him.  Tai has gradually settled into our household.  He isn't very big, but he has a big dog attitude.  He has a focused spirit - beams in on his favorite humans and can pick up on tone of voice, moods, gestures and a surprisingly long list of words.  He is tolerant of his fellow pets in our house.   Oh, and he believes that Life Is A Ball.  When you throw a ball for him, he is fulfilling his purpose in the world. Focus on the ball, be the ball, chase the ball, fetch the ball.  He would rather play ball than eat.

Tai has a small bag of tricks.  He can give "high fives" (but you have to give him a treat afterwards).  He will dance on his hind legs.  But his best trick is the one-eyed stare.  He will sit and watch you, looking for signals.  I feel that he sometimes reads my mind, but of course this is a ridiculous idea.  He is just a little, scruffy, one-eyed dog who is dialed into the human who feeds him.

While dogs probably don't feel "love" the way we humans define that emotion, there is certainly some kind of deep connection between dogs and people.  Of course, dogs don't understand the details of human lives so they are never judgmental.  If you have done something that has brought scorn down on your head, your dog doesn't know about that and will still be glad to see you.  If you come back from the gym smelling ripe and gross, your dog will not complain - he probably prefers you in that condition. 

So I talk a lot to Tai.  He cocks his head at me and trains his remaining eye on my face; he focuses and gives me silent attention (which is quite rare in human society).  After a while, he brings me his ball and seems to say "enough with the blah blah - let's get down to the Meaning of Life - MY BALL!"