A Dog Year

by Jon Katz

  One of the neighbors had looked out her window and seen me lying in the street, the paramedics reported. She’d naturally assumed I’d suffered a coronary and dialed 911.

  What was there to say? I assured them that I was healthy, thanked everybody, and, mortified, turned to head for home.

  “Wish I was your dog,” the cop muttered, climbing back into his cruiser and driving away.

  Fending off an overjoyed Stanley, I carried the ball home and boiled it.

  But for Stanley’s last visit, I’d brought it upstate with me and I threw it behind the cabin, a fraction of the normal distance. Stanley lunged happily after it, pouncing when he got close, then faithfully bringing it back to me. He took his retrieval duties very seriously.

  A little later, we drove to Merck Forest, Stanley’s favorite walking place. Something about the forest sparked him; he’d romp through the trees, woofing in delight, and bring me sticks and dead animal parts.

  I left Jules and Devon in the Trooper, and Stanley and I walked down the trail a ways. I sat on a log and he came over and put his head in my lap. We had a long embrace. Then we visited his other haunts, the Battenkill and the lake, and I tossed the ball for him, stopping when he panted. I wanted to remember him healthy and vital and full of life.

  Back at the cabin, we rested a while. I took him on as many walks as he wanted, fed him as many biscuits as he could eat, threw his ratty old ball again and again.

  By late afternoon he was exhausted, and he curled up on his bed, breathing heavily, but still wagging his tail, licking me as I leaned over to hug him. He passed out until nearly nightfall.

  Watching him sleep so peacefully, a part of me wished he would die in that bed, and spare us both the next week, the waiting and dread.

  A person who makes his living from words, I simply have none to describe what I felt. My friend Jeff said he couldn’t look at me, there was so much sadness.

  But I was overwhelmed with gratitude, too, for Stanley’s companionship and love and cheerful presence during the past seven years.

  At dusk, the other dogs and I accompanied Stanley on his last walk on the mountain, down the driveway, down the mountain road, into his favorite meadow, where he sniffed the flowers and weeds and stared up at the birds. I thought Julius and Devon seemed to hang back a bit as I walked alongside Stanley, but I might have imagined that.

  The three of us had spent hours here, looking out at the magnificent views to the west, sharing lunch or a snack. I remembered the wind rising from the hills, sometimes gentle, sometimes brisk, caressing us, the Three Amigos.

  When we got back, I offered Stanley the ball, but he didn’t seem interested. It was as powerful a statement as there could be about what had to be done.

  He passed up treats and biscuits, too, just lumbered over to his bed and didn’t move again until the next morning.

  But he had had an almost perfect Stanley day, and I felt good about that.

  Four days later, at eight a.m., I drove Stanley to Dr. King’s office. Her receptionist asked if I wanted to be with him when he got the injection. Of course I did. I wouldn’t let him die alone.

  Dr. King barely said a word. “You sure this is the right thing?” I asked, and she nodded. We both knew the fewer words, the better. Besides, there was really nothing to say.

  I sat on the floor with him, holding him, setting his blue ball down beside him. Dr. King injected a dose of yellow anesthesia into his rump. In a few minutes, he wouldn’t be feeling anything, she said.

  I felt an almost desperate panic. Maybe I should stop this; maybe it wasn’t too late. But I fought back the urge.

  “Thank you,” I said, hugging him. “Thank you, thank you.” He struggled to get to his feet, couldn’t manage, looked bewildered and disoriented. He licked my hands, then started to cough and tremble. “I love you, pal, I love you, I love you.” I couldn’t stop crying now.

  His eyes dilated and he lay flat on the floor, his legs splayed at an odd angle. I rearranged him so he would have more dignity, kept stroking him.

  I wish there’d been a better, more pastoral place to do this, a sunny meadow rather than a cold linoleum floor. But Stanley probably didn’t know where he was anymore.

  A few minutes later, Dr. King came back into the room with another needle and asked if I was okay, if I was ready. I nodded. She injected the needle, and I put my hand on Stanley’s big heart. I could feel it stop.

  She listened with her stethoscope. “He’s gone,” she said.

  I kissed him on his nose, patted his head, and left the room.

  I knew there were lots of people in the waiting room, including kids, so outside the door I literally sucked it up, taking a deep breath. One of Dr. King’s assistants wordlessly handed me some tissues. I said goodbye to the somber vet, who nodded and patted me on the shoulder.

  The waiting room held the usual eclectic assortment of cats, dogs, and, over in one corner, a little girl clutching her rheumy-eyed puppy.

  I smiled at her. “Don’t worry,” I told her as I left. “Dr. King will take good care of your puppy.”

  Eight

  Weirdville

  * * *

  Soon after Devon arrived, I’d gotten an intriguing offer from the University of Minnesota: come this fall and teach a course of your own design about technology and culture.

  The invitation stemmed from a column I’d written for Slashdot.org, the Web site that’s my online home base, a geeky gathering place where I write a column about media, culture, and technology. The column in question was called “Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, and the Unabomber,” and it discussed the bizarre way Americans create powerful new technologies but don’t like to give much consideration to how they will be used. (Much the way, now that I think about it, we often acquire dogs.)

  I liked Minneapolis and St. Paul and was keen on getting to know both cities better, and since Paula would be traveling to research a magazine story, it could be good timing. The U, as it is known, would let me come for a semester, or half of one, or just for a month.

  The idea of spending a few weeks talking with students about the Net, the Web, and technology was a potent lure. Nobody knows this new world better than they do. My stint on campus might be good for them, but it would be great for me.

  The offer came from Professor Kathleen Hansen of the communications department, whom I’d met earlier that year while on a book tour. The department’s new media facilities were dazzling, and the students smart and down-to-earth. In addition, Kathy turned out to be the sort of person you can’t easily say no to, and who pays scant attention if you do.

  It was tempting, I told her. Usually I stayed clear of academe—the politics are too scary—but this could be a great way to teach: stay just long enough to meet people, learn something, and pass along a bit of what you know, then hightail away before it makes you crazy.

  But I couldn’t take her up on it. I had this new dog, I told her, a border collie, sort of a rescue dog, and if I left him alone with Paula for weeks, one of them might not survive. Besides, it would be awful for Devon if I took off at this point. He was just beginning to believe that I wouldn’t.

  Kathy didn’t blink at this long-winded explanation of why I would turn down a nice gig at a prestigious university because of a high-maintenance dog. “Bring him along,” she said. “We’ll find an apartment that takes dogs, and maybe we can get you permission to bring him to class.”

  Hmmm. A cross-country trek with the Helldog would either cement our relationship or destroy it for good. It had a nice Steinbeckian Travels with Charley ring to it, Devon and me in a car for days.

  “What if he were a therapy dog?” I asked.

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, he is.” Technically true. I was amazed to learn from Deanne that although he was an obedience-show dropout, Devon had apparently also been trained as a therapy dog to work in hospitals with victims of strokes and other health problems.

  I had actually taken him to the Kessl
er Rehabilitation Institute in East Orange to visit my dog-loving friend Pat—she’d had surgery, was recovering there, and had wangled permission to meet me and Devon in the lobby.

  I was skeptical—this was a place where the Helldog could wreak serious havoc—but because Pat pleaded, I drove over, put him on a leash, walked across the parking lot and into the lobby. Here the ever intriguing Devon metamorphosed again.

  Three people were sitting there in wheelchairs, and all of them nearly wept, they missed their own pets so much and wanted so badly to visit with Devon. Warily, holding him on a short leash, I walked him over to where the patients—two were amputees—were sitting.

  Devon walked up to the first chair and dropped to the ground. The elderly woman reached down to stroke him, and he licked her hand gently, his tail swishing.

  Then he walked to the second wheelchair and repeated the behavior—dropping to the ground, never jumping up or pawing, allowing himself to be petted, giving his cooing admirers a lick or two, then moving on. When Pat was wheeled off the elevator, he came over and did the same thing.

  He was a therapy dog! Think of all the grief I could have saved myself if I’d bought myself a wheelchair to ride around the neighborhood in. We visited Pat daily, and Devon was such a gentle, well-behaved smash that the nurses all assumed he was duly certified (Deanne says he is, though I’ve yet to see any documentation) and invited me to visit a couple of wards. We did.

  He proceeded with astonishing quiet, sensitive to whomever he was visiting. If someone couldn’t manage to reach down, he’d put his head in his or her lap for stroking. It seemed his bad behavior was reserved for people who told him what to do.

  This ushered in a whole new phase in our relationship. I began bringing Devon everywhere—to the dentist, the bookstore, a lecture at Princeton. It helped that in contemporary America, practically the worst crime is being insensitive. I walked Devon into the local CVS and was stopped by a security guard.

  “You can’t bring a dog in here, pal.”

  “He’s a therapy dog.”

  “Oh, sorry. Sorry. Please forgive me.”

  I used this almost honest tactic everywhere, to Devon’s great joy, since he loved going places with me—any place—entering new realms and receiving ooh’s and aaah’s from throngs. At the pet store, at Starbucks, no one ever asked me for proof of his therapeutic status, or even inquired as to what my particular need for a certified therapy dog might be.

  In truth, the one for whom this practice proved therapeutic was Devon. With each visit, his confidence and social skills grew. He loved coming along, seeing new sights, and meeting the public. He seemed to realize for the first time that he was a gorgeous dog, and that people were eager to pet him and talk to him. Eventually, he became puzzled if somebody didn’t.

  I could almost hear him working it out: “No sheep around here, but this isn’t so bad. I get to go every place and people actually like me. They really, really like me!”

  And what institution in all of America is the most sensitive and socially conscious of all? By far, academe.

  Two days after we’d talked, Kathy Hansen called back. “I told the administration you had to bring a therapy dog to class, and they said fine,” she said. I’m sure she sniffed a scam, but she didn’t really care. She was determined to get me out to the U.

  I did eventually get one call from a university administrator, who, with many apologies and much sensitivity, asked me—she had a form to fill out—exactly what the nature of Devon’s “therapy” was.

  Oh, it’s simple, I said. I have a bum leg (true) and fall down a lot (true). Devon’s job was to steer me away from holes and rough pavement. “Thank you,” she said. “I am so sorry for having to ask.”

  My initial plan was that Julius and Stanley would remain at home with Paula. They had often stayed behind when I traveled to research magazine pieces or books, enjoying their time in the backyard. A month would pass quickly. They’d keep each other company and give Paula no trouble. And then, soon after I’d agreed to spend October in Minnesota, there was only Jules.

  Jules was the opposite of Devon—patient, secure, very attached to Paula, and generally content with his lot in life. He didn’t like long-distance drives or disruptions of his routine. As for his state of mind, he seemed somber when I came home from the vet without Stanley, somewhat mopey and low-affect for much of the summer. But then, Julius was never particularly demonstrative. I have no doubt he missed his friend, but he rarely showed it in ways I could measure.

  So, after some agonizing about leaving him—though he’d been without me before, he hadn’t been without Stanley in years—we agreed. The adventurous Devon and I would head west. Jules would stay where things were comfortingly familiar. We made elaborate arrangements for Marilyn Leary—the professional dog walker he loved—and various dog-owning friends in the neighborhood to come visit and to help Paula walk him frequently.

  Once all that was arranged, I wasn’t worried about him. Julius was a very grounded dog, eternally good-natured. Though I would dearly miss his sweet gaze and companionship, he’d be fine. As for Paula, she accepted short absences from me with disturbing enthusiasm.

  The next crisis, I told Kathy, was that I didn’t want to crate Devon and put him on a plane. I’d seen how well that worked. No problem, she said; the school would rent a car.

  The only problem was that almost no apartment building in Minneapolis or St. Paul, it turned out, offered short-term leases for people with pets. In fact, the U had found only one—a vast garden-apartment complex for in-transit corporate execs, military personnel, and other new arrivals in a northwest suburb called Plymouth. It lacked charm, apparently, but I figured we’d survive.

  In late September, Devon and I drove west on I-80 in a small rented Oldsmobile, bound for Minnesota.

  Surprisingly, we had a fairly pleasant trip. I put a dog bed on the backseat, and Devon settled there for long periods. I kept the windows closed, unwilling to risk any lunging incidents, but now and then he put his head on my right shoulder and gazed at the onrushing highway, as vigilant and conscientious as any captain on the quarterdeck in a Patrick O’Brian novel.

  He rode that way for hours, taking a break to bark at trucks passing in the opposite lanes, taking in the view, too—the Pennsylvania woods, the Ohio factories, the Indiana traffic.

  At rest stops, we relieved ourselves and refueled, and we also found a way to provide Devon the exercise he needed. The stops were off the highway, often bordered by long narrow strips of grass.

  By now, Devon never chased anything without a special signal from me—a hand wave and the words “Go get ’em, boy.” He’d bark and shoot off, galloping about a hundred yards or until the grass ran out, then turn on a dime and roar back even faster, Hemp-like.

  He’d even locate the proper spot. At rest stops, he’d hop out of the car, trot over to a long grassy stretch, turn and stare at me. If I said no, we’d keep looking. If I said yes, and sounded excited, he’d drop into the classic herding position: head and tail down, eyes focused on the horizon, crouched and ready to spring on command.

  Big, rumbling trucks remained his favorite quarry. He could hear their special sound before I even spotted them and would go into the crouch. I’d hold my hand out in the “stay” position—he scrupulously observed this—until a truck drew almost even with us. Then I’d wave my hand and shout, “Go get ’em,” or “Okay!” He’d explode like a shell from a cannon, his legs pumping so fast they were a blur, running as far as he could, then turning. We often drew an admiring crowd after two or three trucks. But he hardly acknowledged the praise; when he was working, Devon was undistractible. He loved this “work” even more in the rain, when the truck tires hissed on the road.

  As it turned out, he also loved McDonald’s cuisine. After some intense truck-herding, I’d tie his leash to an outdoor picnic table in sight of the restaurant, go inside, and order him a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries. I’d get a chicken sandwic
h, or hold out for something lighter elsewhere. He was also wild about Egg McMuffins in the morning. Back outside, we’d chow down and I’d pour him some cold water. Then, back on the road.

  He couldn’t have had more fun if he’d been in northernmost Wales, tearing through the ravines after errant livestock.

  The first night, I pulled over at a Howard Johnson’s in Columbus, Ohio. Even this was Devon Heaven.

  The motel sat on a bluff right above I-80, a giant chain-link fence separating a long strip of weedy lawn from the road below. Half the trucks in the world seemed to be rumbling right below us in the darkness. You could hear them and see their headlights miles away.

  It was a cool but not uncomfortable night. I was too tired from driving to read or go out. I had a lot more driving ahead. But this was perfect recreation: Devon and I had a blast sitting on that bluff. I became adept at spotting the biggest, loudest tractor trailers, and Devon, at my signal, took off down the strip in hot pursuit, coming back to do it again.

  After an hour or so, we reluctantly walked back to our motel room and I called Paula. “We had a great evening,” I reported. “We were out chasing trucks on I-80. We’re both exhausted and ready for bed.”

  There was a longish pause. “Sounds great,” she said. “Travel is broadening.”

  After that, we picked motels carefully, keeping the truck-to-fence-to-grassy-strip ratio very much in mind. Devon got the motel routine down quickly. He’d wait until I was asleep, then hop into bed. I generally awoke with his head on one of my shoulders. He was a happy, calm creature. I was grateful, every time I looked at him, that he had come into my life.

  We munched and herded ourselves halfway across America, Devon’s head on my shoulder, helping me to navigate, for nearly two thousand miles.