I met Kieko
when she was about 75 -- in dog years anyway. Kieko was Gloria's
golden retriever, best friend, protector and mother confessor.
They had been companions for about nine human years when I reappeared
on Gloria's radar, an ex-husband begging for another chance.
Of course, Kieko had originally been Eric's dog, then Mark's
after Eric moved out, but de facto, she was Gloria's
dog from day one and especially during the hard, lonely days
following the breakup of a second marriage.
At first,
while she tolerated me as a courtesy to her mistress, Kieko
had obviously decided to withhold judgment for a time, given
that the last man in their life had proved less-than-worthy
of the human to whom she had dedicated and devoted herself.
This judgment-in-abeyance was never more evident than the first
time Gloria and I chose to retire to the boudoir for some serious
-- if frustratingly sublimated -- pre-marital necking. She whined
and barked (Kieko, that is), pacing up and down beside the bed,
then resting her snout on the mattress, sniffing in confusion
over who this interloper might be. Gloria didn't bark once and
she whined very little.
As time went
on and it became obvious to Kieko that I was now part of the
family, she welcomed me with the kind of loyalty, fidelity and
love that I had never before experienced in a pet -- and only
once in a woman. Prior to Kieko, I'd always been more of a cat
person; a detail the old girl seemed more than willing to forgive
as long as I treated her mistress with the same kind of loyalty,
fidelity and love as she did. It's a promise I intend to keep.
We lived in
Park City at the time and Kieko still manifested plenty of youthful
energy and zeal to chase a ball, accompany me on jog-walks and
pace up and down with me as I mowed the lawn each Saturday.
Towards the end of our P. C. sojourn, I noticed that she was
acting a little stiffer after our outings and her eyes were
a little cloudier than when we first met, but then, I imagined
that she was noticing the same things in me.
As life would
have it, Gloria, Kieko and I -- along with Sara, Mark and our
pet cat, Haley -- moved three times before we settled into our
current home in Bountiful. With each move and its accompanying
hustle-bustle, Kieko grew a bit more confused, a little stiffer,
a little blinder, a little needier and a lot more flatulent.
By the time we got to Bountiful, the bulk of her day consisted
of following Gloria around and plopping down in just the place
so as to be in everybody's way and passing gas with a great
sigh of relief. I actually think she took comfort in the gouged
ribs and the near-curses that assaulted her as we tripped and
stumbled and choked our way over and around her. She knew we
cared, even when we barked.
I wish this
story had a happy ending, but, like a minor seventh chord on
my guitar, it resonates with melancholy combined with a sense
of incompleteness. We had to put Kieko down the Monday after
Christmas.
The day was
cold and snowy -- just the kind of day she loved. In better
times, Kieko was one to frolic and gambol in snow, creating
dog-angels as she rolled and waggled, all four legs kicking
high into the air. I have to admit that I seriously considered
suggesting we put-off our last-mile trip to the veterinarian
that day. After all, there was no sense compounding our pain
with a fender-bender that could be avoided. But, alas, the moving
finger had writ and Kieko's time was at hand.
We took photos.
We posed and laughed and cried and hugged. Then Gloria took
her into our bedroom for a private farewell. She told her everything
that was going to happen and how much we all loved her and would
miss her. Kieko seemed to understand and came out of the room
much perkier.
At the vet's,
however, Kieko struggled not to get out of the car. I felt like
the Grim Reaper incarnate as I finally wrapped my arms around
her and lifted her out. "How can you do this to me?!"
I read in her foggy eyes. "Haven't I given you all the
love you deserve and then some? Take me home... Please!"
I lowered her to the ground and took her collar in a near choke-hold.
Gloria, Mark and Sara followed us inside.
We were ushered
into a little room with a tile floor and a sofa. "Conference
Room," it said on the door. The vet and her assistant went
over the procedure with us and then took Kieko out to give her
a shot to relax her. We made small talk and tried to keep our
composure. Soon, Kieko returned. She wagged and wagged her tail
until I knew my heart would burst. She sniffed each of us and
tried to wag us into better spirits. She had a shunt in her
leg where the final injection would be administered.
The assistant
laid a blanket on the floor and each of us took turns saying
our goodbyes as Kieko gradually grew drowsier and drowsier.
Sara chose to leave the room. I wanted to grab our dog -- my
doggie... mine! -- and run for the door. I sat and held
Gloria. It was time.
The vet produced
a syringe of secobarbitol that looked big enough to kill a pack
of hounds. She attached it to the shunt and applied slow pressure
to the plunger. The pale, liquid death flowed out of the syringe
and into our family's best friend. We watched in horror and
fascination. Kieko's breathing became a pant as she struggled
in vain to hold the breath of life for a few extra seconds.
This was wrong! Life was to be preserved at all costs. This
was right! Kieko would have suffered needlessly for a few more
days or weeks and then died a miserable death. It was more than
this cat lover had ever bargained for. I tried to be brave.
I failed.
And as we
gazed on, it was as though Kieko sort of melted into the rug,
becoming just another inanimate object in the room. Her bowels
relaxed and we were olfactorily reminded that our home wouldn't
be the same without her. We laughed through our tears.
"She's
gone home," the vet told us. We asked to be alone and held
a family prayer. We asked Heavenly Father to comfort us in the
knowledge that she would be a part of our family in the eternities
to come.
So now we
have the empty dog dish and the frayed collar and the photos
and the memories of our missing family member. What we don't
have is Kieko, always underfoot, foul-smelling and unquestioning
in her devotion.
How I miss
her!
If I have
one regret, it is that I never got to take her to California
-- to introduce her to Dog Beach,
where I used to live, and watch her play in the surf with the
other goldens. But Kieko loved the cold, so maybe it wouldn't
have been that big a deal to her.
And so we
go about our daily routine, still watching our step to make
certain we don't stumble over her, then pausing as the realization
strikes home, yet again. I don't know if we'll ever get another
dog. It's too soon. Meantime, I'll strum a lot of minor seventh
chords on my guitar, close my eyes and visualize our Kieko,
now a dog-angel frolicking in the snows of Heaven.
###
Other
Entries:
