Incarnadine

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Note: I realize that to the casual reader, this essay may seem a tad melodramatic at best and, at worst, exceedingly overwrought. I ask that you please bear with me, as next to laughter, writing is the most effective therapeutic tool I have at my disposal. Thank you for your consideration. - John

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I still miss her; I know now that I always will.

I remember the last time I saw Josie, our family's beloved half-pint Scottish Terrier, as distinctly as if it were yesterday. More correctly, I could never forget it, even if I wanted to. That day left indelible impressions on my mind; though it was laden with bittersweet emotions and a pervasive sense of loss and sadness, its memory shall remain a treasured possession until I, too, have departed from the earth.

Josie was a major part of my life for many years - we literally grew up together. I'm not the least bit ashamed to admit that I truly loved that diminutive dog, and the proverbial "hole in my heart" left by her departure last October has proven difficult, if not impossible, to repair completely.

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There's a reason that Scotties are nicknamed "little diehards." Born as the so-called runt of her litter, a condition that historically dictates a lowered chance of survival, Josie lucked out by managing to secure a spot in our adopted animal family (which had consisted primarily of cats up to this point). As the story goes, my well-intentioned father initially acquired the purebred pup as a gift for my dear mother, but for reasons unknown, the tiny, rambunctious ball of fuzz took a serious liking to yours truly.

Call it puppy love if you will (sorry, bad joke), but thirteen years later, I still haven't the faintest clue as to precisely why we got along so well. Various theories abound; for example, the dog and I were known to share select personality traits, and had similar temperaments. However, with Scottish blood running through my veins as well as hers, it is difficult to determine exactly who rubbed off on whom.

Regardless, we quickly became the best of friends and, in those early years, we were virtually inseparable. As a matter of fact, I'm convinced that without Josie, I more than likely would have ended up being a cat person (not that there's anything wrong with that). I vaguely recall being somewhat leery of dogs and their periodically disgusting and/or disturbing antics. For her part, the little Scottie moved in and immediately went about changing my perceptions - well, some of them, anyway.

Being raised around our cats from a very young age must have crossed a few wires in Josie's brain somewhere along the line, as she would often attempt cat-like maneuvers. Obviously, her compact frame was sorely lacking the felines' more refined physical attributes, but this didn't stop her from trying to scale easy chairs and sit in windowsills. Oh, and if you've never witnessed a Scottish Terrier relaxing in a windowsill without a care in the world, you may not have ever truly laughed.

Another odd personality quirk was Josie's apparent fear of the dark. Rarely, if ever, would she venture into our basement alone if the standard light bulb had burned out, and if she did end up down there with no lights on, it was for one reason only: to steal the cats' food. As you might imagine, her interactions with the cats themselves ranged from hilarious to downright dangerous, but over time they mostly grew to accept one another. We also did our best to take Josie's weirdness in stride, because on the flip side of those loose screws, she was an excellent guard dog, a good judge of human character and an accomplished vermin hunter.

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Flash forward to early 2007: Josie's health had been in a state of general decline for at least a year or more, due to the natural process of aging as well as inherent genetic weaknesses (e.g. bladder disorders). Her voice, once bold and powerful with a decidedly "masculine" tone, began to lose its timbre. The eyes, which had always shone so brightly, grew dull over time like a pair of unpolished jewels.

She began to sleep much more heavily and for longer periods; this seemed to coincide with a gradual and almost complete loss of hearing. Patches of silver fur grew ever more conspicuous as she eventually became a living metaphor, a frightening, undeniable physical representation of my own mortality and that of those around me. Finally, the onset of kidney failure prompted our family to make the most humane choice available.

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The day before Josie was scheduled to be euthanized (October 26th, 2007), I travelled to my parents' house for a final, solemn visit as twilight approached. I had not made plans to accompany her to the veterinarian's office the next day, though I literally agonized over this decision for weeks; I finally ended up staying away during the procedure, and true to form, have regretted it ever since. Strangely, I felt like I had betrayed her, and cursed myself for not being there when she may have needed me most, in the last few minutes of her life. I was later able to forgive myself by rationalizing that my presence could have potentially made things worse, as I had no idea how I might react or whether Josie would pick up on my emotions (which she typically did).

While I tried to prepare myself mentally for what I knew was going to happen, I also kept in mind the lesson I had learned from my grandmother's five-year struggle with Alzheimer's disease: no amount of preparation can fully insure your mind against the shock of losing a loved one and the subsequent waves of grief. I arrived at my folks' house within minutes, as they lived very close to me at the time, and on approaching the front door I suddenly felt a rather awkward combination of sadness and relief.

It was as if I knew a weight was about to be lifted from my shoulders, but I had grown accustomed to the weight, was comfortable with it, and feared its removal. Maybe that's not the best analogy, but you get the picture. Now, this dog had broken my heart a thousand times - probably as payback for leaving her alone with a bunch of cats - and tonight would be no different. For years, every time I paid my family a visit and then got ready to leave, Josie would figure out what was going on and proceed to extract a heavy toll from my conscience, simply by putting on her best sad face and making eye contact. The only thing worse than "depressed dog guilt" is "mom guilt."

Well, Josie was very excited to see me (the feeling was mutual), and I noticed that she seemed to be unusually thrilled and animated, despite her rapidly fading health and, in retrospect, shockingly thin appearance. After she had calmed down a bit, I brought her out into the yard one last time - Josie and I had enjoyed numerous walks together throughout the years, and in my mind, I felt that this act might possibly net the two of us a smidgen of closure.

Following her obligatory rituals of sniffing the ground and barking at nothing in particular as I watched in amusement, the little dog sat down by herself next to the driveway, appearing quite contented, if slightly stoic. I walked over, kneeled down and took her frail body into my arms, leaning my face down next to hers and talking softly, reassuringly, as I had done in years past while subjecting her to the indignity of a flea bath. I pulled her shivering form closer to my chest and rested my face against hers; in a display of canine affection, she licked my ear. The tip of her tail wagged, almost imperceptibly at first, as I continued to hold on tightly, not just to my dog, but to my childhood, to my hopes, dreams and fears. Although it may sound ludicrous, I'd like to think that within this moment, Josie and I said our good-byes.

Afterward, I took her back inside and spent a couple of hours hanging out with the dog and my folks. I then clipped a lock of her rough, wiry fur, gave her a hug and did my best to leave gracefully, without creating too much of a scene. It wasn't until the following Tuesday afternoon that I was able to stop by the house and visit her grave site in the backyard.

I sadly placed my right hand on the mound of dirt and took a moment to reflect, then told Josie that I loved her and would always miss her, and left a handful of delicate flowers on her grave. Upon returning home, I finally broke down and wept.

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For several weeks after Josie's death, I was utterly despondent, though I did find some comfort in the knowledge that she was no longer in pain, and had enjoyed a good, long life, surrounded by people who cared about her. To this day, I occasionally battle intense and overwhelming feelings of guilt and remorse, as my subconscious mind torments me with haunting replays of myriad "what-if" scenarios.

I just keep thinking that I could have done more, and certainly should have tried - any creature capable of possessing and displaying the capacity for such unconditional love and devotion deserves a wholehearted attempt at reciprocation. For well over a decade, Josie remained fiercely loyal to our family and to me, a trait commonly associated with dogs in general and Scotties in particular. Would that I could muster the same unabashed dedication, but as the years fell away and I prepared to graduate from high school, I began to split my own loyalties amongst an ever-growing collection of associates and pastimes, as teenage boys are known to do.

I now realize that this process of "branching out" was an essential component in my development of successful interpersonal relationships. For a time, though, I wrestled with my heart on the matter, frustrated by my own ineptitude and believing that I had abandoned Josie (among others) without reason or intent. This fear was compounded by my belief that dogs are unable to understand or contextualize the majority of behaviours exhibited by their owners.

Being human, we are in many cases naturally gifted with such abilities as rapid comprehension of, and clear perspective on, a given situation; but a dog only knows what it sees. I can apologize to my parents for all the mistakes I've made, and rest assured that they follow my meaning. However, there is no easy way to explain to a pet that you were "not quite yourself yesterday."

In my twenty-five years of existence thus far, I've done plenty of things that I'm not exactly proud of (though I see this as an unavoidable aspect of the human experience); these actions have caused varying degrees of pain to the people who care about me the most. Admittedly, there are a few personality wrinkles that I am still in the process of "ironing out," and to this end, Josie's death has actually helped me in some ways.

Her passing served as yet another reminder that our days on this planet are numbered, and that life should not be taken for granted under any circumstances. Like all good relationships, this one afforded me the opportunity to learn a lot about myself - and despite the pain, I'll always be thankful that Josie and I had a chance to experience one of the purest forms of friendship.

I will never forget her.

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The love between a boy and his dog is a well-documented phenomenon, but in my experience it can be rather difficult to put into words. While it absolutely does not exceed or transcend the love I share with my fellow human beings, it is on an eerily similar level. I am of the opinion that the complex, yet primal nature of the relationship established between man and canine is perhaps better left under a shroud of mystery. After all, why fix what isn't broken?

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