Good Dog Epilogue

“I think I better go wake him,” states Simba’s strongest owner. “Regardless of what happens, he won’t be going to school tomorrow. Do you think you can keep him still?”

“Oh, I think so,” is the hushed reply from the motherly owner. Slowly she removes the ice-pack from the canine spine and moves to position herself just behind the dog on the basement stair landing. She reaches across on bent knees, continuing to stroke Simba’s muzzle. The paternal pup owner stands and takes a deep breath; preparing himself for the task he is about to undertake.

It is shortly after midnight. Simba’s youngest owner must be awakened. Almost two years ago the spirited border collie survived a serious accident with the school bus. Tonight with no warning he is discovered dying; it’s uncertain how much time there will be to say good-bye.

It is a shocking, gut-wrenching way to bring Thanksgiving weekend to a close – but beyond the darkness of it all, somehow appropriate. Since the bus accident, there has been a mutual revival of appreciation.  Long walks around the fields, chases through the farm buildings, truck rides to town, and tennis balls too numerous to recollect. 

At first, the extra time spent was a prescribed means to rehabilitate a pet. Agile bodies, healthier attitudes and stronger emotional bonds were the unexpected consequences for all. Tonight, a period of extraordinary growth and gratitude is closing.

Evidence of this growth now appears, befuddled, in the doorway; Simba’s youngest companion stands taller than any other household member. Simba tries to greet him on the slippery wooden landing, but his tail is perfectly still. His hind legs have stopped working and they slide awkwardly back even as he struggles to move up toward his boy. The big brown eyes reveal no regret for the attempt; instead they seem to apologize for the poor greeting.

“Hush now. Lay down, good dog, good dog, good dog…”

The wirey youth bends down. Peach fuzz nuzzles the nose of the much furrier friend.

The bonds now forged did not come easy. Simba came from abuse and neglect. As a puppy, he had been crated alone in a dark basement for extremely long periods of time. 

When first arriving on the farm, he took one look across the vast expanse of the greening crops and refused to leave the house.

The little boy in the house understood; he was new to farm life, too. With gentle nudges from their elders, dog and boy learned the rules of exploration.  They made each other brave.  It took less than a year and the fields became their playground.

“Let’s try and move him upstairs; he can look out the sliding glass doors,” whispers the motherly companion. “There’s an old quilt in the bin, with the winter clothes.”

It’s the second time the family has “gurneyed” Simba in this manner; they wonder aloud if they should call the vet out to the farm. It is hard to explain why no one does so. There is simply a pervasive sense that it is too late.

Simba and his layers of quilting are placed in front of the door. He is a bit anxious and tries to stand again.

“It’s OK. Good dog, good dog, good dog…”

An exercise mat it placed next to him. The young man lays beside him and together they look out across the yard into the fields. Blankets are gently placed over both of them. A lean muscular arm reaches out and lays lightly on the dog’s strong neck. Simba’s slightly labored breathing is calmed.

“There are some old towels down in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies,” says the motherly companion. Both farm elders have seen endings before.  Certain bodily functions are shutting down – the dog will lose control. The towels will keep the quilt dry and comfortable.

“I’ll go get them.” The paternal companion returns at the right moment. There is an unpleasant smell but no one comments. Gently, so they do not to disturb the dying nor the young comfort near him, the elders catch this release of the body. All that remains is his increasingly shallow breath.

Glassy black and tan orbs fix themselves upon some mystery far past the doors, over the field and into the river valley. The river creatures – muskrats, beaver and the occasional otter – intrigued Simba throughout his days on the farm. But the Border collie did not stray; his job was to keep all resident and visiting children away from the bank. He was never told, never trained; it was just in his nature.

Mother and father position themselves behind the youngest companion as if to physically brace him for the moment that is about to come. Simba shudders and gasps, as though about to leap across the banks to the other side.

“It’s OK… go ahead,” chokes a young voice. “It’s OK, It’s OK…”

The gasping continues and is hard to take…for everyone.  Then, silence. Finally, a pained whisper breaks the quiet.

“He was my best friend.”

There is an eruption of emotion for all. The three humans lean into each other and allow themselves to be lost for a while. It is the elder man who first re-approaches.

First, the eyes are shut as best as they can be. Flaccid limbs are gently bent and tucked under the black and white form.  Gingerly, as though still fearful of causing any pain, the head and tail are brought together.

“He looks like he is sleeping.”

With her arm still around her son’s shoulder, she meets her husband’s knowing gaze. Rigor mortis, the stiffening of the muscles following death, will soon set in. The loving positioning of the body has a practical side; it means a smaller grave to be dug out of the freezing ground.

The mother leaves the two men, one elder one freshly made, and retrieves sleeping bags. They will sleep together tonight, adjacent to the entryway where Simba’s body rests. But there isn’t much sleep at first. Instead, without prompting, they find themselves reliving a dog’s life.

“Remember when he jumped up – all four paws – in the middle of the dining room table?!? He almost got the pot roast!”

One by one, they drift off; the mother is the last to sleep. She watches the sun until its rays stretch across the river valley and reach Simba’s face. Then, she slumbers.

That afternoon, a spot is chosen; a small patch of woods on the hillside where Simba chased squirrels.  Wrapped in the quilt, Simba is lowered to his final resting place by the two men. Three shovels work together. It feels – and is – so final.

At first the loss is revisited each time the emptiness greets a returning member of the farm family. Gradually, over many months – and many quiet visits to the graveside – the searching stops. The memory of a black and white furball racing forward with rowdy welcome, will continue for a lifetime.

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