George: the best dog

In an earlier post here, I mentioned being seriously injured in a motor vehicle collision in 1993. The accident was February 18, and after having surgery, I embarked on an almost year long healing process. After they flew me home, I spent several weeks confined to a hospital bed in my home, followed by getting around via a walker, crutches, and a wheelchair. As I improved, I gradually went to two crutches, then one, and then a cane. By the fall of 93, I was trying to learn to walk without a cane.

It was a painful process, and combined with having no work during the slack season, I was sinking into a depression. My wife Syd was working as a bookkeeper at a trucking company whose offices and garages were west of town on highway 2. One night in October, Syd came home from work and said, "There's a dog that showed up stray at work. He's been there for a couple of weeks, and I think we should go out and you should take a look at him."

I was dumbstruck. This is the same wife who didn't want any more dogs. I honestly hadn't thought much about dogs since losing Rufus, but now six years had passed, and I was no longer grieving as much. I said, "Sure," and we went out to look at the dog.

We pulled up into the parking lot. I was so excited I left the car door open when I got out. The dog was kenneled to protect him from running in the highway traffic. He was a lab, and a beautiful fox red. I went over to him and opened the kennel, and kneeled down. He came to me with no hesitation and laid his head on my shoulder. I petted him and talked to him for a minute, then invited him out of the cage. I said, "Do you want to come home with me?" He immediately turned and walked to the car and climbed in.

We took him home, gave him a little bath (he had perfect manners and stood calmly while we washed him) and fed him. We were in the kitchen with him just after he finished eating. I said, "What do you suppose his name is?" Syd said, "Maybe it's George," and in that instant he turned quickly to look at her. So we decided his name must have been George.

The next day we got him groomed, took him to the vet for a checkup, and bought him a collar and leash. We were finally getting the idea how to take care of dogs. The vet thought he was pretty old, but I thought that even if he was old, he deserved a good comfortable home. Some time later, I figured out that he was only about four when he came to live with us. George had a bad right rear hip. When the vet examined him, we learned that he had an old severe injury that was mended by a metal rod and wires. The vet told us that the metal was typically removed after healing, but that people commonly left the apparatus in place to avoid paying their vet bill. Nice.

We still didn't have a fenced yard, so I had to take George out for walks frequently. This was very good for me, as it forced me to exercise my hip. George and I would walk down the sidewalk, he with his bad right leg, me with my bad left hip, banging into each other as we walked. George was great company. I wasn't working, and stayed home all day reading mostly. George was happy just to lay there beside me, taking the occasional walk with me, watching squirrels in the yard, and once or twice a day having a good game of fetch the tennis ball. We had a wonderful time, in fact it became one of the best times of my life. My depression disappeared, and George and I became the very best of friends.

Every dog person loves all of his/her dogs, but knows that there is that one dog . . . the one that's the most special. This was George to me. He was a wonder. His manners were impeccable. He would heel indefinitely off leash with a one word command. While heeling, he could constantly turn his head to look at my knee to make sure his head was lined up correctly. He would stay and not break the stay until told. We allowed him his run of the house, and did not restrict him at all. He restricted himself. He would not get up on most pieces of furniture unless we invited him, then was clearly uncomfortable.

He loved stuffed animals. His favorite game was "Get that guy" in which he'd run to catch the toy, then play tug of war with it until I got it from him and threw it again. He'd also grab the toy and shake it back and forth energetically. Not surprisingly, these toys didn't last long. I began to visit the Salvation Army Thrift Store frequently to buy grocery bags full of 50 cent stuffed animals. Syd taught him a trick. When we'd say "dead dog" he'd fall down instantly and lay still. He was really proud of that one, because it made us laugh.

We got in the habit of having him groomed often, so he always was clean and smelled and felt good. The groomer we took him to was very busy. When I'd call for an appointment, I'd say that I'd like to get my dog in for a bath. They'd say, "We're really busy . . . I don't know . . . what kind of dog?" "Well, it's George." "Oh, George! Oh, sure, we can work George in, just bring him down anytime." They would set up a special portable fenced area for him right in the middle of the work area to accomodate his bad leg, and I suspect to spend more time with him.

In 1994, after having all of my legal difficulties getting compensation for the accident, I decided to pursue going to law school. In February, I took the LSAT test. When the results came back good, I applied to law school. When I was accepted, I applied for financial aid. When that came through, I looked for an apartment. In horror I learned that I wasn't going to be able to rent an apartment that would allow me to have George with me while I was in Missoula in school. So I had to go by myself, and leave George home with Syd.

That summer, before school started, we took a vacation trip for a few days. We went to the Big Hole Battlefield, Bannack, and other places. George loved to travel, and he really loved Bannack. He'd go to each building excitedly, go inside and smell every corner of the building, then leave and want to rush to the next one. He went swimming in the Big Hole River and in Georgetown Lake. One of George's favorite foods was a baked potato. I'd microwave one for him every night. When we traveled, I'd ask the waitress to box up a plain baked potato before we ordered, so that it would be cool when we got back to George. Restaurant staff would always be charmed by the potato eating dog.

I wasn't able to get home every weekend, and I was pretty miserable those times when I had to stay in Missoula by myself. Fortunately, Syd was able to come to Missoula most of those weekends I had to stay there. We just kept George there and to hell with the landlord.

That Thanksgiving, just before I came home for the holiday, Syd called and told me that George was favoring his bad leg, and in obvious pain. She took him to the vet, who said that a piece of arthritic calcium had come loose and was caught in his knee joint. We had to take him in for surgery the day before Thanksgiving. Since he wasn't neutered, we had that done at the same time. George had to wear one of those "Elizabethan collars" so he wouldn't worry his stitches, so I stayed up all night with him, and spent Thanksgiving with him as well. Syd went to my sister's for dinner, and brought a plate home for me. I thought it was the least I could do, and frankly, I enjoyed my time with George more than I would have enjoyed the holiday dinner.

George loved to come to Missoula. Syd says that when she'd get near the freeway exit she took to my apartment, George would jump up and get all excited. He enjoyed hanging out in my apartment, and really loved our walks in Greenough Park, which was only about a block away. The three of us had some wonderful weekends, and I miss those days a lot.

I graduated in 1997, and took the bar exam that summer. Then I moved home, to wait for seven weeks for the results of the exam. George was right there with me the day the mailman brought the results, and shared my happiness. I was sworn in on October 6, and was in my new office interviewing potential clients on October 7. Once I got started working, and Syd continued to be busy in her bookkeeping business, it became obvious that George was pretty lonely during the days. We decided to look for a companion for him.

One Saturday that October, we saw an ad for a neutered black cocker spaniel at the county animal shelter. We went to take a look for it, and learned that he/she was already adopted. We decided to look through the kennels and were somewhat disappointed to see that there were few dogs that would be suitable for us. For one thing, we wanted a female, as we were told that females and males tended to get along better than pairs of the same sex.

In one cage, there was a multi-colored black white and brown medium size dog. She looked filthy and bedraggled. She had orange paint ball marks on her side. Her fur was dirty and matted. But she looked at us with sparkling eyes and wagged her entire body from the neck back. We were smitten. We talked briefly, then went out to the counter to inquire about her. It turned out that another couple were looking at her. The wife wanted to take her, but the husband didn't. They kept going outside and talking intensely, then they'd come back in and look at the dog, then repeating the cycle. Finally the husband said something tersely with a frown, the wife burst into tears, and they drove away. We swooped in.

We got George out of the car and went to the "get acquainted" area. Of course, George immediately tried to mount her. She turned on him with a junkyard snarl, he backed off, and that was the end of that. Other than that, they got along famously. So we adopted her and took her home. Her name was Honey.

We hated the name. We stopped by my sister Linda's house to show her. She said that if she had another female dog, she'd name her Gracie. Then it hit me. George and Gracie. OK, for you young folks, there was a great husband and wife comedian couple named George Burns and Gracie Allen.

George loved Gracie with all his heart. Gracie liked him well enough, but was just not that attached to him herself. In his last year, when he was stiff with painful arthritis, if she moved to another room, George would painfully get up and follow her. On the other hand, she would never move to be near him. Still, they got along very well, and the four of us had a great time together. I loved having two dogs.

On Mother's Day, 1999, we had family over and were celebrating. We put the dogs out in the yard, as the house was full of people. At some point, one of the kids called me and said that there was something wrong with George. I went outside. It was raining lightly, and George was standing in the middle of the yard gasping for breath. He was really laboring to breathe. I called our vet, Rick Myers, and he said he'd meet me at his clinic. I took George up there, Rick sedated him and examined him. He said he thought George had a partial paralysis of his tracheal area. There are two flaps which open from the middle when the dog breathes, but stay closed when they are eating or drinking. Rick believed that if the flaps were paralyzed, he couldn't get a gap between them large enough to breathe normally. No local vet had the proper scope for diagnosis. Rick gave George some prednisone to ease the symptoms, and recommended that I take him to the veterinary hospital at Washington State University in Pullman, Washington.

I asked if this was a viable thing to do, in that George was likely about 10 years old at that time, and labs usually do not live as long as smaller dog breeds. Rick said that George's heart and lungs were healthy, that he was generally strong and was therefore a good candidate. So I decided to do it. I made an appointment as soon as possible, and George and I took a road trip to Pullman.

The plan was to go there, have his diagnostic appointment the next day, and go home that day. Assuming he was a candidate for the surgery, Rick would do it at home. They examined George and confirmed Rick's diagnosis, but told me George was in distress and needed the surgery right away. They didn't recommend me taking him home in the hot weather. Rick conferred with the university hospital staff, then with me, and I decided to go ahead with the surgery. They scheduled it for the next morning.

George and I went back to the motel, and he was having a very hard time. He was having a hard time eating, because of his trouble breathing. He loved fresh vegetables, so I ordered out for a pizza for myself, and asked if they had any fresh vegetables I could buy. I explained that I wanted them for my dog, and they said they'd do what they could. When the delivery person brought the food, there was a big plastic tray filled with a variety of carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and other veggies. They told me there was no charge, and wished George a speedy recovery. He ate a little, but his breathing was labored, he was panicky, and I stayed up with him all night petting and comforting him.

The surgery the next day went well, but George had to stay in intensive care, and they wouldn't let me visit him because they didn't want him to get agitated. I intended to be away from home only one night, and didn't bring enough clothes or medication for a longer stay. I went to Shopko and bought a few items of clothing, and asked the pharmacy about getting a few of the pills I had to take to tide me over. They gave me the pills at no charge, and offered their wishes for George to recover well. When I asked for the location of a laundromat, the motel told me I could launder my clothes in their laundry facility after they were done doing the towels and sheets. Later, a maid came and asked for my clothes, insisting on laundering them herself, and again, the motel staff offered their best wishes for George.

I was there three nights, and then picked George up late the next day. They wanted me to travel at night due to the heat. So George and I drove home, arriving about 1:00 in the morning. I basically had to shut my practice down for almost a week, spent however much on travel costs, and about $800 for the hospital. A bargain at twice the price.

After George's surgery, he could no longer eat like he always had. If he tried, he would aspirate the food, because they stitched up one of the "flaps" which could no longer close to prevent the aspiration. He couldn't eat dry dog food, and worse, no more baked potatoes. We struggled trying to find a satisfactory way for him to eat, and finally settled on me feeding him premium canned dog food with a big plastic (like a wooden) spoon. The deal was, Gracie got to lick the spoon when he was done. Every day, twice a day, I'd get the can and the spoon and sit down, and George would hunker down in front of me and I'd spoon feed him. It was wonderful, and as if George and I weren't bonded enough, this just cemented it. I'll never forget the pleasure I got just feeding him every day. When they were at our house at meal time, the grandkids would fight over getting to feed George. The grandkids would say that Gracie is a good dog, Rosie is a good dog, Reggie is a good dog, etc., "but George is the best dog."

By 2001, George was failing fast. He'd had two good years after his surgery, and we'd kept the arthritis at bay with new effective drugs such as Rimadyl and others. It was expensive taking care of him. I estimate that during the years I had George, I spent way more than ten thousand dollars on him. Once I was talking to my mother, who had just told me my brother had recently bought a new power boat. Then we were talking about George, and she asked if it wasn't really expensive to take care of him. When I told her how much it cost, she said that she thought that was a lot of money to spend on a dog. I said, "Well, Mom, some people buy boats."

George just got worse. We were buying a new house that year, and I was a little worried that George would have a hard time getting in and out of the new house. One day we came home and found that Gracie had stolen a glass butter dish off the counter, and the dish was broken. When we cleaned it up, not all the glass was there, and we noticed some cuts around George's mouth. I took him to Rick and the xray showed he'd eaten some of the dish. He had to stay at Rick's for two or three days for observation until the glass passed. Then he started eating gravel from the back yard. He developed diarrhea and we had to keep him outside. He was miserable, and so was I.

Finally, a friend of ours, Chris Riebe, who for years was a veterinary assistant, told us that large breed dogs often begin eating odd things when they are ready to die. She encouraged me to think about George and his comfort, and not so much the pain I was feeling. Finally I knew what had to be done. But I just couldn't take him myself. Chris, bless her heart, offered to take George to Rick. I feel terrible that I didn't take George there to say goodbye, but I simply could not.

Rick's office arranged for George to be cremated. I had his remains placed in a beautiful handmade redwood urn. George sits on my dresser, by recommendation of my granddaughter Sadie, and I say good morning to him every day. My wife has strict instructions that when I die, George goes in the box with me.

There is a brass placque on the redwood urn that says, "George, ca. 1987 to 2001, the best dog."

TO BE CONTINUED . . . Next: From Gracie to Annie and Reggie, too.