Virgil the Tim Burton Movie Dog

“I’ve seen this before. It happens to old people.” --Chauncey Gardener, in “Being There,” 1979



Virgil is a Rat Terrier. He will be 18 years old next month. If he were a human, he would be 126, which is, as Gomer Pyle would say, “old on the water.” I’ve had him since 1991. He has seen and heard a lot of things. For this reason, I am glad he can’t talk.

He can’t do much a nuthin’ these days, and his condition provides unwelcome opportunities for me to practice patience and service. After a few weeks, I’m tired of both. Several months ago, he lost virtually all of his sight and hearing, and I don’t believe he has too much of a sense of smell. I must literally bob his head into the food, or he can’t find it. He is no longer housebroken. This is good, considering the cold fronts we’ve had so far this winter. If he managed to get outside through the pet door, it would not be good for him with temperatures in the 20’s. He’d never find his way back inside.

I don’t want him to die. I want him to be like the young, personable Virgil – before living with me made him neurotic. But I also want the Baby Jesus to take him home, as I hate to watch his life suck so much. Not to be selfish, but I’m tired of cleaning up after him about 90 times a day. This morning I laundered all of his bedding. He has stuffed pods that are more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever had. As a service to the dog community, I usually warm the pod or blanket in the dryer before I plop him down on it. Why? Because he likes it, he doesn’t feel well and a toasty warm pod has to be nice after one has wet himself repeatedly and often, and Virgil would do it for me if our roles were reversed. Come to think of it, our roles have been reversed in the past.

By this evening, he’d peed on every dry object in the house, so I washed them all again.

Sometimes his sleep is so heavy and labored I wonder if I’m going to see him take his last breath. I doubt it, as that only happens in the movies, or in stories people tell when they’re over-dramatizing someone’s death. It will be merciful if the Angel of Dogs comes for him.

A couple of months ago I took him to the vet to see if there was anything obviously wrong that could be treated, say, by just giving him a pill. They have a pill for everything else, after all. No, nothing to do for a dog that is simply old, stove up, and give out – not unlike his father. He drinks tons of water. I always suspected he was part camel. He has a voracious appetite, yet he looks like a little Auschwitz dog. He has never been one to put on weight. He probably needs a kidney transplant, hip replacement, steroids, hormones, insulin injections 10 times a day, and analysis.

The vet assured me Virgil is old and, practically speaking, he is dying. Yeah, well thanks for that. Give him a pill or something. Or give it to ME.

Virgil has always been a bit of a snob. One would think from the manner in which he carries himself

(or did before he got old on me)

that he was tutored n the Palace of Versailles, or that his dogcestors came over on the Mayflower. Hardly. Virgil was born in the Meth Capital of the World, Pink, Oklahoma. His father’s name was Pierre. I think his mother was Fe Fe, or something French. Virgil doesn’t remember those early days, but I’m here to tell you I bought him from clients who lived about as far away as one can go out into the woods. They were not French aristocrats either, but they were nice. Virgil has been nice too. I named him after another client.

Never had a dog with so much personality. He used to playfully growl if I petted him. What in the world kind of dog growls if you pet him? I'd get in his face and pretend to snap at him. He'd "snap" right back at me. That is intelligent playing. Course once he bit off the tip of my nose.

He could not stand to get his hands and feet wet. If it was raining or wet outside, Virgil suddenly forgot he was housebroken. That was just something I had to accept, and it didn’t happen often. He didn’t like baths, and he rarely got one, as he didn’t need one. I don’t know why, but he never smelled like a dog. He also brushed his teeth and used my mouthwash. Clean, hygienic dog he was.

I don’t know if he’ll make it to his 18th Birthday. I don't even know if I will. I’m not sure what I’ll do when he does sail off with the elves for the Gray Havens. (Virgil is a big fan of “Lord of the Rings.”) I think it will be profoundly sad.

What a nice, long life he has had, though, and what a joy it has been to have him as my friend. He was rarely any trouble. He had few vices. He has been loyal and devoted. He was always a handsome dog. Alas, the past year has not been so good to him. He is hunched over and, as one friend put it, he looks like a “dog from a Tim Burton movie.”

Werd.

I’ll let you know about Virgil. His quality of life isn’t so good. I’ll need to make a decision, just as someone will have to make a decision about me one of these days. I’d rather, as I said, let him pass on peacefully in his sleep, preferably before depositing, yet again, a half gallon of warm dog pee on his pod. Presently, he knows it is me when I pick him up. He remembers something about me, I suppose.

Here is a picture of Micky (1995 -), Rocky (1990-2006), and Virgil on their respective pods.



Sorry I haven’t written since I returned from North Dakota. I still miss it up there, and I wish I could go back. I wanted to know what 25 below zero feels like.

Twenty five degrees below zero is, as Gomer Pyle might say, “cold on the water.”

I’m much busier now. It is hard to find time to write. Certainly a lot to complain (and write) about here. But more for which to be grateful.

And on Thursday we celebrate the Birth of the Word made Flesh.

©Randall P. Hodge, Esq., and Morningwood Enterprises, Ltd.