Now He Belongs to the Dog Ages

The Baby Virgil



Virgil the Wonder Dog





In those days he could fly if he wanted.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed that sometimes Virgil, my aged Rat Terrier, would pace aimlessly and fruitlessly around the room. He seemed to be looking for something he would never find. Occasionally he stopped, raised his head, whimpered, and continued his "journey." It was clearly frustrating for him, and it was annoying for me. But some sort of plan or mission called forth from deep inside his once sharp mind. I wanted to grab him up and say, "shake it off and stop acting so goofy, before I slap your face and throw you up against the chain link fence."

But I didn't.

On Saturday, I found him underneath a dining room chair. Somehow, he'd caged himself. He could not find a way out of there, and I don't know how he got under it in the first place.

(most likely the evil monkeys who stole my Rolex put him there)

Just yesterday I noticed Virgil was standing in the corner of the room. He kept walking into the wall, banging his head each time. Over and over again. He reminded me of a "Stepford Dog," as if he'd been programmed to walk forward, into infinity, even if there was a wall. Maybe a zombie dog. I don't know, but it was creepy. I thought to myself, "okay, this is effed up." It occurred to me that perhaps his brain wasn't telling his legs what to do. Sucks to be you, Virgil. So I kicked him, and yelled at him and called him a dog-tard.

Not really. It was fairly heartbreaking, to be honest. I picked him up and looked into his sightless eyes. I held him awhile (he weighed about 2 ounces in the end) and took him outside before he peed on me.

I concluded not only had he lost his senses of hearing, sight and smell, his mind had also been profoundly and irreparably affected by this jacked up aging process. He was old, alright. I'd been meaning to research dementia in dogs. Wondered if they got it like humans. Sure enough, there is something called "Canine Cognitive Disfunction." Possible signs include becoming lost in familiar places, getting trapped behind familiar furniture and corners, having trouble finding doors and using stairs, failing to respond, frequently trembling or shaking, pacing and wandering aimlessly, frequently soiling in the house (in Virgil's case "frequently" is putting it very conservatively), and staring at walls or into space.

Virgil had exhibited every symptom but the ones directly related to the senses he had already lost.

It didn't take me long to admit what I've known all along. This dog isn't enjoying his life now. It was as simple as that. No more hope that maybe the Dog Baby Jesus and the cast of "Touched by an Angel" would come for him in his sleep, thus freeing ME of making the decision. So I researched the reasons people decide to release their pets from this world. It boils down to "quality of life," as my best friend Melissa told me. She is an expert on many things, particularly animals. I couldn't think of anything about his life that was pleasant now. He couldn't walk or play. He couldn't find his food and water, much less smell them. He may have lost his sense of taste.

A monkey with a crayon would conclude that my Virgil was not happy. We couldn't do anything that might change that, he likely hurt all over, he was so thin I was always afraid someone would report me for abuse and neglect, and he peed as often as he breathed. I asked myself if I'd want to carry on until my 18th/126th birthday if someone had to steady me while I relieved myself. As a matter of fact, I would like that.

Virgil didn't like it, though, and that assumes he was even aware of WHO was holding him up. In the end I don't think he really knew me. I was something unseen who carried him outside so he could do his bidness. How much fun would that be, for a dog to find himself living in a Helen Keller world? Helen Keller was an inspiration. Her life was an example of the value and potential of all human life. But dogs can't overcome adversity the way we can. I'd say in the end Virgil's life was frustrating and often terrifying. He couldn't Google things he didn't understand the way we can. I came to believe it DID suck to be Virgil.

Virgil's private vet was able to get him in at 5:00 this afternoon.

Right before it was time to leave, I was almost starting to begin to consider perhaps I should think about having second thoughts about the whole thing. I did not want to be Josef Mengele...



...to a little dog who'd been my friend for 18 years. Sure did not. My sponsor, David, came by and hung out with me for a few minutes and even offered to go with me to the gas chamber. I said, "nigga, that's the gayest thing I've ever heard of," but I was thinking I wished he would go with me. He gave me a nice hug, though, which made me feel better. David does not dispense hugs lightly, so if you ever get one, it means something. Just FYI.



I wasn't sure what to expect at the vet, but I hoped I wouldn't do anything goofy like well up with tears, or cry. Most of all, I hoped Virgil wouldn't have any idea what was going on, and that he wouldn't be scared. I talked to both vets at the office, and I described what I'd observed during Virgil's decline. I didn't have to say much, as Virgil looked pitiful anyway -- just as I will if I live to be 126. Both agreed without hesitation that he was suffering, and one said, "he is ready to go chase rabbits."

I didn't bother to point out that being a sissy dog, Virgil preferred to stay in the house, sing showtunes, and watch Bravo Channel. He couldn't care less about chasing rabbits. I can't think of much he enjoyed, other than sleep, dog treats, and being splayed out on his eiderdown pod in front of the fire. Before he started downhill, he also loved rawhide chews. I'd issue each dog a chew, and somehow Virgil managed to selfishly nick the other dogs' chews away, and then he'd hide them for later. Not a sharer. Got that trait from me too. Dogs become us, and we them. He got ME started watching Bravo Channel, but I don't do showtunes.

My dogs never played because I didn't play. They never learned. Jennifer and Buddy used to buy them toys. I recall Jennifer tossed the ball at Virgil once, and it hit him in the nose and bounced off onto the floor. Then Virgil looked at the ball, and then back at Jennifer, as if to say, "how come you to hit me with that ball?" Puzzled, Jennifer asked, "don't you ever play with these dogs? What kind of dog isn't interested in a ball?" Virgil was changing the channel. I'd never played ball with the dogs, and they couldn't ever grasp the concept. They all became neurotic.

But I digress.

The vet made sure Virgil was comfortable, and after about seven hours he was finally able to find a frail, pitiful dog vein in his skinny leg. I thought it would be more of a "Sarah Bernhardt" scene. That time would pass, and there'd be drama and gasps and sighing and whatnot. Virgil's breathing would be more labored. He'd struggle, whimper, or cry out. We'd listen to each other breathing, and Virgil breathing, kick imaginary stones around the room, wait, and we'd make awkward, stupid, waste-of-air comments.

There was no time for any of that. It was over almost as soon as the injection began. My little dog went limp immediately. It was less than ten seconds. And then... he simply died. His eyes, which hadn't seen anything in a long time, were really lifeless now. They stayed open like in the movies. So we closed them for him. He would have wanted us to do that.

I forgot to bring a dog coffin, as this was my first time. I didn't want to carry him out through the patient waiting area, as that would have been...well, a whole bunch of uncomfortable things, that's what.

The vet gently and tenderly wrapped him in a fresh towel, and then he taped it together. My little Virgil was now a dog cocoon. I was glad I wouldn't have to look at him. I didn't know what to say, really, and I was afraid I might get weepy. It was starting to effect me now. I wanted to pay and get out of there.

To make matters worse, since this IS all about me, I'd taken a massive overdose of decongestant before leaving the house, so my nose was running all over the place. Try to explain that. "I'm not crying; it's allergies." Naturally, I had no kleenex. So I looked like the snot nosed kid in second grade who always carried around a dead dog in a towel cocoon. Not really, but almost.

We took him out to the Land of Dogs, placed him lovingly in the Good Earth, and then covered him to sleep.

That was just the used up body of Virgil. The real Virgil is some other place. I'm one who believes we have our beloved pets with us in the afterlife. If Heaven is so swell, then why can't we have our pets? Of course we can. God is a detail sort of Deity. He'd fix it that way. Right now, Virgil is either at rest/sleep, or he is in better place -- like a warm, glowy scene in a cheesy Thomas Kinkade print.

I don't think there is a Dog Hell.

Or, Virgil's little spirit was carried away to the Gray Havens, where he boarded the ship with the elves. Together they sailed into the West, toward White Shores and a Far Green Country.




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