Bidding an Old Dog Farewell...

Last night, as I was preparing for bed, my phone unexpectedly rang. When I looked to see who was calling, I was surprised to see that it was my parents' phone number. I wondered what would possess them to call me at 10 PM, since more often than not, they're sound asleep by that hour. So, I picked up, and was greeted by my father's voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi Erik"

"Hi dad."

"What're you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed, early morning at work tomorrow, Dad. What's up?"

"Well...did you watch the ballgame?" I paused for an awkward moment.

"Um...yeah, Lester pitched pretty well."

That's when I began to sense that my dad wasn't calling me to talk about a baseball game. He only does that during the playoffs. It was then that he informed me of why he had called me.

Our old dog had been put to sleep.

My reaction was one of mild surprise, but in a sense, I was prepared. I knew Shadow was nearly eighteen years old, and that most dogs don't live for that long. I also knew that she extremely old and slow, struggling with arthritic joints, and that sooner or later, she would be leaving us.

Still, I felt sad.

You have to realize that Shadow was a part of our family for the majority of my life (along with my two sisters). During the summer between second and third grade (1992), my family took a trip to the local animal shelter. Mom said we were going to just go "look at the dogs." She never really said anything about taking one home.

My parents had not owned a dog since the death of their last one, a lovely Springer Spaniel, named Benjie. My parents acquired Benjie shortly after they were married. When they were starting their careers, they rented a cottage on a farm in rural Pennsylvania (how wholesome is that), and Benjie had one of the happiest lives you could imagine. Every day, he was greeted by fresh air, a plethora of smells, and, much to my parents' chagrin, ample opportunities to munch on garbage, which he did, frequently.

Mom and dad eventually settled in Maine, and soon thereafter, my older sister came along. Benjie came along too. Sadly, his life ended before I showed up. His formidable body became severely overheated during a long car trip, and to this day, dad believes that this was what ultimately led to his passing. About a week after coming home, it was clear that he was just too sick to recover. So, they bid him a tearful farewell.

Over the next decade or so, the Ingmundson family grew from three to four, and then to five. Mom and dad had their hands full keeping track of three children. It was not the right time for a puppy. Then, in 1992, Shadow became a part of the family.

Shadow was a classic example of the kind of dog people forget. She was 100 % pure mutt. The staff at the animal shelter believed that she was mostly springer spaniel and black lab. Interestingly, these are two breeds that are highly prized...but when they mix, not so much. I can't imagine why. Her first owner had been very neglectful, and apparently, he had tied her outside of his house and left for a trip. A kind - hearted neighbor was upset by the owner's neglect, cut her loose, and brought her to the shelter, hoping, I'm sure, that she would find a better home.

If you've ever been to an animal shelter, you are familiar with its sound - a constant cacophony of barks, in a variety of registers. There are the small yippy dogs, and the large ones with deep, sonorous "RRRUFF's."

The average human can interpret this interaction in two different ways. We can go the Disney route, and say that by barking, each dog at the shelter is saying "pick me! Pick me! Take me home!"

Or, we can go with my preferred interpretation, supplied by "Far Side" cartoonist Gary Larson. When pondering the meaning behind a dog's bark, he argued that a dog is actually saying "Hey! HEY! Hey! HEYHEYHEYHEY!!!"

The funny thing was, Shadow didn't do that. She was quiet as could be. That's what drew us to her. Almost entirely black, and quiet as could be...seeming to blend into the shelter's background - just like a shadow would. Hence, her name.

She was tethered to a simple green lead under the shade of two pine trees. When dad approached her, she jumped up and gave him a doggy hug.

Needless to say, we were ready to take her home.

I have many fond memories of my childhood with her. In her early years, she would fetch sticks, but she soon developed a taste for tennis balls, and eventually, rejected sticks altogether. She loved the water, and could jump several feet in the air from our dock in pursuit of a tennis ball. She loved the fresh air, loved our company, and loved begging for food. She loved frolicking in the big, grassy fields behind our house for hours on end.

However, she wasn't a walking pedigree commercial. She was truly a dog.

She loved munching piles of deer poop. Occasionally, she'd vomit it up on the floor, and look at us as if to say..."wow, I don't recall eating that...sorry..." She also loved rolling in the stuff. She would jump into mud wallows and soil her coat on hot days. She would steal food and treats from the dogs next door. She never, in all of her life, understood the meaning of the phrase "drop it." If you wanted a ball back, you had to play tug of war until you either won or quit. Sometimes, she ran off into the night when she caught a whiff of a raccoon. She was poked by a porcupine in the face - twice. She also was afraid of houseflies, but would readily gobble mosquitoes.

In other words, she was a dog through and through.

Living on Nantucket, I frequently cross paths with dogs of all shapes and sizes. I always look at the dog, but I also pay attention to the owner, and I always ask myself one simple question: Is the owner letting their dog be a dog?


Too often, I think pet owners exhibit this annoying tendency to anthropomorphize their animals. Hollywood is partially to blame I suppose (that said, I love the sheep dogs in "Babe"). We want to believe that dogs can speak and think in complete sentences, although they probably don't.

Other anthropomorphic examples include the merchants who have pioneered the concept of dressing dogs up in silly outfits, braiding their hair in comical ways with ribbons, and shaving toy poodles in the most bizarre ways imaginable. Additionally, there are those who treat dogs as fashion accessories. Thank you, Paris Hilton.

Similarly, there are also those who place their dogs on top of a ridiculously high pedestal. I call them the "man's uber-best friend" crowd. These people are steadfast in their belief that a dog must be loved in a manner that is akin to loving a human being, but also believe that their love is best expressed in tangible ways. This love often manifests itself in absurdly large, materialistic, financial investments - deluxe dog beds, frequent trips to the groomer, paying $100 per night to let dogs stay at "pet hotels," etc. I know a man who once spent over $7000 in an ultimately fruitless attempt at saving the life of one of his pugs. I can't say that I was very supportive.



Don't get me wrong, I love dogs, but no dog deserves $7000 dollars worth of poking, prodding, and surgeries. Sometimes it's better to let nature take its course.

Dogs and humans are intimately connected, but not in the ways that I have outlined above. Treating a dog as a fashion accessory or showering them with needless, undeserved (and unwanted) gifts ultimately puts a human face on our canine friend. A dog is not meant to be loved in these ways.

No, a dog must be loved for what it is. A dog, through and through.

Dogs a simple creatures with simple needs. They need a healthy diet, plenty of exercise, opportunities to socialize, and above all else, to be loved for their perfections and also their imperfections. My many years with Shadow taught me that. I loved the way she would randomly show her affection by putting her face in my lap. However, I also loved the way she would eat all of the cat's food, and then walk back through the house with the guiltiest facial expression possible. I loved the way I had to wrestle tennis balls out of her jaws. I loved the way she licked the kitchen floor whenever a beef roast was in the oven. It's what made her who she was.

Humans are no different, really. We need a healthy diet, exercise, and companionship. We also need to have our strengths and weaknesses be embraced equally in order to feel loved. This, I think, is what can make a dog "man's best friend." In giving them a loving home, they can remind us of how we ought to treat ourselves.

Does that mean that dogs are meant for everybody? No. A dog deserves a good home, and if you aren't ready to commit to one, then you shouldn't acquire one. Too many dogs are dropped off at animal shelters, just as Shadow was. And sadly, not every dog is fortunate enough to find a new, loving home.

However, if you think you have what it takes, I would encourage you to stop by your local animal shelter some time. You might just find a friend in need. I like to think that in adopting Shadow, we probably added seventeen years to her life. She likely would have been put to sleep if we didn't bring her home.

Shadow's final resting place is a peaceful spot in the big grassy field near a bluebird house. I cannot think of a better place for her to be. Whenever I think about it, I imagine her chasing countless tennis balls, and frolicking in the tall grass,ignoring my persistent calls to come back, only to emerge 20 minutes later...

With a mouth full of deer poop.

Good bye, old friend. I'll never forget you.

Here's to the kind of life that every dog deserves.