I’ve owned a lot of dogs in my life. This one, Jax, is the last. I’m what’s known as a dog person. Throughout high school, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Allergies did that in. Not many people can say they lost a career at age 16, but what a year that was. I worked as an old-fashioned apprentice to an old-fashioned vet who was also a pharmacist. Until a cat made my allergies overwhelm me, the doctor said I had assisted in about every procedure there was to be performed on a dog. I assisted in delivering puppies, I saw what gangrene can do to the skin, we spayed and neutered, there were stitchings galore, and more.
Oddly enough, I was only allergic to cats, not dogs. And I was as knowledgeable about breeds as I was about the Brooklyn Dodgers. I could name every dog that pranced around the circle at the Westminster Kennel Club show, which even today, I never miss. My 81 years have held many different breeds: one German Shepherd, two dachshunds, a Boston Terrier, two Great Danes, two Weimaraners, and two Cocker Spaniels. Almost every one of them had a story.
The German Shepherd, which ended up becoming a Seeing Eye dog for the Blind dog because of my mother’s allergies, just refused to be ferocious enough to be a watchdog. There is a Talmudic saying that Abraham’s tent was open at the four corners—everyone was welcome. So, it was with Salty.
One of my dachshunds, a hefty black and tan named Wolf (I have no idea why), was poisoned by some lunatic. Horrid experience for a boy to watch. Wolf was followed by a miniature doxie. Her name is long gone; my memory of her is sharp as a knife. She was red and inbred, a term that is best explained by using the problems that develop when first cousins are married. The genes get screwed up. This dog was clinically hysterical. In the middle of the night, she would start screaming. My father was a dentist. He arose each morning at 7 a.m. and wasn’t getting any sleep. You don’t want anyone putting a high-speed drill in your mouth who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep. A woman answered our ad. She was connected to the long-ago Hungarian monarchy. She loved the dog, and, near as we could tell from occasional communiques, carried it around all day long and slept with it at night—two happy customers.
And the beat went on. The Boston was brilliant, learning anything taught in a matter of minutes. ‘Loved to sit up and have a dog biscuit balanced on its nose, which, on command, it would flip into the air and chomp on as it came down. We registered him with the AKC, and because he had a silver streak on one of his ears, his AKC registered name was Billy’s Silver Streak.’
A car, driven by a hit-and-run driver, hit one of the Great Danes while she was walking the neighborhood children to the bus stop. The other Dane, some years later, leapt over a fence and faced off a cow that she thought was going to threaten our firstborn. She died of a terrible condition often seen in large, deep-bellied dogs. It’s called Bloat. ‘enough said.
One of the Weimaraners was a rescue. She looked like a Holocaust victim. While we got her healthy, she never attained the weight she was supposed to carry. Some people need to be flogged in the public square. Both dogs had to be put down at age 15 due to a nerve disorder that crippled them.
The first Cocker was a wedding present we gave to my wife’s daughter, who didn’t take our marriage, 36 years ago, with ease, to say the least. Lady was her name. She died of illnesses common to Cockers. There was a time in the ’50s when Cockers were the most popular breed in the country. Puppy mills began turning them out like cookies on a baking sheet. They developed several inbreeding problems. Puppy mill breeders should also be put in the public square and flogged.
And now we come to Jax, who, as I write this, is sleeping his last hour as we await the vet. Jax was a rescue dog who was a loser in a divorce proceeding. For most of his life, Jax, who was to be named Jack, that somehow turned into Jax, was a whirling dervish. Then, in his middle years, he became attached to me at the hip. If I moved, he moved. He wouldn’t let me out of his sight. He’s about 13. About two years ago, he lost the ability to jump up on the coach, his favorite spot for being near me. Looking back, I can see more of the signs that I missed as his decline continued. He was amazingly docile, something not usually a trait of cockers; he was fading.
Dog professionals say the animal tells you when it’s time. Two days ago, he didn’t eat. Usually, he scarfs down his food. Last night, he had trouble walking, and when I brought him in, he plopped down on the floor. He didn’t make it to his bed, where his nightly treat awaited him and still does. This morning, he couldn’t lift himself. ‘didn’t even lift his head. Not even a morning wag of the tail. I got the message.
Jax’s death comes a month after the sudden death of my brother-in-law. So, if you see me on the street while you are walking your dog, and I ask permission for a pat or two, please know I need it. I’m grieving.Columnist and author Bill Gralnick was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY. He recently finished a humorous memoir trilogy. The first book is “The War of the Itchy Balls and Other Tales from Brooklyn.” The second is “George Washington Didn’t Sleep Here.” The recently published third is, “That’s Why They Call It Work.” He is currently working on a novel. His books are available on Amazon and his other writings at https://www.williamgralnickauthor.com.
