Putting The Old Fella Down

 

 The bond between a man and his new dog fuses almost instantly; from then on, its strength depends upon individual circumstances.  In my and my German shepherd's case, it only intensified due to the facts that I had him alone, he was my only dog, and we were virtually inseparable for so many years.

             "Montag" - Monday in German - was born on the day the Senate Watergate Committee heard H.R.Haldeman testify that he and President Nixon had no knowledge of Watergate. Skylab 2 circled the earth. Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam were still front-page news.  "American Graffiti" was the new movie that summer. On the day I took the little fella home at age eight weeks, the Dow Jones hit 920; I was 28.  That's how far back he went.  So much happened since then. He spanned two thirds of my adult life.

 To say that Montag and I spent an enormous amount of good time together would be an understatement.  Few people who know me now knew my life without him; many never knew me without him.   The "outside interests" line on his rsum would look like mine except for the SCUBA diving:  jogging, backpacking, cross-country skiing, traveling, outdoor concerts, to name a few; he was always with me.  On many weekends he was a fixture at my office with me. At home, he permeated my life.  It wasn't all fun and games for the two of us though. But we were both there for each other doing what we were supposed to do.  I never lost sight of the fact that he was a dog; to his credit, neither did he. He had a pretty good deal and so did I.  We both knew that.

 Dogs destined to live to an old age do their masters a favor by sending unmistakable signs of the inevitable separation well in advance. Montag was no exception. Looking back now over the years I can clearly trace what he stopped doing and when.  But it was easy to ignore those signs because the bond between us intensified as the fun times were replaced with caring and understanding. I wanted it to continue forever, but I knew that it couldn't.

 The medical signs, however, couldn't be ignored, not with a 110 pound dog. Over Montag’s last 16 months, I successfully navigated him between two tumor operations and learned how to cope with a few predictable consequences of his aging. Montag was never in  pain, but he was getting old.  In his last few months, although otherwise in good shape, he gradually started to go lame in his right hind leg.  Convinced by the veterinarian when a decision couldn't be postponed that surgery, as a long shot, might work, I went ahead with it.  I simply couldn't let Montag go without doing everything humanely within reason for him.

  After a difficult five week nursing period, longer than the vet suggested, I had to make another decision.  The operation was unsuccessful; Montag would never walk again. An emotional decision would have kept him here a few weeks longer, but there really was no cause for hope.

The painful decision to put Montag down became irreversible when he still couldn't walk on the designated day. The rest of that day had been rehearsed many times over in my mind. I carried him over the same threshold we had crossed together thousands of times and then 150 feet to my Jeep.  We pulled out at 7:30 in the morning for the 70 mile drive to the veterinary hospital.  I kept one hand on Montag for the entire trip. Tears were the rule, not the exception.  The weather was just foul: heavy rain, a dark sky, lightning and thunder.  Five minutes before the hospital, I cried "I'm going to miss you so much, Montag. I promise we'll be together again."

        An unexpected 45 minute wait at the hospital was welcome, but it only added to my pain.  I sat in my Jeep, alone, with Montag in the back.  My heart sank when finally someone knocked on my door and said, "We're ready."  Weakened from grief, I reached back, touched Montag and said, "It's over, fella."  I drove to the alley in the rear of the hospital so Montag could be euthanized in my Jeep with privacy and wouldn't have to be carried inside. I got into the back with him and removed his collar, setting him free forever.  The vet and her assistant emerged in heavy rainwear and immediately took positions at the rear of the Jeep. With tears streaming down my face and Montag cradled in my arms, I repeatedly whispered to him, "I love you, Montag. Good-bye, buddy. Thanks so much. You're a good dog."  His strong body at first resisted the drug that the vet injected into his left front leg. I pleaded with him, "Please don't fight us this time, Montag."  His weakening body suddenly slumped in my arms. The vet climbed into the Jeep with us, listened for his heartbeat , and then announced, "He's gone."  With those words, a very large and important part of my world collapsed.

  Alone, I sat holding Montag for a few minutes longer.  There was no feeling of relief. If ever before I felt more anguish, I cannot remember.  I shut his eyes, put a make-shift pillow of towels under his head, and closed up the back of the Jeep. Finally composed, I sought out and thanked the vet for her humane treatment and left. At the pet crematory, 20 miles down the road, I carried Montag myself from the Jeep and stayed not far from his side for five hours while he was  cremated. After all, he stayed at my side for 14 years.

 Seven hours after Montag was put down, I was home with his ashes. The small "German Shepherd Dog Inside" sign on my front door, there for emergency purposes, was no longer needed. Perhaps it now belonged on the small box that I clutched in my left arm. It really belonged on my heart.

           That evening, I changed my will -  I want my ashes scattered with Montag's over a site in the mountains where we spent many good weekends together.  I intend to keep my promise to him.  Before I went to bed, I suddenly felt the only joy in a long time when I thought how lucky I was to have had such a great dog for such a very long time. But that's also why putting the old fella down that day was the saddest and toughest thing I can ever remember having to do. I miss him so much.  

 NOTE: Montag was put down at 9:50am on Saturday, August 22, 1987.  His ashes were scattered at the foot of Jeremey’s Run in Virginia’s Shenandoah Mountains in October 1990. Sonntag and Kessie, his successors, were with me.