A Small Tragedy

Last Thursday night I noticed a golf-ball size lump on my dog Bill's "wrist". You might wonder how I could NOT see it, but because of the way the joint makes its own little lump plus all the fur, it didn't show up that much. When I took him to the vet Saturday she initially thought it was a cyst. But it didn't aspirate like a cyst. That meant the signs were not good, and it was very possibly cancerous. We set up Bill’s surgery for this morning, Wednesday, to have what became known as “the mass” removed.

Bill and Murray both are pushing 12 years old, and I’m fully cognizant that as George Carlin observes, “You're not getting a pet, you're getting a small tragedy in the making. You know why? Because all pets die badly.” It does start hitting home when the dogs start having similar problems to those of aging parents: the arthritis, the cataracts, the groaning when they arise from a sitting position.... Although so far, The Boys show no interest in going to the senior center to play rummy.

Even with Carlin and the realities of doggy geriatrics in mind, having the potential of the “C” word looming over a beloved pet is a kick in the gut. Bill’s life—or what I knew of it—kept filling my thoughts. How when he runs to me he bounces as though he’s spring-loaded, how he looks at me so soulfully as though he can’t believe his luck in being with such a creature, how he seems oblivious to even the remote possibility that I might have flaws… The minute Dr C said “This concerns me” with that ominous tone, every blessed Bill story and moment and tic kept going through my head like bad sitcom reruns.

I have Bill because of Murray. Murray was an inmate at the Sacramento County pound (er... animal control shelter) in 1993, and when asked whether he wanted to face the executioner's gas or come live at my house... it wasn't an easy decision, but he finally agreed to the latter. He was about 8 months old, but still almost large enough to qualify as livestock. When people would ask, "What kind of dog is he?" the closest breed description I could come up with was a cross between an Italian Spinone and German Wirehair Pointer. So I would just say, "He's a Murray dog."In October 2001, a lady who, before her rates went through the roof, used to keep Murray at her kennel when I was out of town, left a message saying, "Sorry to bother you, and this might seem weird. But I watch the noon news every day, and they always feature an SPCA animal. Today their feature was a dog who looks like Murray and his name is Murray. Is your dog okay?" I called back, thanking her profusely for thinking of me, but assuring her that Murray was just fine. I pondered this oddity momentarily because Murray is not a generic-looking dog, nor is Murray a particularly generic dog name. But then dismissed it and went on with life.

A little over a week later, a friend emailed me with a link saying, "You've got to look at the SPCA web site. There's a dog that looks like Murray, and his name is Murray." Oh my. Is there a pattern here? Is the Delphi Oracle speaking to me? Then I made the mistake of looking. Not identical, but there was an amazing resemblance, and they were even the same age. I spent two hours arguing with myself about not wanting an additional dog. The trials, the tribulations, the expense. I also contemplated that statistically Murray's cosmic brother, going on 9 years old, had only slightly better than a snowball's chance in hell of getting adopted. I spent my lunch hours the next two days at the SPCA and by the weekend I had added another Murray dog to the homestead. It got a little confusing, so finally had to rename Murray 2, and when I polled for suggestions, got two votes for Bill. So now it's Bill and Murray.

I got Bill from the SPCA on October 20. When I looked at Murray's '93 pound papers, I had gotten him October 21. [Fade with Twilight Zone theme song.... ] I've only had Bill three years, and it hasn’t been nearly long enough.This morning I got up early so I could take The Boys for a final walk before Bill’s surgery—not knowing when he would be able to exercise again. Dawn was just starting to unbutton the night sky, and it was the perfect crisp autumn morning. This was the walk where I experienced first-hand that living-in-the-moment stuff I’m always hearing I should be doing. I love Bill and Murray, but I get exasperated as they poke along with their plodding, their sniffing, and their whizzing on anything upright. This morning I gloried in every sniff. Each whiz was cause for declaring it a remarkable day. And even wrapping a Woodman’s produce bag around steaming shit seemed like a privilege in the mere doing. These blessed creatures.When we were on the return, the mist hanging over the park didn’t fully hide an abandoned soccer ball. Usually I’m a law-abiding citizen, if not downright anal where leash laws are concerned. But a Last Walk, a soccer ball, and a wide-open parkground overcame any thoughts of citizenship.

The leashes came off. I ran for the soccer ball, and Bill, ever the one to think all my ideas brilliant, joined the game. Murray the Incorrigible did his own little dance, reveling in his freedom. Bill caught on to dribbling almost immediately, although he also experimented with putting his chest to the ball and rolling on it. Murray—the same Murray that gets slower and more doddering with each run and pants as though he’s expiring and hangs back with anything faster than a walk—that Murray bolted to the opposite side of the park. Damned sandbagger. I abandoned the soccer ball to capture Murray before he disappeared—and Bill, sure that I had some other brilliant plan, joined in the chase. We finally caught M as he stopped to hydrate a tree. Leashes were re-attached.

A sweet and uneventful finish ensued. Then the trip to the vet, where I planted a kiss on top of Bill’s furry pate and assured him that lots of people were praying for him. True to form, I blubbered as I walked back to the car unleashed.