Pt. 1
Our little Queenie, a beautiful white and auburn Shih Tzu,
crossed the Rainbow Bridge in February.
They say that “dogs don’t live as long as human beings since
dogs don’t need as long to learn to be perfect.” Well, I don’t know about that.
Queenie, I regret to say, was far from perfect, especially over the last couple
of years of her 16-18 year life span.
You see, Queenie never was house broken, and she, ultimately,
developed Canine Dementia, and the symptoms of this malady became increasingly
difficult to contend with. She would be next to me on the sofa, and I would be
stroking her back, and my wife would walk past. This was apparently Queenie’s
cue. She began growling and barking and generally playing the part of a
banshee. At other times, she would seek the solace of the corner of the living
room or dining room. She would literally bury her snout against the wall. At
other times, she would walk into our dark hallway bathroom, push the door shut,
and almost immediately begin scratching the same door in a futile attempt to
escape her captivity.
But I loved her
The foregoing and additional symptoms Queenie displayed on a
consistent basis were “the elephant in the living room” and simply could not be
ignored. I knew I would have to be proactive about providing her, as well as my
wife and I, some relief.
Speaking of relief, a raccoon hunter and his son grabbed their
shotguns one morning, let their bloodhounds out of the kennel, and set out
across the woods behind their house. Suddenly, they saw a raccoon scurry across
the trail, and begin climbing a nearby tree. Both hunters raised their weapons,
but the furry creature continued to elude them.
Finally, the older man decided to do something he’d only done
a couple of times in the past. Strapping the shotgun over his shoulder, he
began climbing the tree. And now, he managed to get within a few feet of the
raccoon, and raised his 12 gauge.
Suddenly, the little beast sprang on the old boy’s back, and
began clawing him, and cutting through his shirt and flesh “something fierce.”
And as the fearless hunter attempted to remove the creature from his back,
choking and boxing the ferocious creature, the man was increasingly the worse
for wear. Thus, he did the first and only thing which he could think of at the
time.
He screamed for all he was worth.
“Son, shoot up here in the tree.”
Jacob could hardly believe his father would say such a thing.
“Dad, I can’t do that! I’m bound to hit you with buckshot.”
Now, his father screamed again.
“Jacob, I said shoot up here in this tree! One of us needs
some relief!”
Pt. 2
That’s very much how I felt, as our precious Queenie continued
to drift deeper into the darkness of dementia.
Of course, I reached a point where that ‘elephant’ could no
longer be ignored. It fell to me, as it has fallen to multiplied thousands of
others, to help my precious pooch cross the Rainbow Bridge.
Queenie and Toby, a black and white Papillon, both lived, at
one time or the other, with my wife and me, and with our daughter, Kristy.
(Both dogs were both living in our house when… well, you know).
And while I can’t speak for the time when Queenie and Toby
were living elsewhere, they seemed very aloof, and for all appearances tended
to ignore each other in my home; except “when the mood” struck the latter of
the two. But unless Queenie was “in heat,” a condition she experienced
intermittently throughout her entire life, she had little or no desire for that
kind of male companionship. Of course, given the dynamics we observed, we
surmised the two little fifteen pound critters mostly tolerated one another’s
presence in our home.
However, as I have previously inferred, the day arrived when I
“had to do the deed.” I have written about that day in the past, but suffice it
to say that before I followed through with the unacceptable and unendurable, I
loaded Queenie up in the car and took her for a ride. And as we rode down the
highways and byways surrounding our house, I whispered words to her such as,
“Queenie, you were the best!” (and) “We will see you again in heaven” (and)
“Tell Princess and Buddy and Bobby and Lucy ‘hello’ for me when you get there.”
Pt. 3
I can tell you. The Rainbow Bridge experience wasn’t a good
one, and it wasn’t just because I was in the process of investing that precious
pooch in the care of our merciful Creator. I won’t repeat what I have already
written in the past, but it is enough to say that while Queenie was “crossing
over,” the vet made some unnecessary remarks about state requirements for the
disposal of her body. It was tacky to intrude on her homegoing with that kind
of malarkey, when he could have given me this information after the deed was
done.
But be that as it may, after Queenie was quite obviously safe
in the arms of Jesus, I picked her up, and set her in a nice hat box which I’d
previously decided to use as her final resting place. After I laid her on her
favorite blanket, and put a meal doggie bone, a rubber ball and a rose in the
box with her, I replaced the cover, we paid the bill, and drove home.
Having arrived home, it occurred to me. In spite of his
seeming aloofness towards Queenie, I thought Toby should be given the
opportunity to see her one last time. As a result, when I walked in the front
door, I set the hat box on the living room floor, took the lid off, and allowed
the little fella to peak into the box. Even now, he seemed disconnected
emotionally towards her. Perhaps he assumed she was only sleeping.
Now, I replaced the cover, walked down a fern covered pathway
which led to what I refer to as my Pet Cemetery, and set the makeshift
cardboard casket in the bottom of a pre-dug hole. Now, I refilled her grave
with sand, told Queenie I loved her, and retraced my steps to my back door.
Since then, I ordered flat slate memorial stones which were adorned with the
photos of my dearly departed pooches, and laid them on their respective
gravesites.
Pt. 4
Over the following two weeks after Queenie crossed the Rainbow
Bridge, Toby’s demeanor changed completely. I have never seen such sadness in
the eyes of one of God’s creatures, and his ravenous desire for food decreased
badly. He realized his companion had “left the building” and wasn’t coming
back.
I have heard of a dog literally starving himself to death
after his human master went on to his reward. It once happened in my own
extended family. And who will ever forget Greyfriar’s Bobby, a little Scottish
Terrier, which laid on his master’s gravesite for fourteen years, prior to his
own demise.
However, in this case I witnessed an animal mourning an
animal. And while Toby and Queenie seemed to tolerate one another’s existence
in my home, and generally seemed to ignore each other, it quickly became
apparent that the former loved the latter as much as I ever did. I will never
forget the sadness in his eyes, as if he had lost his best friend; (and I
suppose he had).
In retrospect, I am glad I allowed Toby to see Queenie as she
lay in her little cardboard casket. As I reflect on it now, I think it gave my
little pooch an opportunity to make some sense out of her ongoing absence in
our home.
I’m convinced Toby will remember Queenie until he walks across
the same bridge she walked across that day. Sometimes I think I see a lingering
sadness in his eyes, as if he wishes she might find some way to return.
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