An Empty Leash
January 8th, 2007 | by Craig |
If it weren’t for the empty leash sitting on the car seat next to me, I might be able to talk myself into believing that she was still here.
Tippy, named for the white tip on her tail, came into our lives in the spring of 1993, via the Humane Society of Bozeman. She was the next-to-last pup in a litter of eight. The “owners” had left town with the bitch, leaving the pups to fend for themselves. At 8 weeks, she already had an acute case of separation anxiety, which she never mastered.
All the way home to Ennis from Bozeman, she lay curled up on the Spousal Unit’s lap, emitting a yip that could pierce the stoutest of eardrums. We remarked that she would probably outgrow it one day.
Naturally, we were wrong. She never outgrew the yip, and in fact, as she grew, she developed the lung capacity to increase the frequency and volume. When we moved from Ennis to Billings, I was informed that Tippy had managed to bark for the entire trip.
Tippy was friendly in the extreme. She never met a creature she didn’t like: cats, cows, people, other dogs, you name it. If it was living and breathing, she saw no reason that it couldn’t be her best buddy.
An exception to this rule was extremely well-endowed women with black hair. Anyone matching this description was an instant enemy, and we could never figure out why.
Another exception was mice, as we taught her to be a mouser when she was young. We lived out in the boonies in a house that was prone to rodents engaging in breaking and entering. We didn’t have any cats at the time, but we thought Tippy would be a good mouse, and she was. When we moved out, she’d nabbed somewhere around 15 mice.
We’d see a mouse scamper across the floor, and ask, “Tippy, where’s the mouse?” and she would be on the hunt.
She softened to rodents in later years, but “Where’s the mouse?” would always send her sniffing in closets, under chairs and other crevices.
Her favorite buddies, though, were the kitties. The first time she laid eyes on a kitty, she was still a pup and wanted to play with it. With her tail wagging back and forth at Mach 3, she kept sniffing at the kitty until she backed him into a corner. The cat, being a cat, did the only thing he could do, and took a swipe at her nose.
You could hear the paw make contact from 10 feet away, and she yipped and slinked back to where we were sitting. The look on her face suggested that she just couldn’t understand why the cat didn’t want to play with her.
Not all cats were overwhelmed by her enthusiasm. Solay, in particular warmed up to Tippy, and would even play with her a little bit. Inasmuch as dogs and cats can play the same games.
Before we moved to Helena, the vet noted that she was starting to have trouble with her back. It didn’t seem to bother her too much after we got here, but a couple of weeks ago, she started having trouble getting up the stairs.
Shortly thereafter, she became listless and lethargic, and the vet took some X-rays to see what might be going on. He found a lump on her spleen about the size of a fist. We knew the clock was ticking. We just didn’t know how fast.
She’d been having good days and bad days, and the bad were rapidly overtaking the good. Yesterday, in particular was very bad, as she didn’t even come down the hall to bed. I had a very bad feeling about today, which was confirmed by a phone call shortly after I’d gotten to work.
I took this picture today, after I came home from work. Usually, when I (or anyone) come home after an absence of 1 minute or one week, Tippy would be transported by paroxysms of joy, but today, the best she could muster was a weak tail wag.
She managed a glimmer of enthusiasm when I asked her if she wanted to go for a ride and grabbed her leash.
I felt like a real shithead knowing that this car ride would be her last.
I’ll try to rest easier tonight, knowing that Tippy, Digger and Brandy are together again, but it still hurts.
A lot.
21 Responses to “An Empty Leash”
By ajtooley on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
Craig, I was very sorry to read this. I mean, I know we all know what we’re signing on for when we adopt pets, but dang. When that day comes for us, I’m pretty sure I won’t be as eloquent as you.
Our dog has the great pleasure of being able to go to work with The Missus. When they come home tonight, I’ll give her a big hug. The Missus, too.
By JP on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
There are some tough duties in this world, and that’s one of ‘em. I’ve been there - odds are I’ll be there again - and there’s no if’s and’s or but’s about it: That’s a heartbreaker.
‘Specially for a good one like Tippy. As you noted, she welcomed me like family and never failed to provide a yip or two as well.
Good thoughts to all of you from the Billings crew.
By rita on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
I’m so sorry. That’s such a hard thing to do.
By david on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
Craig, I am so very sorry. Tippy was a wonderful friend and part of your family. I know that she knew how much you all loved her.
By Steve T. on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
It’s amazing how quickly all of this can happen.
My deepest of sympathies go out to you. Those of us who have been in your shoes can remember acutely how you are feeling right now. I know that all of the years she was with you were worth what you had to go through today, and the bad memories of today will be gradually overtaken by the good memories of the past 14 years. Take heart.
By DMerriman on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
Sorry to read about your loss; I know from experience how much it hurts. It isn’t much consolation now, but at least she isn’t hurting any more.
By Jim - PRS on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
I know how you feel. I had to do the same thing in June of ‘99, and it was the hardest, saddest thing I have ever had to do. I still am not able to write about it.
By Rocky Smith on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
Condolences Craig. I know how rough that last car ride can be. I recently had to take Charles, our 22 year old cat on a similar trip. I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but it was a little hard to see clearly on the way home. I had a chuckle though when I discovered Charles had left me a parting gift on the floor. I guess he got the last word.
By Randy on Jan 8, 2007 | Reply
Sorry to hear about Tippy.
I can still hear her yipping as I type. How are the wee ones taking it?
By Phil on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
When the wife and had to take our Boxer, June, in for her eu shot, we made sure to make a day of it for her. On the morning, we took her to her favorite park for her last walk and made sure she got to see her friends.
Like with all of our animals, she was cremated and sits up on very special shelf with Jake and Shela.
By Wulfgar on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
I wish there was anything I could say that would make that knot-in-the-torso loosen up, but …
Deepest sympathies, Craig, to all of you.
By Mike on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
Thanks for giving those of us who never knew Tippy the chance to meet her, and to learn more about her wonderful life with the Sprout family. Those of us who share our lives with dogs know we continually strive to live up to the opinion our dogs have of us. Our thoughts and prayers are with you, the better-half and the kids.
Mike & Rachel
By Shane C. Mason on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
Condolences Craig. May the road rise up to meet her.
By Jeanne on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
My heart goes out to you. What a lucky dog Tippy was to have a person to love her like you did! I hope this helps . . .
A LIVING LOVE by Martin Scot Kosins
If you ever love an animal, there are three days in your life you will always remember . . . .
The first is a day, blessed with happiness, when you bring home your young new friend. You may have spent weeks deciding on a breed. You may have asked numerous opinions of many vets, or done long research in finding a breeder. Or, perhaps in a fleeting moment, you may have just chosen that silly looking mutt in a shelter simply because something in its eyes reached your heart. But when you bring that chosen pet home, and watch it explore, and claim its special place in your hall or front room - and when you feel it brush against you for the first time - it instills a feeling of pure love you will carry with you through the many years to come.
The second day will occur eight or nine or ten years later (or maybe sooner). It will be a day like any other; routine and unexceptional. But, for a surprising instant, you will look at your longtime friend and see age where you once saw youth. You will see slow deliberate steps where you once saw energy. And you will see sleep where you once saw activity. So you will begin to adjust your friend’s diet; and you may add a pill or two to her food. And you may feel a growing fear deep within yourself, which bodes of a coming emptiness. And you will feel this uneasy feeling, on and off, until the third day finally arrives.
And on this day, if your friend and God have not decided for you, you will be faced with making a decision of your own on behalf of your lifelong friend; and with the guidance of your own deepest Spirit. But whichever way your friend eventually leaves you, you will feel as alone as a single star in the dark night.
If you are wise, you will let the tears flow as freely and as often as they must. And if you are typical, you will find that not many in your circle of family or friends will be able to understand your grief, or comfort you.
But if you are true to the love of the pet you cherished through the many joy-filled years, you may find that a soul, a bit smaller in size than your own, seems to walk with you at times during the lonely days to come.
And at moments when you least expect anything out of the ordinary to happen, you may feel something brush against your leg - very, very lightly. And looking down at the place where your dear, perhaps dearest, friend used to lay, you will remember those three significant days. The memory will most likely be painful and leave an ache in your heart. As time passes, the ache will come and go as if it has a life of its own. You will both reject it and embrace it, and it may confuse you. If you reject it, it will depress you. If you embrace it, it will deepen you. Either way, it will still be an ache.
But there will be, I assure you, a fourth day when, along with the memory of your pet, piercing through the heaviness in your heart, there will come a realization that belongs only to you. It will be as unique and strong as our relationship with each animal we have loved, and lost. This realization takes the form of a Living Love; like the heavenly scent of a rose that remains after the petals have wilted. This Love will remain and grow and be there for us to remember. It is a love we have earned. It is the legacy our pets leave us when they go; and it is a gift we may keep with us as long as we live. It is a Love which is ours alone. And until we ourselves leave, perhaps to join our Beloved Pets, it is a Love we will always possess.
By TMM on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
Jeanne, that was quite moving, thanks for it.
Craig, my thoughts are with you and your family.
By pjfinn on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
I’m sorry about your loss. There’s really nothing more that can be said at a time like this. It’s always a tough go when you lose a member of the family.
By Just Me on Jan 9, 2007 | Reply
I’m so sorry, Craig.
My love to your family in this sad time.
{{{ hugs }}}
By KCSteve on Jan 10, 2007 | Reply
So sorry for your loss.
The depth of our sorrow is from the purity of their love.
By Venomous Kate on Jan 10, 2007 | Reply
Oh, Craig. I’m so sorry! I see by the pictures that Tippy was a special girl. My thoughts are with you and yours.
By dogette on Jan 11, 2007 | Reply
Craig, very sorry to hear of your loss. What a beautiful creature. Sigh. Dogs. I know.
By Kirk Dooley on Jan 19, 2007 | Reply
Wish I could think of something profound to say, but I can’t. I got my German Shepherd/Akita dog, Sheba about a year you got Tippy. Fortunately, she’s in good health (except for Sepaeration Anxiety — I have three holes in the wall of my trailer and serveral broken windows because of that; she’s on Prozac and Valium). She’s got a little hitch in her giddyup (at 14, it’s a wonder she can walk at all), but I know that her time will be coming sooner than I would like.
I was honest with my Dad. I told him that I never cried when my Mom died 8 1/2 years ago, but when I have to put Sheba down, I know I’ll be a wreck for a long time.
To paraphrase Jim Bouton: You try to get your arms around a dog, when it was really the other way around all along.