There is nothing which will point out our own mortality, quicker than losing a pet.

Duff, our little white, male Scottish terrier quietly died on the couch, while the wife and I read, following a short bout of, what we thought was a mild case of stomach flu.  It occurred at 3:00 AM, on Saturday, December 2nd – our 56^th wedding anniversary.

I always insisted that he was white, but the correct term was ‘brindle.’  He had a two-inch stripe of the faintest golden toffee color down his spine, from neck to tail.  It’s no wonder that he was so sweet.   No longer will our solid, and stolid, little warrior, soldier on.  Dogs cannot, and will not, tell you that they are sick, and how, and how much.

He had thrown up digestive fluid a couple of times, including once that contained grass that he’d eaten, but his stool was regular, and firm.  He wanted out a few times on a stormy night where the temperature hovered at the freezing mark, and precipitation changed from wet to white, and back.

In retrospect, he probably knew the end was coming.  He remained outside far longer than seemed necessary.  Finally, he’d been out in terrible weather for almost an hour when I called him, and got no response.  I went out to look for him, and found him, cold and soaked, lying on a flower-planting urn.

He would, or could, not jump down.  I set him on the ground.  He would not walk.  I carried him to the deck stairs.  He would not climb.  I set him down outside the deck door to open it.  He would not walk in.  I carried him to the couch.  He would not jump up.  I placed him on a soft, warm, Llama-wool blanket, and used a big, warm towel to dry and massage him.  Finally, warm, dry, and apparently comfortable, he lay down and snuggled in.

The wife kept an eye on him.  Later, she asked me, ‘Is he breathing?’, fully expecting me to ruffle him, and answer ‘Yes.”  When I touched him, the answer was, ‘definitely not!’  He never seemed to be in any great physical distress.  We hope that he passed peacefully.

His breathing never seemed labored.  I suspect kidney failure.  He was so apparently healthy and full of energy and play. He and his same-litter sister, Guin, were only 5-1/2 years old.   The wife asked if ‘They’ could do an autopsy, to determine how he died.  Like the distinction between hanged, and hung, humans get autopsies – pets get necropsies.  The answer is – Yes – but like my neurological syndrome, it would cost thousands of dollars to put a name to something that could not have been avoided.

Our own veterinarian is 15 miles away, and is not open on the weekends.  The clinic where he began his career is a mile away, with reduced weekend hours.  The son came home from his midnight shift, and had a teary chance to say his goodbyes.  At 9 AM we called to ask about cremation, and took him in.  As with all our previous pets, we want individual cremation, with his ashes returned in an urn that we chose.

In a week or so, he will return.  I’ll have the daughter fashion a pendant of some sort, and paint his name on it, and we’ll drape it, and his collar and tags around it, and he’ll go at the end of a line on a basement-stair ledge, which shows the history of our pets.

Duff, in his younger days. 😀

Our pets are not dead and gone, as long as we remember, and love, and miss them.  I only hope that the same can be said of me.