Warning: this thread contains a spoiler for anyone who doesn’t know the ending of this 12 year old movie. Click away or deal with it.
I have a dog. More than one, actually, but this is about Caliban. Caliban is a mutt, a big mutt, #140 of walking, barking, frolicing dobie/dane/whatever mix. Well, he used to be. He’s down to about #110, now, and he doesn’t frolic so much.
He found me as a puppy. Well, he found the muddy workboots I had left out on the step and decided to make one his personal teething ring. I didn’t know this at the time, of course. I just knew I felt silly hopping around in one boot. Hours of Holmeslike deduction eventually led me to the back corner of my neighbor’s closet. He had taken the boot away from the dog and decided to keep it, even though it didn’t fit. Have I mentioned that he was a loser?
Now, “how did you get my boot” might have been a reasonably question at this point. What I actually asked was, “what happened to him?” “Him” was a gangly, mangy, malnourished and skittish bundle of black-and-tan energy. With teeth. “Him” had been staked out at the side of a highway and left to starve/wander into traffic/be rescued by my neighbor. Have I mentioned he was a good guy? Neighbor had grabbed the dog, brought him home, and left him to run with the four other dogs he kept outside. Unfortunately, said other dogs were not feeling particularly welcoming and kept chasing him away from the food trough (and into my yard, as it turns out. 5 feet of deer wire could keep them out, but mutt could jump!) Mutt could also have mange and a torn ear and numerous nips and scratches. Neighbor, of course, never thought of taking him to a vet. Have I mentioned that good guys can still be losers?
So “him” became Caliban, and Caliban became mine. Or I became his. It doesn’t really matter.
After I did my est to sabotage every close human friendship, he would still run full speed to greet me as I drove up the road. When I felt incapable of loving anything, especially myself, he would nuzzle my hand and shatter the illusion. I couldn’t take care of my own life, but I could save his after he was bit by a rattlesnake.
Later, when I found a woman whose patience exceeded my bullshit, she becanme his, too. And through 9 years of loving her I have never worried about her when he was around. I had seen Caliban step between her and strangers. I had seen him drive off a pair of aggressive strays. I knew he would die before letting her be hurt.
He’s dying now.
We don’t know when. His kidneys are failing, but we might nurse him through that for a year or more. Only he he’s anemic, too. His marrow is working overtime, but something is leeching the iron from his system. The vet isn’t sure what. He has masses on his spleen and liver. the tumors might be cancerous, but they can’t risk a biopsy until his kidney functions are stronger (the anasthetic might kill him). He still wants to roughhouse in the yard, but sometimes he can barely stand. He seems happy, but he keps losing weight. Some days, when I come home, he just lies on the floor, tail beating against the carpet, big brown eyes staring at me until I make it over to scratch behind his ears.
Nothing lives forever. He’s had a good life, a good run. He’s chased dear through the forest and caught birds in the lake. He’s led a pack and fought down challenges. He’s rended pillows and mauled all manner of footware. He’s rolled in dead things. He’s had belly and butt scratched at the same time. And he’s been loved. He is loved.
I know he will die, but I don’t know when. My wife is 6 months pregnant. Our first. I always imagined that my child would get to know Caliban, get to yank his ears and be clubbed by his wagging tail. Now, I’m afraid that Caliban won’t even live long enough to see the baby, to know that his pack will keep growing strong. (Yes, I’m anthropomorphizing. Fuck off! Bloody voice of reason.)
Yesterday, Caliban wouldn’t eat. We hooked up an IV to flush his kidneys. No good. We increased his medication. No good. We tried hand feeding him treats. No good. I walked him around the block to perk him up and stimulate appetite. He perked, but he wouldn’t eat.
Damnit. So I lie down with him on the floor and start rubbing his belly. I need something to divert my mind. Hey, Turner & Hooch is on. I’ve never seen it. Tom Hanks is amusing. It has a big slobbery dog as a hero. Cool. So I watch.
Hooch is a big slobbery dog. Caliban’s a big slobbery dog. Hooch is an escape artist. Caliban could go over, under or through any fence I put up. Hooch chews up footwear. Caliban chews up footwear. Hooch is a crime fighting hero dog. Caliban is my dog!
Hooch gets shot saving Tom Hanks life. Damn!! But they get him to the nice lady vet. It’s a comedy, the dog has to be all right! They got him to the vet, damnit! Okay, real vets can’t save every animal, but this is a movie vet. Plus, she’s teh love interest. And she’s spunky!
But Hooch dies. And I’m crying. I’m crying at a fucking Tom Hanks movie! (Okay, I cried at the end of Saving Private Ryan, too. That’s different. Didn’t I tell you to fuck off?)
So I cry at movies. And I feel like crying again as I type this. And my dog is dying. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
Fuck.
